The sun was hot, but Agyenim Davu did not use telekinesis to shade himself. He did not use his Indigo Aura to deflect the heat. He simply sat on a crate in the middle of the rubble, a quill in his hand and a heavy book on his knees.
His indigo Modi waistcoat was gone, replaced by the rough, undyed cotton of a penitent. His blonde wavy hair, usually perfectly styled, was matted with sweat and dust.
"Next," he croaked.
A woman stepped forward. She was a Brunette, clutching a toddler to her hip. The child's arm was bandaged.
"Name?" Agyenim asked, dipping his quill into the pot of ink. The ink was mixed with ash from the burnt stalls—a literal transcription of the damage.
"I am Zola," the woman said, her voice hard. "Queen of the House of Tiles. This is my son, Kofi."
"Injury?"
"Broken arm," Zola said. "Crushed when the crowd panicked. He will not be able to hold a hoe for a season."
Agyenim's hand trembled. In the past, this would have been a statistic. Collateral damage in a grand narrative. Now, looking at the small, frightened boy hiding his face in his mother's wrapper, what a tragedy.
He wrote the name. Kofi of the House of Tiles.
As the ink settled on the page, Agyenim felt a sharp sting in his chest. It was the Asona penitent curse placed on him. He felt the phantom pain of the boy's broken arm. He felt the mother's anxiety about the harvest.
He gasped, dropping the quill for a second.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" Zola asked, watching him without pity.
"Yes it does," Agyenim whispered.
"Good," she said. She turned and walked away.
Agyenim picked up the quill. He looked at the line of people stretching down the block. Hundreds of them. Each one a story he had ruined.
He saw a shadow fall over his page.
He looked up. Arora Lakshmi was standing there.
She wasn't floating. She was walking on the dirty cobblestones, her sari trailing in the dust. She held a clay cup of water.
"You look terrible, Scribe," she said softly.
"I am terrible," Agyenim replied. He didn't reach for the water, though his throat was parched. "I cannot drink until the page is full.
"Rules are rules."
Arora set the cup down on the crate beside him.
"The rule says you must record the pain," she said. "It does not say you must die of thirst while doing it."
She looked at the book. Thousands of names already.
"Do you hate me?" Agyenim asked, looking at his ink-stained fingers. "For the tower?"
"I hate the arrogance," Arora admitted. She touched the Vajra bell at her waist. "But I do not hate the man. Because the man is finally learning that he is not the author of the world. He is just a character in it."
She turned to leave.
"Arora," Agyenim called out.
She paused.
"I will write them all," he promised, his voice breaking. "Every single one. I will not stop until the Ubuntu is balanced.
" Not for Libaax...
"You know."
Arora looked back over her shoulder. For the first time since the banquet, her Prismatic White Aura softened.
"I know," she said. "Write well, Scribe."
Agyenim watched her disappear into the crowd. Then, he picked up the water, took a small sip, and looked at the next person in line.
"Next," he said. Reinvigorated.
...
The Imperial Palace – The Hanging Gardens
The wedding of the Servitor Supreme was not held in a throne room. It was held where the King's heart had first been captured—in the gardens.
The Celestial Lantern was in its "Day" cycle, the golden wheels spinning fiercely to cast a warm, honeyed light over Akogwa . The air smelled of jasmine and Lumen-vine.
The entire High Table was present. Azure Oba stood as the Best Man, his Red Isiagu gleaming, his massive arms crossed in satisfaction. Omari Imani stood as the Maid of Honor, wearing a new Ndebele necklace that chimed softly when she moved. Alem Amari presided over the ceremony, holding the Book of Lineage.
Libaax Akoma stood at the altar. He wore a ceremonial white Agbada embroidered with blue threads that pulsed with his Throat Chakra energy. He looked out at the crowd—at the Home-Kings and Town-Queens who had gathered not in fear, but in celebration.
Then, the music started. It wasn't a trumpet fanfare. It was the sound of a thousand tiny bells.
The Manomi choir began to ring their Kwaya bells.
Ahia Senan walked down the aisle.
She did not wear the stifling silk of the court. She wore a gown made of living, woven vines and white flowers, crafted by the Manomis of the Outer District. In her hair, she wore a simple comb.
She looked like the earth incarnate.
When she reached the altar, Libaax took her hands. The contact sent a visible ripple of Turquoise light (Blue and Green mixed) through the garden.
"You cleaned up well for a gardener," Libaax whispered, a smile breaking his usually severe face.
"You don't look so bad for a storm cloud," Ahia teased back.
Alem Amari cleared his throat.
"We are gathered here," the Albino authority intoned, "to witness the restoration of the Lineage. To join the Sky that gives the rain, to the Earth that bears the harvest." .
He looked at Libaax.
"Libaax Akoma, Servitor Supreme. Do you vow to cover her with your skirt cape? To be the roof against the sun and the wall against the wind?"
"I vow," Libaax said, his voice echoing. "My Ase is her shield. My house is her house."
Alem looked at Ahia.
"Ahia Senan, Empress of Middle Earth. Do you vow to anchor him? To be the root that holds the tree when the storm comes?"
Ahia looked at Libaax. She thought of the fear in the garden, the dream in Zamani, the cage in the Dildillaac, and the silence of the infirmary. She looked at the man who had torn the sky apart to find her.
"I vow," she said, her voice steady. "My Makoma is his compass. My heart is his home."
"Then by the laws of Ubuntu," Alem declared, closing the book, "I pronounce you One."
Libaax leaned down. Ahia reached up.
They kissed.
The Ifunanya bond didn't just spark; it detonated. A wave of pure, joyous energy swept out from the garden, rolling over the palace, down the waterfalls, through the market of the 4th District, and out to the borders of the Empire.
In the Treasury, the scrolls danced. In the Barracks, the swords hummed. In the Lower Districts, the anger of the riots finally dissolved, replaced by a collective sigh of relief.
The Sky had found the Earth. The circuit was complete. A spiritual rebirth by the hand of Chi.
High above, the Celestial Lantern seemed to flare brighter for a second, as if the universe itself was winking.
Libaax broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.
"My Empress," Libaax whispered.
Ahia smiled, looking out at the cheering crowd, at the world she had helped save, and the man she had learned to love.
"Long live the King," she replied.
And in the golden light of the afternoon, the Empire of Akogwa began to heal.