Chapter 2

Kofi stood at the back of the crowd, pressed between a visiting merchant from the eastern villages and a woman he did not recognize. His hands were clammy, and he wiped them on his trousers more times than he could count.

King Adawa sat on his throne at the far end of the hall, a crown of woven gold resting on his grey hair. He looked every bit the ruler that the stories described—strong, wise, and beloved. Beside him stood Amara, dressed in a gown of deep blue that matched the sky outside. She did not look at Kofi. She looked straight ahead, her face calm and unreadable.

The ceremony began with the royal historian, a thin man named Osei who spoke in a voice that carried to every corner of the room. He recounted the founding of the kingdom, the great battles won, and the golden sword that had been passed from king to king for three generations.

Kofi’s stomach tightened.

When Osei finished, two palace guards carried the sword forward on its velvet cushion. It gleamed under the light, flawless and magnificent. Kofi had done his work well. No one would see the crack. No one would know the truth.

King Adawa rose from his throne and took the sword in both hands. He held it high, and the crowd cheered. The sound was deafening, a wave of joy and pride that shook the very walls.

Kofi forced himself to clap along with everyone else. His heart hammered against his ribs.

The king lowered the sword and touched it to his forehead, a gesture of respect and gratitude. Then he turned and placed it in a special stand beside the throne, where it would remain on display for the rest of the day.

The ceremony was over. The feast began.

Tables groaned under platters of roasted goat, spiced rice, and bowls of stewed greens. Servants moved through the crowd with pitchers of palm wine and cool water. Music filled the hall, a lively tune played on drums and flutes.

Kofi slipped away as soon as he could. He moved through the corridors of the palace, past the kitchens where cooks were shouting orders, and up the narrow staircase that led to the library.

The library was a large, circular room at the top of the east tower. Shelves lined every wall, filled with scrolls and leather-bound books that smelled of dust and old paper. A single window faced the courtyard, and the afternoon light fell across a wooden table in the center of the room.

Amara was already there. She had changed out of her formal gown and now wore a simple cotton dress, her hair pulled back in a loose braid.

“You made it,” she said, looking up from a scroll she had unrolled across the table.

“No one noticed I was gone,” Kofi said. “The feast is loud enough to cover anything.”

Amara nodded. “Good. Come here. I found something.”

He crossed the room and stood beside her. The scroll was old, the edges yellowed and brittle. It was a record of the sword’s history, written in careful script by a scribe named Kwame, who had served King Adawa’s father.

“Look at this,” Amara said, pointing to a line near the bottom. “The sword was reforged fifty years ago, after a battle that cracked the blade. The work was done by a blacksmith named Tano.”

Kofi leaned closer. “I have never heard of him.”

“Neither had I. But I checked the forge records.” She unrolled a second scroll, this one newer. “Tano is listed as the royal blacksmith for only two years. He left suddenly, and no one replaced him for almost a decade.”

“Left? Or was sent away?” Kofi asked.

Amara’s eyes met his. “That is what we need to find out.”

They spent the next hour searching through the library’s collection. Kofi pulled down old ledgers and dusty journals, while Amara read through correspondence between the king and his advisors. The sun moved across the floor, and the shadows grew longer.

It was Kofi who found the letter.

It was tucked inside the back cover of a book on metalworking, so thin and faded that he almost missed it. The handwriting was shaky, as if the writer had been ill or afraid.

To the King’s Council, it began. I write this with a heavy heart. The golden sword is not what it appears. The crack from the battle was deeper than I could repair with honor. I used lead to fill it, knowing it would not hold. I beg your forgiveness, but I fear that if I tell the truth, my life will be forfeit. I am leaving the palace tonight. I pray that one day the sword will be made whole again.

It was signed Tano.

Kofi’s hands trembled as he handed the letter to Amara. She read it in silence, her face growing pale.

“He knew,” she whispered. “He knew the sword was flawed, and he ran.”

“But why did no one fix it?” Kofi asked. “Fifty years is a long time. Surely someone must have noticed.”

Amara folded the letter carefully. “Unless no one wanted to. Unless the council decided it was easier to keep the secret than to repair the damage.”

“Your father does not know,” Kofi said. It was not a question.

“No,” Amara agreed. “He inherited the sword as it was. He trusted that it was whole.” She looked at Kofi, and there was a new determination in her eyes. “We need to find out who else knows about this. And we need to do it before the sword is ever called upon in battle.”

A knock at the library door made them both jump.

The door creaked open, and a servant girl poked her head in. “Princess Amara? Your father is asking for you. He wishes you to join him for the evening meal.”

Amara slipped the letter into the pocket of her dress. “Tell him I will be there shortly.”

The servant girl nodded and disappeared.

Amara turned to Kofi. “Stay here. Read everything you can find about Tano. I will return as soon as I can.”

She left, her footsteps echoing down the staircase.

Kofi was alone in the library. He looked at the bookshelves, at the thousands of pages of history and secrets waiting to be discovered. Somewhere in this room, there had to be an answer.

He pulled another book from the shelf and began to read.

The candles burned low, and the window grew dark. The sounds of the feast drifted up from below, muffled and distant. Kofi read until his eyes ached, but he found nothing more about Tano. It was as if the blacksmith had vanished from the kingdom’s memory.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Heavy footsteps, not light like Amara’s.

He looked up as the door swung open.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in the uniform of the palace guard. His face was hard, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“You are the blacksmith’s apprentice,” the man said. It was not a question.

Kofi’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”

“The king wishes to see you. Immediately.”

Kofi’s heart dropped. He thought of the letter in Amara’s pocket, of the crack in the sword, of the lie that had held for three generations.

“Now,” the guard said, and there was no room for argument.

Kofi rose from the table, his legs unsteady. He followed the guard out of the library and down the stairs, into the unknown.