Chapter 25: THE SECOND SILENCE

By the time the rains threatened the sky again, Abena’s body had grown heavy with the child she carried.

There was no hiding it, no folding cloth tightly enough to conceal the roundness beneath. Her steps had slowed—not out of weakness, but because her body demanded space with every movement. Even so, she worked. She bent when she had to, lifted what she could, and endured what was expected of her without asking for relief.

No one offered it anyway.

The guards did not soften because a woman was close to birthing. The palace did not adjust its rhythm for discomfort or pain. If anything, her condition only drew more eyes—some indifferent, some curious, some calculating.

Abena noticed all of them.

But she was not thinking about them.

She was thinking about time.

Not the passing of it, but the choosing of it.

There would be a moment. There had to be. A moment when movement would not be immediately followed, when attention would shift elsewhere, when she could take her children and go.

She had already marked the paths. Already memorized the turns. Already chosen the direction that led away from everything she had ever known.

Now she waited.

That evening, the air was unusually still. Even the usual chatter among the women had quieted into tired murmurs. Abena sat near the outer section of the compound, one hand resting unconsciously against her lower back.

Ama leaned against her side.

“You are tired again,” the child said.

Abena looked down at her.

“A little.”

Ama placed her small hand on Abena’s stomach.

“Will the baby come soon?”

Abena paused.

“Yes.”

Ama nodded thoughtfully.

“Then we will not stay here long after,” she said.

Abena’s eyes lingered on her.

“No,” she replied quietly. “We will not.”

Adwoa, who sat nearby, glanced at her but said nothing.

Night fell slowly.

The fires dimmed. The guards took their positions. One by one, the compound slipped into that familiar silence that was never truly peaceful.

Abena waited until Ama had fallen asleep before she allowed herself to rest her back fully against the wall. Her body ached, but her mind remained alert.

That was when she heard it.

“Abena.”

The voice was low.

Careful.

Not a guard.

Not one of the women.

She turned slightly.

It was him.

One of the king’s sons.

Not the eldest, but old enough to carry authority where it mattered. He stood just beyond the reach of the dim firelight, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested he believed himself unchallenged.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Walk with me.”

Abena did not move.

“It is late,” she replied.

“That is why no one will disturb us,” he said.

There was something in his tone that made her still.

Not unfamiliar.

Not unexpected.

She had seen it before.

He stepped closer.

“I have watched you,” he continued. “You do not behave like the others.”

Abena’s expression did not change.

“I behave as I must.”

He gave a small, amused breath.

“You speak too carefully for someone in your position.”

Abena said nothing.

He gestured slightly with his hand.

“Come. There is somewhere quieter.”

She hesitated.

Not out of obedience.

Out of calculation.

Then she rose slowly.

“Only for a moment,” she said.

He smiled faintly.

“That is enough.”

They walked toward the yam barn, a part of the compound that remained empty at night. The space was wide, the shadows deeper there, the silence thicker.

When they reached the back of it, he stopped.

“This is better,” he said.

Abena remained a short distance from him.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He turned to face her fully now.

“You,” he said plainly.

The word did not surprise her.

“I am not yours to want,” she replied.

He stepped closer.

“You are already within my father’s house.”

Abena held her ground.

“That does not make me yours.”

His expression shifted slightly, amusement thinning into something else.

“You speak as if you have a choice.”

Abena answered, “I always have a choice.”

He reached for her arm.

She pulled back.

“I said no.”

That was when his patience broke.

His grip tightened as he stepped forward, forcing her backward slightly.

“You think refusal changes anything?” he said.

Abena’s voice remained firm.

“Yes.”

He pushed her harder.

“No.”

Her back brushed against the rough surface of the barn wall. The child inside her shifted painfully at the sudden movement, but she did not let it show.

“Leave me,” she said.

He did not.

Instead, he moved closer, his intent no longer hidden, no longer restrained.

That was when Abena stopped speaking.

Her hand moved slowly and carefully to the fold of her sack cloth.

The knife was still there.

Always there.

He did not notice.

Not until it was too late.

The first strike was quick , it went straight to his neck.

His eyes widened in shock, his grip loosening immediately.

Abena did not stop.

She struck again.

And again.

Each movement controlled, precise, driven by something deeper than fear—something that had been building for seasons.

He tried to speak.

No words came.

Only a broken sound.

Then nothing.

His body collapsed heavily onto the ground.

The silence that followed was thick.

Complete.

Abena stood still for a moment, her breathing uneven now, her hand still gripping the knife.

Then she moved.

Fast.

She wiped the blade against the inside of her cloth, then adjusted herself, forcing her breathing to slow.

She looked around.

No one.

No sound.

The night had held.

She left the barn without looking back.

Her steps were steady despite the strain in her body. Each movement reminded her of the child she carried, but she did not stop.

Not yet.

She reached the water side behind the compound.

Dropped to her knees.

Washed thoroughly.

Her hands, her arms and the knife.

She scrubbed until there was nothing left that could betray her.

Then she stood.

Adjusted her cloth again.

And walked back.

When she entered the sleeping quarters, everything was as she had left it.

Quiet. Still.

Ama slept curled into herself.

Unaware.

Abena lay down beside her slowly, her body aching, her mind alert.

She closed her eyes.

But sleep did not come immediately.

Because now—

it had happened again.

And this time, it was not a guard.

It was blood tied to the king himself.

Yet no one had seen and no one had heard.

And by morning...no one would know.