"Where is that stupid child!"
Fear gripped my small heart as it beat frantically, like a wild drum echoing threatening to burst.
I stared at the tall, blonde-haired woman framed in the doorway.
She was supposed to be beautiful with her brown earth-like skin—elegant even—but her small chubby round face was scrunched up in fury.
Her nose flared into a snarl like a lioness mid-rage.
Her royal blue wrapper was twisted around her hips, with her favorite beads jiggling on her waist with every step she took.
The sheer white silk Isi agu blouse clung to her skin damp with sweat.
"You did this! I know it was you!"
Her long, red-coated fingers pointed at me, trembling with fury.
The deep vermilion stain looked smeared and freshly applied—
She must have been decorating her hands with henna before she stormed in here like a desert tornado.
I stayed silent because I didn't know what she was accusing me of.
My legs felt rooted to the cold floor, the woven patterns of the palace carpet beneath me did nothing to stop the chill from crawling up my spine.
"Your Grace, please, we must go. Your screams are drawing in the palace staffs."
A trembling voice spoke from behind her, it was from one of the junior maids—
her voice barely a breath louder, as she was already cowed.
"Let them come!" she snarled, not sparing the girl a glance.
"They would all bear me witness that this child is from Hades himself!"
The orange beads on her waist jingle, and pull my attention away from the face of the cowering maid with every step she took toward me.
Each movement sent little golden discs clinking against her wide hips, a melody that should've been sensual—hypnotic even.
But now it was like a battle cry.
Her eyes were bloodshot, wild, and locked onto mine, as her arms stretched forward like claws ready to rip me to shreds.
She looked like she was ready to kill me here and now.
But there was no place for me to escape.
The only exit was behind her, already guarded by two silent servants who were too afraid to intervene.
My small frame would never be fast nor strong enough to push through the akwete-draped female palace guards if I tried to run through the palace hall.
And so I stood there, frozen in place—ready to accept whatever she decided to do to me.
A resounding slap crackled through the air like thunder.
She struck my cheek with such force, that I spiraled to the floor.
The thick white rug softened my fall, but not the pain when my knees and hands collided with the hard floor.
I swear—I just saw stars burst across my eyes momentarily blinding my vision.
I blinked and shook my head continuously, as I kept trying to clear the daze.
Yet, it didn't stop the room from spinning, the embroidered ceiling carvings, the blurry figures that stood and the furnitures around me.
"Unhand me this instant or it is you who will have your head hung on a stake!"
I heard her voice yell at a palace guard that had just rushed into my room but it sounded distant—like it was traveling through water.
Suddenly, a heavy blow from her to the back of my head sent me crashing to the floor, and my vision went black for a moment.
My black and white hair tumbled loose from its braid.
And then—I saw red.
Blood—thick and warm—dripped like slow rain from my face onto the milk carpet, staining it crimson.
From her screams, I could tell she hadn't even begun, yet I was already weak.
What could I have done that was so terrible to ignite this kind of rage from her?
She's pregnant.
Shouldn't she be resting?
Sewing clothes for her future heir in the concubines' quarters, where fragrant oils, gossip, and soft music filled the air?
Everyone in the palace court had whispered joyfully for months prior that it would be a son she carried—the first since my father became king.
The other four concubines had never conceived; they sat like painted porcelain dolls, cursed with barrenness.
Although this didn't seem to bother them as they happily remained in the palace, fulfilling nightly duties as they called it.
But here she was, the only person to be able to bear a child for the king since the queen gave birth to me, the shining star of the inner court—
beating me with her hands and kicking me with her feet like I was a wretched dog.
It felt like the body I was in wasn't mine.
I floated above it all as she gripped my hair and slammed my forehead into the marble floor beneath the rug again and again.
"Die! You evil wench!"
Her voice shook with murderous rage as she screamed.
Spit flew from her lips.
The golden bangles on her wrists jingled wildly with every blow.
"What the hell is going on here!"
A thundering voice roared from the door, bouncing off the high ceilings and rendering my assailant frozen.
"Father..."
A weak whisper left my lips. It's the only thing I could muster from my mouth.
With one of my trembling hands, instinctively lifted towards him.
My eyes flooded with tears, pleading for him to save me.
He stood at the entrance, dressed in the red and gold Isi agu regalia of a king—tall, dark, and radiant in his gold-threaded embroidery.
His shadow stretched across the room and over me like judgment day itself.
"I keep telling you, this beast is evil!"
As I lay on the ground with blood slick against my cheek, coating my hair, causing it to stick against my face.
I watched her throw herself into my father's arms like a broken doll. Her sobs shook her delicate frame against his tall large one.
He hesitated as his eyes looked down and danced between his favorite concubine's tear-streaked face and then at me—his only child—bleeding and begging for him to hold her.
"What has she done this time, achalugo?"
I watched my father caress her face, and my hand fell limp in defeat.
His calloused hand softly brushed a blonde curl from her cheek as he whispered tenderly to her.
His other arm wrapped around her back protectively, his love for her was clearly greater than checking if I was alive.
I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to be held in the hands of my father.
"Igwe, she poisoned our son. Oh my lord! She has killed our son—our son is dead!"
Her cry pierced through the stunned murmurs of the gathered staffs and courtiers.
The room stilled as the air thickened with mixtures of perfumes, fear and disbelief.
The silence was deafening.
Even I could not understand how she arrived at this madness.
"How? I don't understand. What do you mean she poisoned my boy?"
My father's voice broke, raw and shaking.
I couldn't tell whether it was from rage or pain.
He clutched her stomach and fell to his knees with a cry that rang through the halls.
Not even the gold medallion on his chest could protect him from the grief that crippled him.
The courtiers rushed to lift him, to save his face for the throne.
But he shoved them aside.
"Leave me be!"
He roared, and they had no choice but to step back with fearful reverence.
Then I saw it—the blood.
It had stained her wrapper; it was thick and dark, trailing from her thighs to her ankles.
I did that to her?
But how?
I had no strength left.
No voice, no will to move.
I just lay there—still, shattered—watching my father sob into the arms of the woman he loved.
I couldn't say anything to my defense, to deny the accusation laid against me.
"Bring her to the throne room for questioning!"
His voice thundered as he rose to his feet and stormed from my room, red and golden embraided robes trailing behind him like a sea of fiery rage.
The maids-in-waiting scurried to Lady Uwen, whispering—
"Let's get you cleaned up, my lady."
I felt arms slip beneath me. My maid, silent as always, lifted me.
She said nothing—not to me,
Not to them,
Not even to herself.
All I could see was pity in her eyes.
Both of us knew right there and then that her fate as a maid was tremendously better than mine.
And the blood—my blood—marked the path we left behind as she carried me to my bathroom to clean me up.