A man in his late 50s sat cross-legged on the bare, cracked earth of what was once the grand courtyard of Olungwe. His regal yet weary countenance was framed by gaunt cheeks, streaked with silent tears, while his freshly shaved head revealed a prominent scar from a distant battle. Draped in mourning robes of deep, weathered gray, he wore the fabric of his despair. Around him, the kingdom's golden fields seemed to have lost their luster, the once proud stalks now drooping beneath an oppressive sky the color of charcoal. In the near distance, villagers clad in muted tones gathered, their faces etched with both fear and reverence, silently bearing witness to their ruler's silent vigil. A faint wind stirred, lifting the dust around him and carrying the soft whispers of shared sorrow upon its breath.