The corridors of the palace shimmered with the glow of dawn, their silence pressing like a weight on my shoulders as I walked beside the Madawaki. He said little—nothing, in fact. Only the echo of our footsteps accompanied us. Nala trailed behind, their shadows long and wavering.
I was intrigued. I remember seeing him during his training days when I was little. I had snuck out because it was the royal finalle of the Masu Jirkin Karfe. The fight of champions, who would become the next Madawaki. The battle was over when I got there, but I saw him breathless, with little flesh covering his small frame as he stood atop his opponent who was twice his size, his cold gaze sweeping through the audience until they managed to lock eyes with mine.
And now… He seems to have changed, he was much healthier but colder. In my usual way, I tried filling the quiet with words. Not carelessly, but with the frustration of a mind bursting with questions and indignation. "You're awfully quiet," I said, side-eyeing the towering figure next to me. "Is that your way of showing respect or disdain?"
The Madawaki said nothing, though his lips twitched slightly at the corner. It wasn't a smile, not even close, but it was something.
"I suppose you believe I'm the reckless one," I continued. "I didn't wake up one morning planning to spill royal blood. But sometimes, the gods put you in places you never begged to be. You either rise... or die."
The Madawaki gave a single nod.
"You're not much of a talker, are you?" I mused aloud. "Well, listen anyway. I have no intention of being tucked away like a cursed heir while my people march to war."
Still, he said nothing. But something in his presence—the immovability, the silence—spoke louder than any boastful words.
Our moment was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Idris. He rounded the corner with long, urgent strides, stopping short when he saw his sister beside the head of the Masu Jikin Karfe.
"Amira," he exhaled, somewhere between astonishment and exasperation. "Of course you would find your way here. You've always had a way of slipping through cracks meant to hold even the wind."
I folded my arms. "Then don't build such weak cracks."
Idris rolled his eyes but managed a small smile. "Stubborn as ever. But you can't go before the court. Not yet atleast. There are still whispers of an exile. Others... worse."
I bristled. "I saved us."
"You brought a war to our doorstep. Even if they see your intent, the blood on your hands is still red and fresh. Come. I think Father wishes to speak with you alone."
I gave a slight nod towards Nala as I turned to follow Idris. Deep down I had been meaning to have this conversation, an audience without the court where I could say what I truly felt without courtesy of who would get offended. Whatever punishment awaited,I would accept it wholeheartedly
But… was I truly prepared to meet the king?
Was it Father who wanted to speak or King Askia Ishaq?
We diverted course, leaving Nala and the Madawaki behind as we turned deeper into the palace.
It had been years since I had passed through this inner wing—so rarely was it used that even the torches seemed to flicker differently. There were no guards here, no tapestries bearing the sun-and-sword crest of Uzazzu. Just stone and shadow and the soft whisper of footsteps.
At the end of the corridor, a pair of great wooden doors carved with images of ancestors and gods stood half-open.
Inside, I did not find King Askia Ishaq II, the sole ruler of Uzazzu, seated on his golden lion-backed throne, nor clad in robes threaded with gold and indigo dyes. The ceremonial spear, the lion-tooth dagger, the great ivory cuff—none of the regalia were on him. Instead, he wore a plain white robe, loose at the sleeves, his bare feet tucked beneath him on a simple mat. He looked smaller somehow, hunched over a small bowl of kola nuts.
"Father?" I said softly.
He looked up, and for a moment, and it felt like I was a child again.
"Come in, Amira," he said. "Sit."
I obeyed, settling beside him on the woven mat. He looked tired. No, not tired. Worn. Worn like a cloak used too many times against the rain.
"I never wanted this for you," he said. "Never."
"I know," I replied, barely audible.
He picked up a kola nut, cracked it slowly between his fingers. "When your mother—may her soul rest in peace—brought you into this world, it was in fire. There were complications. More blood than any birth should ever see. I remember standing there as the healer told me to pray to the gods. I was ready to give up everything for her to live. Her or you. But she lived. And so did you. And that," he gave me a small smile, "was the last time I ever saw the gods show mercy without price."
I swallowed the knot forming in my throat.
"You were different from Idris. From Maimuna. You cried differently. Watched people differently. You never settled. The moment you learned to walk, you ran." He chuckled
He looked away, eyes distant. "Your grandmother said she would raise you, that perhaps the quiet of the compound would soften your edge. But I knew better, you are hot blooded like your father"
"I didn't take another wife. Not because I lacked options or... needs. But because I loved your mother, yes, and because I feared what the gods would take from me next. I couldn't bear another prophecy, another heir, another tool for them to wield."
I always questioned why he never took another wife. Other kings had numerous wives and concubines but he decided to remain alone. In that moment he felt vulnerable, I watched his eyes reminice on days my mother was still alive and how lonely the palace had been without her. I silently prayed never to feel this pain.
The pain of loosing a loved one.
"You kept me hidden," I whispered.
"Yes," he admitted. "Because they wanted you. The seers, the soothsayers. They called you the Flameborn. They said you'd rise during war. That your hands would bring both ruin and deliverance. They wanted to send you to the Shrine of Embers. To bind you in rites."
He shook his head. "But I would not let them. You are not a weapon. You are my daughter."
At that, tears began to blur my vision.
"I have failed in many ways," he continued. "But I will not fail now. We are going to war, yes. But you will not see the planes. Not while I draw breath."
I opened my mouth to speak but he raised a hand.
"We ride tomorrow to seek guidance. To the Grove of Azhari, where the Oracle of Aumakhu awaits. The god of protection. You may have heard of him in whispers—Shangaza. They say his favor cloaks warriors in shadow and strength. We will beg for his fortification. If we can strike before Kano prepares, we may end this quickly. Cleanly."
"You will attack first?" I asked surprised. It looked like the only plan that would yield much, but we could loose a lot of men if not done properly.
He nodded "We must. Waiting means death. They outnumber us. But surprise is our ally. So we will launch from the northern ridge, when the moon wanes low. The Masu Jikin Karfe will lead. Idris commands the flanks. And I will ride with them."
I reached for his hand. "Let me come." I pleaded. If things went bad, they could offer me up to appease the people of Kano.
He turned to me, smile lined with sorrow. "My fierce daughter. One day, maybe. But not this one. This one belongs to fathers and old kings."
"But… I don't want to lose you," I choked out. What if he went and his soul remained on the battle field? What if it was his remains they bring back to me? What would I do?
He pulled me close. "You won't. I have too much left to teach you."
And so I cried. In his arms, for the first time in years, I let my tears fall. For myself, for my people, for a father who carried kingdoms on his back yet made space for my pain.
Outside, the winds shifted. The gods listened.
And the war inched closer.