Chapter 01

Chapter 01

The Bell That Rang Thrice

The twin princes were buried before the sun reached its highest point.

They lay side by side beneath red earth, wrapped in royal cloth dyed with indigo and gold, their small crowns placed gently upon their brows. The drums of mourning echoed across the capital, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat refusing to quicken. Women wailed. Elders bowed their heads. Warriors struck the butts of their spears into the ground in solemn rhythm.

Only Sampson Dotse stood untouched by grief.

He was young, tall, broad-shouldered, and already carried himself like a man chosen by destiny. While the kingdom mourned what it had lost, Sampson measured what it had gained.

Two heirs gone.
One throne remaining.

The gods—or whatever powers ruled the unseen—had cleared the path for him.

As the earth covered the twins, Sampson felt no sorrow. Instead, pride burned in his chest like a hidden fire. He was now the sole bloodline of the Dotse dynasty, the only son strong enough to rule, the only name the people would chant when the drums of war were beaten.

And they did chant his name.

“Sampson!”
“Lion of Dotse!”
“The chosen king!”

He lifted his chin, allowing the praise to wash over him. Even the elders noticed the fire in his eyes—ambition sharpened into certainty.

Years passed like dust carried by harmattan winds, and Sampson ascended the throne as expected. His rule was decisive, his voice commanding, his presence absolute. He expanded borders, crushed rival clans, and demanded loyalty not as a request, but as a law of nature.

To Sampson Dotse, kingship was not stewardship.

It was proof of superiority.

When the prophet arrived, the court was already restless.

The man appeared without escort, dressed in tattered cloth, his feet bare and cracked from travel. He walked straight through the palace gates as though the guards were invisible. By the time anyone moved to stop him, he was already standing before the throne.

Sampson leaned back, amused.

“Who lets madmen wander into my court?” the king asked, his voice echoing off carved stone.

The prophet’s eyes were old—older than kingdoms, older than memory. He did not bow.

“I have come,” the prophet said calmly, “to warn you.”

Laughter rippled through the court.

Sampson rose slowly, descending the steps of his throne until he stood face to face with the stranger.

“Warn me?” he repeated. “You stand before the greatest king this land has ever known. My enemies fall like grass before fire. My people worship my name. Even the spirits favour my rule.”

The prophet shook his head. “No man stands above God.”

Silence fell.

The words struck the air like a blade.

Sampson’s smile hardened.

“You dare speak of gods to me?” he said. “If your God were supreme, He would have made me His voice.”

Some of the elders shifted uneasily. This was dangerous speech. Even kings respected the unseen.

The prophet raised his staff and pointed it—not at Sampson’s crown, but at his chest.

“Your heart is swollen with pride,” he said. “And pride cannot house God.”

Sampson’s temper snapped.

“Enough,” he barked. “You are a beggar clothed in riddles. Leave now, before I remind you that prophecy does not make one immortal.”

The prophet did not move.

Instead, he whispered, “Then hear your judgment.”

The air grew heavy.

Somewhere—though no one could say where—a bell rang.

Once.

Its sound was deep and unnatural, vibrating through bone rather than ear.

The court froze.

The bell rang again.

Sampson’s breath caught in his throat. His heartbeat thundered suddenly, painfully loud.

The bell rang a third time.

Then the world broke.

Sampson screamed as an invisible force tore through his chest. Blood did not spill—but something far worse happened. He felt his heart ripped away, wrenched from his body like a living thing being dragged into darkness.

He collapsed to his knees.

The prophet stepped forward, holding something that pulsed faintly with sickly red light.

A heart.

Sampson’s heart.

“Your life will not end,” the prophet said, his voice echoing with something no longer human. “Death would be mercy. Instead, you will walk the earth cursed, your days without number, your nights without rest.”

The prophet crushed the heart between his palms—yet it did not die.

“In place of your heart,” he continued, “you shall carry the heart of a beast. Hunger shall rule you. Blood shall call to you. And you shall know what it means to live without God.”

The prophet pressed his hand against Sampson’s chest.

Pain exploded.

Sampson convulsed as something foreign took root within him—hot, feral, alive.

“You will remain on this earth,” the prophet said, “until you learn that God alone is supreme. Until your pride is dust.”

The prophet turned away, already fading like smoke.

The court erupted in panic.

Sampson collapsed face-first onto the palace floor.

But he did not die.

Hours later, when the sun dipped low and torches were lit, Sampson Dotse opened his eyes.

They glowed faintly red in the dark.

His heartbeat was wrong—slow, heavy, not human.

And somewhere deep beneath the palace, hidden by forces older than kings, his true heart still beat… waiting.

The age of the king had ended.

The age of the curse had begun.