Five Sons of the FORGOTTEN

The smoke tastes like blood as it curls around Ojiugo’s face. She rides slowly through the chaos, her horse stepping carefully over fallen bodies. Shouts of pain, of fear, of dying men calling out for their mothers with their intestines spilling onto the ground, echo around her. Her warriors rush past her in waves, roaring like animals, swords swinging, eyes wild with the fire of conquest. Ojiugo watches a man drop to his knees, hands raised in surrender. His mouth opens to speak, but the spear finds his chest before the words do. Her sword is still drawn, stained with the blood of people she once called kin. People she still holds deep empathy for. Killing has never been difficult for her. Not once. She was trained for it, shaped by it, and spent most of her life surviving by it. But the kingdoms they’ve raided before were always far away. Strangers. Foreign gods, foreign tongues, unfamiliar faces. But this is different. These are not strangers. These are the people of Udoala.