After the death of the chieftain’s young wife, the entire village fell into mourning. At least, that was how it appeared from the outside. People gathered in the village square, whispered near the wells, and lowered their voices whenever they passed the great wooden house overlooking the valley.
The loss had come suddenly.
Only three days earlier, the chieftain’s wife, Amara, had been laughing among the market stalls, speaking with merchants and handing fruit to village children. She was young, kind, and beloved by nearly everyone.
Then, without warning, she fell violently ill.
By sunset, she was dead.
The tragedy struck the village like a thunderbolt.
No one understood what had happened.
The healer examined her.
The elders prayed.
The women who had cared for her searched desperately for answers.
But none came.
Fear quickly replaced grief.
And where fear grows, blame is never far behind.
The chieftain, a powerful man named Kofi, refused to accept that his wife’s death could be natural.
His sorrow soon became rage.
His rage demanded a target.
And before long, rumors began spreading through the village.
Some whispered about curses.
Others spoke of dark spirits.
A few claimed they had seen strange signs before Amara’s death.
Then someone mentioned a name.
Tano.
The village dwarf.
Tano had lived on the edge of the settlement for nearly twenty years.
He was small in stature but gentle by nature.