The ruler, a man in his late 50s, bears a regal yet weathered appearance. His hollow cheeks glisten with fresh tears, and his newly shaved head reveals a battle-worn scar. He is draped in worn mourning robes of somber gray, reflecting his deep sorrow. Seated cross-legged on the parched, cracked earth of Olungwe’s grand courtyard, he seems lost in thought. The once-vibrant golden fields surrounding him now appear drained of life, their stalks bent under a heavy gray sky. Nearby, villagers stand silently, their garments muted and their expressions a mix of fear and reverence. A gentle breeze stirs the dust around the ruler, laden with the murmured echoes of grief.