Chapter 01

Chapter 01

The Night Before The Crown

The palace of Asantemere in the Gyaman Kingdom, had never been this quiet.

Kofi King stood at the edge of his chamber balcony, staring down at the glowing courtyards below. Lanterns hung like captive stars. Musicians rehearsed softly somewhere beyond the marble halls. Tomorrow, the kingdom would celebrate his graduation—the final public step before destiny closed its grip around his throat.

At seventeen, Kofi was expected to smile, bow, and prepare to inherit a throne that had already decided who he was.

Behind him, the heavy doors creaked open.

“Your mother asks after you,” the palace physician said gently. “Her illness worsens.”

Kofi turned slowly. “Again?”

The man lowered his eyes. Everyone in the palace knew the truth, even if no one dared say it aloud. The Queen was not dying. She was afraid.

Queen Amara had taken to her bed three days ago, claiming fever and weakness, ordering Kofi not to leave the palace grounds—not even after graduation festivities ended. The council supported it. A sick queen was a powerful chain.

She feared that once Kofi stepped fully into manhood, the questions he carried would finally become action.

And she was right.

That night, after the celebration ended and the palace dissolved into drunken laughter and fireworks, Kofi sat alone in his room, still dressed in ceremonial cloth. His smile from earlier had faded, replaced by the familiar ache he had carried since childhood—the feeling of being wrong, of being unfinished.

He moved to the mirror and stared at his reflection.

Dark hair. Perfectly royal.

But he knew the truth beneath the dye. He remembered the rare moments when rain washed the chemicals away, when palace servants panicked, when whispers followed him like shadows.

Red, they had said.
Southern blood.
An abomination.

He clenched his jaw.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Before Kofi could answer, the door opened just enough for Maanu, the head butler, to slip inside. The old man had served the palace longer than Kofi had been alive. His back was bent, his eyes sharp.

“You should be resting, my prince,” Maanu said.

“So should my mother,” Kofi replied coldly.

Maanu hesitated, then reached into his inner robe. He produced a small, weathered envelope marked only with a strange symbol—three clawed lines carved into a circle.

Kofi’s breath caught.

“I was told to give you this,” Maanu said quietly, “when you came of age.”

“By who?” Kofi asked.

Maanu bowed his head.

“By your mother.”

The room felt suddenly smaller.

Kofi opened the envelope with careful fingers. Inside was a note, written in a hand he did not recognize—and beneath it, a folded map marked with symbols, coordinates, and unfamiliar time-stamped notations.

The note was brief.

If you are reading this, it means the lie has failed.
Follow the map. Go to Accra.
There, you will find the Cavemen.
There, you will learn who you are.

Kofi looked up sharply. “The Cavemen are criminals.”

Maanu met his gaze without flinching. “So they say about kings.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Your mother tried to protect you,” the old man continued. “From the kingdom. From the truth. From him.”

“Him,” Kofi repeated.

Maanu straightened. “The man who gave you your hair. And your fire.”

Before Kofi could ask another question, Maanu bowed deeply and left the room, closing the door behind him as if sealing a fate long delayed.

Kofi spread the map across his desk.

It was unlike anything he had seen—part geography, part mathematics, part time. The markings weren’t just locations; they were moments. Windows. Alignments.

Chronometry.

His pulse quickened.

He pulled books from his shelves—ancient texts, forbidden studies, academic volumes he had hidden behind royal histories. Hours passed as he worked feverishly, aligning the symbols with time cycles, decoding movement paths, realizing the map was designed to be followed only at a specific hour.

Tonight.

At exactly 02:17 a.m.

Kofi folded the map, heart pounding.

He glanced once more at the palace walls—the kingdom that had raised him, feared him, reshaped him to fit its image.

Then he opened the window.

Cold air rushed in. Far below, guards patrolled, unaware that the future was slipping past them. Kofi secured the map beneath his ceremonial robe, swung one leg over the ledge, and paused.

“For whatever you’re hiding, Mother,” he whispered, “I’m done living inside it.”

At precisely 02:17, Kofi King vanished from the palace—
not as a prince fleeing responsibility,
but as a son chasing the truth.

And somewhere in Accra, the Cavemen Order felt it.

The heir had begun his journey.