The Guardian gods-Chapter 495

"What did you find?" he asked, his voice low and even.

Across from him, Nwadimma leaned back, cradling her glass with a pensive expression. She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she asked, "What do you want to know?"

His gaze sharpened. "I want to know about their interactions. Their expressions. What did they convey?"

Nwadimma turned her head slightly, eyes half-lidded as if replaying the events in her mind. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its casual edge.

"They weren’t surprised by the city. Or the palace. Or us. They were... curious, but not awed. It’s as if they’ve seen this before. Or something like it." She paused, swirling her wine. "But what caught my attention wasn’t the envoy himself. It was the ones behind him."

Nwadiebube leaned forward.

"Go on."

"The apelings were in the crowd," she continued. "Trying to blend in. I don’t think they expected anything unusual. But the moment the envoy stepped out, they stiffened. Just for a breath—but I saw it."

"Recognition?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yes. Or familiarity at least. One of the envoy’s guards—tall, scar over his left brow—looked right at them. Smiled. Bowed." She took another sip, slower this time. "And they bowed back. But as soon as they turned away, their faces changed. They were rattled."

"Did they leave?" Nwadiebube asked, voice tense.

"Immediately. Heading west, toward the temple. I assume to report."

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, brow furrowed. "So they know each other. Or the envoy knows what they are."

"Possibly both," Nwadimma replied. "But there’s more."

He looked up.

"They weren’t just observing us, Brother. They were watching the apelings too. I think they wanted to see their reaction as much as you did." She leaned forward now, voice softer. "That tells me they know something about what the apelings are. Maybe who sent them. Maybe why they’re here."

A long silence settled between them. The fire crackled louder now, filling the room with its warmth—and its tension.

Nwadiebube finally broke the silence.

"Then it’s confirmed. They didn’t just come for diplomacy. There’s something beneath the surface."

Nwadimma set her empty glass down with a soft clink. "There always is."

He looked at her with a small, tired smile. "You should’ve been the one sitting on this throne."

She smirked faintly. "And miss out on the pleasure of raiding your wine shelf and shadowing foreign diplomats from rooftops? Never."

The king chuckled, but the mirth didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the night sky where stars blinked like watching eyes. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

"Keep watching them," he said at last, his voice low, barely above the hum of the evening wind outside. "And find ways to keep the envoys busy until I receive word from the apelings."

He placed a hand against the cool surface of the window, as if trying to feel something beyond the stone and glass. "In times like these, they—" he meant the apelings "—prefer to meddle in riddles, speaking in cryptic phrases, wrapped in mystique and layers of omission. It’s maddening. But that’s exactly what we need right now."

He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at his sister.

"Their silence. Their hesitation. Their vagueness. All of it... it will help us gauge the true weight of the guests we’ve welcomed into our home. If the apelings speak plainly, we’ll know to prepare for war."

For a long moment, Nwadimma said nothing. She sat still, wine glass resting in her lap, watching the deep red liquid shimmer in the firelight. Her own reflection stared back at her—distorted and flickering, as though unsure of what expression to wear.

Then softly, she spoke. "You’re becoming harder to read, brother."

The words hung in the air like smoke—gentle, but pointed.

Nwadiebube raised an eyebrow, curious. "Oh?"

Nwadimma met his gaze now, and there was something thoughtful in her expression. Not suspicion, not praise—something else. "Your previous actions... as reckless and foolish as they seemed... made me wonder if you’d finally lost your footing. If you’d been blinded by ambition and your own reflection in the polished floors of this palace."

She stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. Her voice remained calm, but her eyes were sharp. "But the man standing before me now—the one speaking of shadows and strategies, using caution like a blade—he doesn’t match that man from before. That man would’ve barged forward, declared strength, forced a hand. This one watches, waits, measures."

She walked to the window, standing beside him. For a moment, they were both reflected in the glass, two pieces of the same puzzle—regal, quiet, and haunted by something older than either of them dared name aloud.

"So I find myself wondering," she continued softly, "which version of you was real? Or have you simply... evolved into someone else entirely?"

Nwadiebube didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the stars. When he did speak, his voice carried the weight of someone who had been thinking far longer than he let on.

"Perhaps I’ve simply learned what the crown truly demands."

He turned fully to face her now, and for the first time that evening, there was a trace of weariness in his eyes—buried deep, but visible to someone who had known him since birth.

"Or perhaps," he said, "I’ve grown tired of being underestimated."

Nwadimma nodded slowly, studying him.

The king’s brow furrowed slightly at his sister’s words, though his face remained composed. He turned his gaze skyward again, the stars above glittering like ancient truths written across the velvet of the night—aloof, impartial, eternal. Their light was cold, but it had watched over kings far older than him... and would outlast even the boldest legacy.

Her reminder was subtle, but sharp. He had not forgotten his past transgression—how could he? The theft of a divine branch, sacred and forbidden, still lingered in the whispered corners of the palace and in theedge of every shadow that fell across his throne. The gods did not forget so easily. Nor, he suspected, did his enemies.

"If I were faced with the same choice again," he said, his voice quiet but unwavering, "I would still do the same."

The words dropped like stones into still water.

He inhaled deeply, his posture tall but reflective. "The branch—what I stole—it has elevated our kingdom’s strength in a way generations of rulers before me only dreamed of. And, strangely, it brought us into the good graces of the death goddess."

He allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips, though it was touched with the grimness of irony. "Ezinne speaks now of strange tides rising in the underworld, a shift born as a direct result of my actions. Yes, perhaps it was reckless. Perhaps it bordered on hubris. But I... I did what had to be done for the future I envisioned."

A wind stirred through the open window, tugging gently at his robes like the soft breath of something ancient and unseen.

"My fear of the consequences," he continued, "of the retribution I might one day face... has rekindled something I had let go cold—my faith. The great god Ikenga."

He turned from the stars, facing his sister once more. His eyes held a quiet fire now—darker than conviction, more complex than regret.

"My newly reignited faith," he said, stepping closer, "has allowed me to see Ikenga more clearly. To understand him—not as the distant, aloof deity many make him out to be, but for what he truly is."

There was reverence in his tone now, and something like defiance.

"He is the god of nature and curses. He is the keeper of raw, untamed law. And what is nature if not theft, struggle, survival? What is growth if not the taking of something greater’s strength to become something more?"

"To steal from a god is to challenge the natural order. But challenges... are part of nature too. The wolf does not ask the deer for permission. The seed does not apologize for breaking the soil. My actions, while controversial, are in alignment with what Ikenga embodies."

He paused, his voice now heavier, laced with understanding.

"My punishment—if it comes—will not be from Ikenga’s wrath. Not because he is offended... but because even gods must uphold a reputation. Power, even divine power, has a face it must wear."

He leaned back then, shoulders relaxed but his mind still sharp, thoughtful.

"That is the cruel paradox of divinity. Even when they understand, they must act as if they don’t. Even when they agree, they must punish to maintain the illusion of distance. Perhaps that’s what sets us apart from them."

Across the room, Nwadimma said nothing. Her wine glass was still half-full, forgotten in her hand. Her expression was unreadable—part respect, part concern, and something else lingering quietly beneath the surface.

Finally, she whispered, "And if the punishment comes not from Ikenga, but from one of the other gods?"