Chapter One

The wind whispered through the palm fronds, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant murmur of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Biriwa. It was dawn, and the sky blushed with the first light of day — a soft, golden hue that painted the village in quiet reverence. The sea was restless, as always, and the nets from the night’s fishing lay tangled and half-empty. Jacob Wilson Sey had returned before sunrise, barefoot and shirtless, his skin still damp with seawater and sweat.

Life was hard. The ocean gave little, and the land even less. Jacob’s family lived in a small hut near the edge of the village, patched with palm fronds and hope. His wife had gone to market with dried fish that would barely fetch a few coins. His children still slept, curled on raffia mats, their bellies quiet but not full. Jacob had learned early that survival was a craft — one that required more than strength. It demanded rhythm. Ritual. And silence.

That morning, he moved with practiced ease through the underbrush, his calabash swinging gently from his hand. He was headed to his favorite palm tree — tall, ancient, and oddly twisted — where the sap always ran sweet and strong. He had tapped this tree for years, never suspecting that beneath its roots lay a secret older than the village itself.

As he climbed the trunk, gripping the bark with calloused hands and bare feet, a sudden hiss broke the silence. A snake — long, black, and coiled — slithered from a crevice just above his head. Jacob flinched, lost his grip, and fell.

The world spun. Branches tore at his skin. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Then — darkness.

When he awoke, the sun had risen higher, casting dappled light through the canopy. His head throbbed, and his ribs ached. He lay still, breathing shallowly, until something caught his eye. A glint. A shimmer. Something unnatural beneath the leaves.

He crawled toward it, brushing aside the debris. The earth, usually firm and dry, had shifted. A depression, subtle but unnatural, revealed itself. He struck the ground with the butt of his tapping stick. A hollow thud.

Digging with his hands, he uncovered a layer of packed clay. Beneath it, a pot. Then another. And another.

Gold.

Not just dust. Not just nuggets. Ornaments. Regalia. Anklets. Beads. Swords. The kind worn by kings. The kind buried by those who never returned.

Jacob staggered back, heart pounding. He had heard stories — whispered tales of Denkyira chiefs who fled southward after the Ashanti crushed their empire in 1701. Men who carried their wealth in silence, burying it in sacred groves and foreign soil, hoping to return. But none ever did.

And now, here it was. Not a myth. Not a proverb. But truth, gleaming in the morning light.

He touched the gold, not with greed, but with awe. This was not treasure. It was memory. A legacy buried beneath a tree that had watched for centuries, waiting for someone to listen.

Jacob looked around, suddenly aware of the silence. The tree loomed above him, its twisted trunk like a sentinel. The snake was gone. The wind had stilled.

He began to move the pots, one by one, hiding them beneath woven mats and palm fronds. He would return later. He would tell no one. Not yet.

The silence had been broken. But the story was only beginning.