The Great Hall had been transformed into a sterile theater of judgment. In the center, a long table covered in white linen held the silver trays of the medical team from Lagos. Vials, syringes, and alcohol swabs gleamed under the cold light of the chandeliers.
King Amadi sat in his state chair, his breathing assisted by a portable oxygen concentrator that hummed a low, mechanical dirge. Edna sat to his right, her back so straight it looked as though it might snap. She wore a wrapper of deep indigo, the color of mourning, though she claimed it was for "the dignity of the throne."
Egeonu stood by the medical team, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his thin lips. "The technicians are ready, Your Majesty," he announced, his voice booming. "We have the reference sample sent via diplomatic courier from Richard in London. All that remains is for the Prince to provide his."
Graham stepped forward. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace. He didn't look at the needles. He didn't look at Egeonu. He looked at the heavy, reinforced oak doors at the rear of the hall. He had checked his watch three minutes ago.
"I am ready," Graham said. His voice was a flat, dead calm.
The lead doctor, a woman with silver-rimmed glasses and a no-nonsense expression, stepped forward. "Prince Graham, please extend your arm."
As the doctor reached for the syringe, the lights in the Great Hall flickered. The hum of the King's oxygen machine faltered, then died as the palace's main power grid was cut. For a heartbeat, there was only the grey, natural light filtering through the high windows and the sound of the rain lashing the glass.
THUD.
The sound came from the courtyard—the heavy, unmistakable rhythmic beat of boots on stone.
"What is the meaning of this?" Egeonu shouted, turning toward the doors. "Security! Restore the power!"
The oak doors didn't open; they were kicked off their hinges.
Six men in tactical gear, their faces obscured by black balaclavas and their movements professional and synchronized, stormed the hall. They didn't carry the traditional spears of the palace guard; they carried suppressed submachine guns.
"Assassins!" Edna screamed, though her voice lacked the pitch of true surprise. She dove toward the floor, dragging the frail King with her, ostensibly to protect him.
The hall erupted into a cacophony of shattered glass and muffled pops. The medical team was the first to fall—Egeonu's "incorruptible" witnesses silenced before they could even draw a drop of blood. The vials of Richard's DNA shattered on the marble, the clear liquid mixing with the spreading crimson tide.
Egeonu reached for a ceremonial sword on the wall, his eyes wide with a frantic, sudden understanding. He looked at Graham, who was standing perfectly still amidst the carnage.
"You..." Egeonu gasped, his hand clutching the hilt. "You would kill the whole council to hide a lie?"
"I am not hiding a lie, Uncle," Graham said, stepping over the body of a fallen Chief. "I am burying the truth so deep that no one will ever dig it up again."
A short burst of gunfire caught Egeonu in the chest. He fell backward, his red cap rolling across the black-and-white tiles until it soaked up the blood of the brother he had tried to usurp.
In the corner, the King's eyes were wide. He was gasping for air, his lungs failing without the machine. He reached out a trembling hand toward Graham. "My... boy..."
Graham knelt beside the dying man. He didn't offer the oxygen mask. He simply watched as the light faded from the King's eyes. "I'm sorry, Grandfather," Graham whispered. "But the Amadi line ends with you. I am a new beginning."