Three days.
It had been three long, harrowing days since I had returned to the compound, and in all that time, not a single word had been said to me. No messenger. No councilman. Not even a servant with a whispered update. The silence gnawed at me and it was worse than punishment. Each sunrise brought a new wave of dread, and by the third morning, I had worn a visible path pacing about the perimeter of my chambers.
My grandfather's compound no longer felt like home—it felt like a gilded cage.
I stood at the open arch of my window, arms crossed, jaw clenched. From this vantage point I could feel it—Uzazzu was awake in a way it hadn't been in years. Even from my secluded quarters, I sensed the hum of activity—the distant clang of metal against metal, the low barked orders of captains drilling troops, the chants of warriors sharpening their spirits with ritual song. No drums of mourning had sounded. No rites for peace. War was in the air. The entire kingdom stood on edge, and yet I, the one who had lit the match, was cast into silence.
I can no longer bear it. My palms itch not from guilt but from disuse. I want to be there—in council. I wanted to argue. To advise. To fight. Anything but sit idle.
But I didn't know if I will ever have that privilegde.
My father had yet to summon me and I didn't know if I was still in his good graces.
A part of me whispered that I was still being weighed—my worth, my loyalty, even my very place in this kingdom that I may have damned.
A sudden shuffle at the doorway broke my thoughts. I turned just in time to see Nala pushing through the wooven mat
"You look like you're ready to tear the walls down," Nala said with a half-smile.
I blinked, my mouth was already wide open. Then, without thinking, I crossed the room in swift strides and pulled Nala into a tight embrace.
"You're alright," I murmured into her shoulder.
"The healer says I have the stubborn blood of a goat," Nala replied with a weak laugh. Her face was still pale, and a light dressing clung to her side, but her eyes were bright. "I'm stronger than I look."
I pulled back slightly, searching my friend's face. "What have they decided? What's going on? Has the council said anything?"
Nala was soo easy to read right from when we were younger. I could already tell she knew something as her eyes seemed to look everywhere else but at me
My voice sharpened. "Nala, please. I've been trapped in here like a ghost. I need to know."
Then she nodded. "They've agreed to fight. The people… they are angry. They believe you, Amira. But… you did commit regicide."
I swallowed hard. "And for that, I will not be let off the hook."
A knowing silence hung between us.
"Then we make them hear us," I said quietly.
Nala's eyes widened. "What are you thinking?"
"We go to the palace. Now. If they won't bring me into the council chamber, I'll bring myself to it." I said with much more confidence.
I am prepared to face the consequences of not being caged like an animal.
We waited until the shadows began to stretch—late afternoon, when servants changed shifts and the sun dipped low. Dressed in muted wraps, with hair tied back tightly, we slipped past the main gate of the compound using a hidden trail through the rear garden wall, a path that only the royal children used when they sought to escape prying eyes.
Nala pressed herself into the narrow shadow behind the fig tree, her eyes locked on the rotating patrol beneath the palace walls. "Now," she whispered.
I didn't hesitate.
We slithered through the tight alley beside the granary storehouse, feet gliding over powdery dust, the moon being our only witness. The thick scent of coal smoke and millet mash hung in the air. Somewhere in the inner courtyards, a flute played — slow, mournful.
My heart thudded like a war drum. I had missed this—movement, risk, purpose. Not pacing in isolation like a cursed ghost while my kingdom stood on the edge of fire.
We ducked behind the old ram pen, its broken fence a known route from our childhood games of hide and seek. I touched the fencepost with reverence, as if to say: I'm still here.
Two more turns, and the stone wall of the royal compound rose before us. The guards, newly rotated and likely exhausted from triple shifts, were distracted by their own whispers. The scent of tamarind and roasted yam drifted from a nearby kitchen hearth. I stood still and took it all in
"The land hadn't stopped breathing… But it was barely holding its breath." I sighed which earned a grunt from Nala
We crept through the back gardens. The grass was stiff and dry beneath our feet, the acacia trees rustling with the whisper of harmattan wind.
And then—
A shadow moved. Fast.
Nala stiffened beside me.
From behind a carved wooden pillar, a man stepped into our path. He did not speak. He did not draw a weapon.
He just stood there.
The torchlight caught his face, and I faltered, unsure whether to flee or strike.
He was unlike any man I had seen in Uzazzu.
Tall—towering, really—with shoulders like a warhorse, he moved with the deadly silence of a predator long used to being feared. His skin was an unnatural hue—not bleached or pale, but a rich, ash-dusted bronze, as though the gods themselves had scorched him in the womb. A faint line ran from his left eye to his jaw—an old scar, possibly from a blade—and his hair, black and coiled like rope, was tied back in a thick knot.
His eyes were the most unsettling thing. Cold. Measured. Not curious, not afraid. Studying me like a beast would study fire.
And his garb—dark indigo with a blood-red sash across the chest—marked him clearly.
I know that emblem.
Masu Jirkin Karfe.
The iron-clad elite. Uzazzu's last defense.
I knew, then, who he was.
The Madawaki.
Commander of the Masu Jirkin Karfe. Rumored to be forged in battle, sharper than steel, loyal only to the crown—and feared even within council walls. They said he came from the far northern ridges, born of a clan whose people carried the "Tsakar Baki," the gray-skin curse said to touch those born of the Baƙin Wuri — Outsider Lands. Not foreign as in foreigner, but not-of-here. He carried the mark of Baƙi.
The mark of a Stranger, a Wildborn.
Still, he did not bow. Not even blink.
"Who are you to trespass?" he asked, his voice low, deep—like a drum in a canyon.
I stepped forward, proud despite the dread I felt within. "I am Gimbiya Amira, daughter of King Askia Ishaq II." I let the silence hang, as heavy as the name I had spoken.
A flicker—just a twitch—passed through the man's brow. His gaze sharpened. And slowly, deliberately, he knelt, his right fist pressed to the ground.
"Gimbiya," he said, voice flat.
But I could feel it. The storm beneath. He wasn't swayed. He wasn't impressed.
And somehow… that thrilled me.
I narrowed my eyes. "Stand. I didn't ask you to kneel."
He rose, slower this time, eyes level with mine. "Then speak, daughter of the crown. Why do you crawl through the palace like a thief?"
Nala coughed behind me, but I raised my chin. "Because I am tired of waiting. I have spilled royal blood. I deserve to know what is being done in my name. I will not rot behind silence while warriors march and counsel doors close."
The Madawaki stared, unreadable.
Finally, he turned, his cloak sweeping the floor like a shadow of judgment. "Then follow me."