The king, a man in his late 50s with an air of regal dignity touched by weariness, bears gaunt cheeks streaked with tears, and his freshly shaved head reveals a battle-scar from years long past. His tattered mourning robes, a deep ash-gray, reflect the depth of his despair. Sitting cross-legged on the parched, cracked earth of Olungwe’s once-grand courtyard, he is encircled by fields of golden grain now dulled, their stalks bowing under a heavy, oppressive sky. Villagers clad in muted colors form a distant, silent crowd, their faces marked by a mix of fear and reverence. A gentle wind stirs the dust around the king, carrying faint whispers of sorrow through the still air.