Prologue
The end of a man would always be his own lasciviousness.
Azul's eyes stung as tears kissed her cheeks. Her nails dug into the prince's arms until blood dripped down, mixing with her sweat. She tried to breathe, but her windpipe was crushed as his weight bore down on her.
It was the New Yam Festival—a time when straw-man masquerades danced and chased children with canes; when hawkers sold groundnuts and ube; when rituals held their greatest power; and when the realms of the living and the spirit were in perfect sync.
Azul, the first daughter of Chukwuemeka, a warrior of the Borjigin tribe, knew that night she would die.
Her vision swayed.
A curse.
She would curse him.
Him, his sons, and his entire lineage.
The Okpalaeze, the man whose knees pushed against her inner thighs, forcing them open, the man whose charming, handsome face was the last thing she saw—that man—she cursed—would never have another day of peace as long as her body remained in Oblivia.
A flash of lightning lit up the room, illuminating the flower vase by the prince's bedside table. It was a beautiful terracotta, filled with branches of wilting flowers. Thunder followed soon after, and rain hammered on the palace roofs.
Azul gasped. Her vision darkened at the edges.
How did it come to this?
In her life, had she not done everything required of her? Even when she was sold to the King, she did not protest and she did not cry; she simply bowed to accept the Igwe’s decree. Why, then, was she being punished?
What had she done?
Tears pooled at the edges of her eyes and fell down to her hair, which sprawled so beautifully beneath her, a halo bestowed upon the girl whom death—whom Ukhel—had chosen.
In her next life, she would seek out this man, and she would kill him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No matter how long it took, no matter how many years. She would, in every reincarnation, destroy him.
With a vengeful heart, the Akwaugo of the Borjigin tribe, a woman known from the Nri to the Empire of Kemet down south for her beauty, died.
Somadina released his grip and straightened his spine as he panted. Sweat adorned his tense muscles; a loose wrapper was tied around his waist. He pressed two fingers against her neck.
Her pulse was weak but present.
At that, he moved quickly, pulling her legs apart, putting one above his shoulder, and preparing himself. Then he stopped. An aggressive knock came from the door.
Somadina flinched, hand moving for a sword that wasn't there on instinct. Realising he wasn't in any danger, he took a deep breath to calm his beating heart.
"Who dares?" he asked in a grandiose tone. He had given his guards express orders not to disturb him under any circumstances.
He waited for a moment but heard nothing. Pursing his lips, he dropped Azul's legs, tying the wrapper tight around his waist as he headed for the entrance.
Opening the dark wood door, he looked out into the empty corridors, eyes glancing over the torches, then the plush crimson rugs imported from the Thessaran Empire. The portraits and tapestries that lined the walls flickered. As he instructed, there was no one.
Narrowing his eyes, Somadina closed the door. As he turned to continue where he left off, pain flared through his head.
The sound of ceramic smashing filled the room.
The Okpalaeze staggered.
His body stumbled back against the door.
He lifted his fingers to his forehead and felt something warm.
Blood.
His fingers shook as he saw red. His vision swam as he tried to look up. All he was allowed to witness was a pair of cold golden eyes, the eyes of death.
"Azul?" he whispered with a fading voice, but the woman did not reply.
Azul stood above the prince’s body, eyes red, bruises blossoming around her neck. Lightning struck, and her back glowed with deep-carved markings, a ritual circle that vanished under human eyes, one Azul hadn’t noticed.
She knew one hit was not enough to kill him, but he needed to pay for what he'd done to her.
So she looked around the room, eyes landing on an ornamental sword hanging on the wall.
She dragged her heavy body there. Her hips hurt, and she wheezed with each breath.
Her hair clung to the tear stains on the sides of her face, her mind and heart fixed on only one outcome.
Grabbing the blade by the hilt, she pulled it from its scabbard, and it gave a sharp hiss. It was heavy, so it instantly dropped by her side with a thud.
That did not stop her.
Her weakness was no reason to let this man live.
She was merely a passerby, and yet the rage of a dead girl had driven her to near insanity.
She couldn't think of anything else other than beheading the fool who dared to lay hands on her, to see his blood dampen her dress.
And so she dragged the metal behind her, the sound like the gnashing of teeth.
Each step came with significant strain; each breath burned from the depths of her lungs.
And yet she pressed onwards until she stood before the perpetrator, panting.
Lightning struck once more, but this time, the light was obscured. A shadow was cast along the wall; perhaps it was Ukhel, for it had horns on its head. Did the god of death come to watch her? It mattered not; her mind was set on one thing and one thing only.
And so Azul raised the sword with great effort and shaking hands.
"May Ukhel kiss your corpse," she spat.
But as she attempted to kill him, a hand caught hers.
The blade clattered to the floor, sliding under the Okpalaeze's bed. Azul looked back at who dared to stop her, who was foolish enough to come between a woman and her fate.
It was a stranger.
The scent of rain and earth clung to him.
Something in Azul's chest tightened with recognition that her conscious mind couldn't access.
She knew him—or rather, the dead woman whose body she inhabited knew him.
But those memories were too old and stale, like trying to read faded ink on water-damaged parchment.
"Why did you stop me? Does he not deserve to die?" she hissed, as though she were a feral cat.
He looked down at her, his body wet, droplets glistening down his exposed torso. The tangele around his eyes had smudged and his hair stuck to his back, but the red feathers interwoven with his braids still looked vibrant nonetheless.
"If you kill a member of the royal family, you condemn your family to its ninth generation. You might not care for your life, but shouldn’t you care for your family?"
Azul gritted her teeth. She had already gravely injured the man; punishment would be administered either way. Besides, Azul might have held some semblance of care for her so-called family, but she did not.
Let them burn in hell for all I care, she thought, blinded by her anger.
"Should we die, then we die! I don't understand what that has to do with you." She yanked her hand from his grasp, her eyes looking around for the sword to finish the job.
"Do you truly not care?"
She was already moving towards the bed when his voice stopped her in her tracks.
A skull-splitting pain pierced her head, and for a moment she found herself unable to move as memories superimposed themselves—twisting and replaying.
It was as though her mind would shatter by sheer force of her own emotions, as though her body had just realised another soul had come to inhabit it.
Clutching her head, she groaned, falling to her knees, her breathing erratic, palms sweaty. Her vision seemed tinted in red, and something warm dripped down her nose.
"Azul?" the stranger called to her, but she couldn't hear; it was too far.
Her consciousness slipped from her grasp, as though she were thrown into an endless void, surrounded by glowing images replaying what she could only assume was her life, her old life, and the life before.