THE KINGDOM THAT FORGOT THE SUN

THE KINGDOM THAT FORGOT THE SUN

Some curses steal your life. This one steals your memories of love.

Genre: African Fantasy Romance

Setting: The ancient kingdom of Ayanfẹ

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PROLOGUE

THE NIGHT THE SUN DIED

The night the sun died, a woman walked barefoot into a palace that had been forbidden to every living soul.

Blood stained the hem of her white dress. Rain poured from a sky that had not seen a cloud in seven months, and beneath the palace, something ancient was waking.

She carried a newborn child in her arms.

The baby was silent.

Not sleeping. Not crying.

Silent.

As though she had already learned that the world was a dangerous place for a child who had been born with the wrong destiny.

The woman tightened her hold on the infant and hurried through the palace corridors. Golden lamps flickered as she passed, their flames bending toward her as if recognizing a power they had not encountered in centuries.

Behind her, footsteps echoed.

Slow.

Measured.

Unmistakably royal.

"Stop."

The command rolled through the corridor like thunder.

The woman froze.

At the far end of the hallway stood a man wearing a crown of black gold. His royal robes were embroidered with symbols of the sun, and a long ceremonial sword hung at his side.

King Oranmiyan, ruler of Ayanfẹ.

The father of the child she carried.

"You were warned," he said.

The woman looked down at the baby.

"Yes."

"You were forbidden to bring her into this world."

A bitter smile touched her lips.

"Then perhaps your gods should have made a better world."

The king's expression hardened.

Beyond the palace windows, the kingdom lay beneath an unnatural darkness. No moon illuminated the streets. No stars glittered overhead. Even the great river that divided the capital from the royal gardens had stopped flowing.

For the first time in the history of Ayanfẹ, the night had refused to end.

"Give me the child," the king ordered.

"No."

"Do you understand what she is?"

"Better than you ever will."

The king descended the steps toward her.

"She is the final thread in a prophecy that predates our throne. If she lives, everything we have built will fall."

The woman lifted her head.

"No, Your Majesty. If she lives, everything you have buried will finally be remembered."

For one terrible moment, neither of them moved.

Then the king drew his sword.

The baby opened her eyes.

They were gold.

Not brown. Not black. Not the ordinary dark eyes of a newborn child.

Gold, like sunlight trapped beneath the surface of deep water.

The palace shook.

Somewhere beneath their feet, a voice older than the kingdom whispered a name that had been erased from every sacred record.

The king staggered backward.

"No," he breathed.

The woman held her daughter close.

"You cannot kill what the world has already chosen to remember."

The king raised his sword.

And the sun disappeared.

Not behind clouds. Not beyond the horizon.

It disappeared as though an unseen hand had reached into the heavens and extinguished it.

Across Ayanfẹ, every flame went dark. Every bell in every temple rang at once. Thousands of people woke from their sleep with the same name on their lips, a name none of them could explain.

Then the screams began.

By dawn, there was no dawn.

The king's guards found the palace corridor empty. The woman was gone. The child was gone. And every person who had witnessed the night's events had forgotten what they had seen.

Only the king remembered.

He returned to his chambers and discovered a single piece of indigo cloth lying upon his throne.

Woven into it was a golden sun.

Beneath the symbol, written in a language that no living scholar could read, were seven words.

WHEN LOVE REMEMBERS, THE SUN SHALL RETURN.

The king burned the cloth.

He ordered every record of the night destroyed. He executed the royal historian who questioned him. He commanded the priests to tell the people that the gods had withdrawn their blessing.

And when the first seventeen years of darkness had passed, the king stood upon his balcony and watched a young woman disappear into the night.

The curse had begun.

And somewhere beyond the palace walls, a child who had been born to remember was growing into the one person capable of destroying it.

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CHAPTER ONE

THE GIRL WHO HEARD CLOTH WHISPER

In the kingdom of Ayanfẹ, people did not fear the night because it was dark.

They feared it because the night remembered everything.

It remembered the names of the dead, the promises of the living, the sins of kings, and the secrets buried beneath the roots of the ancient trees. It remembered every word spoken in anger and every prayer whispered in desperation.

And sometimes, when the wind moved through the narrow streets after midnight, it whispered those memories back.

That was why the people of Ayanfẹ shut their windows before sunset.

That was why mothers warned their children never to answer a voice calling from an empty road.

And that was why, on the seventeenth anniversary of the sun's disappearance, Nalia Adesewa was sitting alone in her mother's abandoned weaving room, listening to a piece of cloth tell her a secret.

"Not now," she whispered.

The cloth whispered back.

Nalia closed her eyes.

It was only indigo fabric. Old, faded, and fraying along the edges. It lay across her knees like an ordinary piece of inheritance, the last thing her mother had left behind before vanishing from the world.

Yet Nalia could hear it.

She had been able to hear cloth since she was six years old.

At first, she had believed everyone could.

She remembered the day she had told her grandmother that the king's ceremonial robe was crying. Her grandmother had slapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away from the palace market so quickly that Nalia's sandals had nearly come off.

Afterward, the old woman had made her swear never to speak of it again.

"Some gifts," her grandmother had told her, "are doors. And not every door should be opened."

Nalia had obeyed for years.

Mostly.

Now, at twenty-one, she had become an expert at pretending she was ordinary.

She dyed cloth for merchants, repaired torn garments for wealthy families, and kept her head down whenever royal officials passed through the market. She paid her rent on time, spoke politely to customers, and never admitted that she could sometimes tell what a person had done simply by touching the clothes they wore.

It was a quiet life.

A difficult life.

But it was hers.

Until the cloth began to bleed light.

A thin golden line appeared across the indigo fabric.

Nalia sat upright.

"What in the name of—"

The line brightened.

It spread through the weave like liquid fire, tracing a pattern that had not been there when she began working that morning. A circle formed in the center, surrounded by seven smaller symbols. At its heart appeared the shape of a sun.

Nalia stopped breathing.

She knew that symbol.

Every child in Ayanfẹ knew it.

It was the ancient royal emblem, the same image stamped onto coins, carved into temple doors, and embroidered upon the robes of the king.

But the sun in the cloth was different.

It had a crack running through its center.

And from that crack, something was moving.

Nalia reached out.

The moment her fingertips touched the glowing thread, the room vanished.

She stood in a palace courtyard beneath a brilliant blue sky. Golden sunlight poured over white stone walls. Musicians played beneath flowering trees, and a crowd of beautifully dressed people danced around a fountain.

The scene was so vivid that Nalia could smell the roasted meat, hear the laughter, and feel the warmth of the sun against her cheeks.

Then a scream shattered the music.

A woman in a white dress ran across the courtyard, clutching a newborn child.

Behind her came soldiers.

At the head of them stood a crowned man with a sword in his hand.

The woman turned.

Even through the strange haze of the memory, Nalia could see the terror in her face.

"Please," the woman begged. "She has done nothing."

The king lifted his sword.

The baby began to cry.

And the sky went black.

Nalia jerked backward.

The weaving room slammed back into existence. Her stool toppled over, and she struck the floor hard enough to send pain shooting through her elbow.

For several seconds, she could only stare at the ceiling.

Then she scrambled to her feet.

The cloth lay motionless across the table.

Its golden light had disappeared.

Nalia snatched it up and examined every inch of the fabric. Her fingers shook as she searched for the symbols, the crack, the sun.

Nothing.

Only the familiar indigo weave remained.

"No," she whispered.

She turned the cloth over.

"Come on. Show me again."

Nothing happened.

Outside, the market bell rang six times.

Nalia looked toward the window.

It was nearly sunset.

She should have packed her tools, locked the room, and gone home. Instead, she stood rooted to the floor, staring at the cloth as a cold certainty settled into her chest.

The memory had not been hers.

She had never seen that courtyard. Never met that woman. Never stood beneath a real blue sky.

Yet she had felt the woman's fear as if it belonged to her.

And the baby—

Nalia pressed the fabric against her chest.

The baby's eyes had been gold.

Exactly like the eyes she sometimes saw in her own dreams.

A knock sounded at the door.

Nalia nearly dropped the cloth.

"Who is it?"

"Someone who would prefer not to spend the evening speaking to a locked door."

The voice was male.

Young. Deep. Irritated.

And entirely unfamiliar.

Nalia frowned.

"Then perhaps you should try another door."

Silence.

Then, to her surprise, a low laugh came from the other side.

"You have a sharp tongue for someone hiding in a room that smells like burnt dye."

Nalia glanced at the overturned stool, the scattered tools, and the small smoking pot of indigo beside the window.

Wonderful.

"Go away."

"I would," the stranger replied, "but I have been looking for you all afternoon."

Her stomach tightened.

"Who are you?"

"A customer."

"I am closed."

"I can see that."

"Then you can also see the door."

Another pause.

"Your name is Nalia Adesewa."

It was not a question.

Nalia stopped moving.

The market outside was still alive with the noise of merchants packing their stalls, children chasing one another between baskets, and women calling out the final prices of the day.

But inside the weaving room, the silence had become suffocating.

"Who told you my name?" she asked.

"No one."

"Then how do you know it?"

"Because I was told to find the woman who could hear memories."

Nalia's blood ran cold.

She stepped toward the door, then stopped herself.

"You're mistaken."

"Perhaps."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That is unfortunate. Because the people who sent me have been searching for you for seventeen years."

Seventeen.

The word struck her with such force that she felt suddenly dizzy.

She had been born seventeen years after the sun disappeared.

Her mother had vanished the night she was born.

And now a stranger was standing outside her door, claiming that someone had spent her entire life searching for her.

Nalia tightened her grip on the cloth.

"Leave," she said.

This time, there was no laughter in his voice.

"Listen to me carefully. In less than an hour, the royal guards will seal every road leading out of this district. When they do, you must not let them see that cloth."

Nalia stared at the door.

"Why?"

"Because they are looking for it."

"Who are you?"

A heavy silence followed.

Then came the sound of metal striking wood.

Someone had placed a blade against the other side of the door.

"My name is Aderin," the stranger said. "And if you value your life, you will open this door."

Nalia swallowed.

"Is that a threat?"

"No."

His voice changed.

For the first time, she heard something beneath the arrogance.

Fear.

"It is a warning."

Before she could answer, a horn sounded somewhere beyond the market.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The sound rolled through the streets, and the market fell silent.

Nalia moved toward the window.

At the far end of the road, a column of royal guards marched beneath black banners. Their armor reflected the dying light, and their horses wore masks bearing the cracked sun of the royal house.

People hurried inside their homes.

Stalls were abandoned. Doors slammed shut. Children were dragged from the streets.

The guards were coming directly toward her building.

Nalia turned back to the door.

"Why are they here?"

"Because someone felt the magic awaken."

Her fingers tightened around the cloth.

"How could anyone know?"

"Because the last time it happened, the sun disappeared."

Nalia's heart hammered against her ribs.

"And what does that have to do with me?"

For several seconds, Aderin said nothing.

Then he spoke so quietly that she almost failed to hear him.

"Everything."

A pounding sounded from the street below.

"By order of the crown!" a guard shouted. "Open your doors and remain inside! Anyone found concealing forbidden royal property will be arrested!"

Nalia looked at the cloth.

The faded blue fabric lay across her hands, innocent and ordinary once more.

She wanted to throw it into the fire.

She wanted to run.

Most of all, she wanted her mother.

For seventeen years, she had lived with unanswered questions. Seventeen years of watching other girls embrace their mothers in the market, of wondering whether the woman who gave birth to her had loved her, of waking from dreams in which a woman with golden eyes reached toward her from the darkness.

Now, at last, the past had reached back.

And it had sent a prince to her door.

Aderin knocked once.

"Nalia."

She flinched at the sound of her name.

"Open the door."

She should have refused.

Every instinct she possessed told her that opening the door would be the beginning of something she could never undo.

But the guards were already climbing the stairs.

Nalia lifted the latch.

The door swung inward.

And for the first time in her life, she saw the man who would change everything.

He was taller than she expected, dressed in a black royal coat embroidered with fine gold thread. A dark cloak fell from his shoulders, and a narrow crown rested against his neatly braided hair. His face was striking, but it was his eyes that held her attention.

They were not gold.

They were dark brown, almost black, and filled with a weariness that seemed far older than his years.

A thin scar crossed his left eyebrow.

He looked at her once, then at the cloth in her hands.

For a moment, the color drained from his face.

"You found it," he whispered.

Nalia stepped backward.

"You know what this is?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

He reached toward the fabric, then stopped before touching it.

Something in his expression made her uneasy.

Reverence, perhaps.

Or grief.

"It belonged to your mother."

The room tilted.

Nalia gripped the edge of the table.

"You knew my mother?"

Aderin's jaw tightened.

"I knew of her."

"That isn't an answer."

"No," he said. "It isn't."

She hated him immediately for the calmness in his voice.

"Then give me a proper one."

He studied her face, and for one strange instant, his expression softened.

"I cannot tell you everything here."

"Then tell me what you can."

A shout rose from the staircase.

The guards were one floor below.

Aderin looked toward the door.

"They will arrest you if they find that cloth. If they discover what you can do, they will take you to the palace, and you will never leave it."

"Why would the palace want me?"

"Because the king believes you are dangerous."

Nalia's mouth went dry.

"And are you here to protect me?"

Aderin hesitated.

It was brief, but she saw it.

"I am here to prevent a catastrophe."

"So I am not a person to you. I am a problem."

His eyes returned to hers.

"No," he said quietly. "You are the one problem I have spent my entire life hoping would never exist."

Before Nalia could demand an explanation, the door behind him shuddered under a violent blow.

"Open in the name of the crown!"

Aderin swore under his breath.

He pulled a small ring from his finger and pressed it into Nalia's palm.

The metal was warm.

At its center was a tiny golden sun split by a crack.

The same symbol that had appeared in the cloth.

"Put this on," he ordered.

Nalia stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because when they come through that door, they must not see what you are."

"And what am I?"

His gaze held hers.

For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to grow still.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know what they will do to you if they find out."

The door shook again.

Aderin caught her wrist.

His skin touched hers.

And the world disappeared.

Nalia stood in a vast hall beneath a ceiling of stars. Hundreds of people filled the room, their faces pale and expressionless. At its center stood Aderin, dressed in white, his hands bound with golden chains.

Before him knelt a young woman.

She was beautiful, with dark skin and a crown of flowers woven into her hair. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked up at the prince.

"I love you," she whispered.

Aderin reached for her.

The instant their fingers touched, the woman's expression changed.

Her tears stopped.

Her face became blank.

She looked at the man before her as though he were a stranger.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Aderin said nothing.

The woman rose and walked away.

Then another appeared.

And another.

Nalia watched as years passed in the space of a breath. She saw women embrace the prince, promise him forever, and forget him moments later. She saw him standing alone in a ballroom filled with strangers. She saw him kneeling beside a grave with no name carved upon it.

Finally, she saw Aderin alone beneath a dead tree, whispering into the darkness.

"Please," he begged. "Let me remember what it feels like to be loved."

The vision shattered.

Nalia gasped and stumbled backward.

Aderin released her hand as though the touch had burned him.

For the first time, he looked truly terrified.

"What did you see?" he demanded.

Nalia stared at him.

The guards were breaking down the door.

The cloth in her hands had begun to glow.

And the prince standing before her had tears in his eyes.

"I saw you," she whispered.

Aderin went still.

"What did you say?"

"I saw you."

His face changed.

Not with anger.

Not with disbelief.

With a kind of hope so fragile that Nalia almost wished she had said nothing.

For seventeen years, the kingdom had forgotten the sun.

For twenty-five years, Aderin had been forgotten by every woman who loved him.

And for twenty-one years, Nalia had been searching for a mother whose name had been erased from history.

Now, standing in a room with royal guards at the door and an impossible piece of cloth in her hands, Nalia understood one thing with absolute certainty.

Her life had never been ordinary.

It had only been waiting.

Aderin held out his hand.

"Come with me."

Nalia looked at his hand.

Then at the glowing cloth.

Then at the door, which was beginning to splinter.

"Where?"

He glanced toward the window, beyond which the first stars were appearing in a sky that had never known true daylight.

"To the only place in this kingdom where the truth is still alive."

"And where is that?"

Aderin's expression darkened.

"Beneath the palace."

The door burst open.

Royal guards flooded the room.

And from somewhere deep beneath the earth, a woman's voice called Nalia by a name she had never heard before.

"My daughter."