The king, a man in his late 50s, exudes a regal yet weary presence. His gaunt cheeks bear the traces of tears, and his freshly shaved head reveals a battle scar etched into his skin. He is draped in somber mourning robes of deep gray, embodying his despair. Seated cross-legged on the parched, cracked earth of Olungwe’s grand courtyard, he appears lost in thought. Surrounding him, the once-golden fields lie faded, their drooping stalks bowing beneath a somber sky. In the distance, villagers clad in muted hues watch in silence, their faces a mix of fear and reverence. A gentle wind stirs the dust around the king, carrying with it murmurs of sorrow.