The night was cold and the city was different now. Not quiet, but coiled. Every shadow seemed to hold a sentry. The air tasted of woodsmoke and iron, and a low, rhythmic chant from the outer training grounds was a constant, hypnotic pulse. The military encampment sprawled across the fields outside Gao's city walls, a vast, bristling forest of spears and tents. The air was thick with the scent of roasted goat, sweat, and oiled leather.
I stood cloaked in a thick shawl, hidden from view as I watched the camp bustle with preparations. My heart thudded with every clang of metal, every jiggle of war beads, every voice raised in command. Men moved with a practiced discipline I had never seen in our capital. This wasn't a parade; this was a kingdom bracing for war.
I found my father's tent, the entrance mat pulled back to reveal the interior. He stood with Idris, his face a grim mask of concentration. My breath caught in my throat. Today, he wore not the flowing robes of a monarch, nor the golden crown of Askia Ishaq II. Today, he stood in his war regalia.
His chest was bound with thick, braided leather adorned with ancient talismans. Painted markings swirled across his dark skin, deep ochre and crimson ink forming sacred emblems passed down through his bloodline. Blades gleamed in the sheaths tucked at his sides—curved daggers with ivory hilts, one of which I remembered as my mother's gift.
He saw me, and the calm fury on his face gave way to a sorrow so profound it felt like a physical blow.
"My precious Amira," he said, drawing me close, his calloused fingers stroking my cheek. "Still as stubborn as ever."
I was incapable of forming words.
"Don't tell me you are afraid for me," he said, his voice low and weary. He pulled back, cupping my face in his hands. "This is not your fault. The Kano king's madness was his own, and his plan would have brought war regardless. The difference is, now we face it awake."
I trembled, tears blurring my vision.
"But you must be able to bear it all," he continued, his eyes unwavering. "You have a fire within you that I should have helped you master, not hide. I want you to understand that these men fight not just for me, but for their family, their pride, their homes and their land. The future of Uzazzu needs you to be strong. You must know your place."
My father's words were a heavy cloak, wrapping me in a destiny I had so desperately tried to avoid. He held me close, then released me with a final, firm squeeze.
Idris stepped forward, his eyes filled with a weary mix of concern and admiration. "You need to go before they find out you have escaped again," he said softly, pulling me into a tight embrace. "We will be back."
I looked at the king pleadingly, but his back was already turned, and his silence was final. I knew I had to leave. My presence would only weaken their morale. I bade them farewell with a final word. "Your throne, your daughter and your people await your return, my king. May the gods be with you."
I exited the tent, Nala was in a cloak waiting outside for me. We took long strides towards the entrance of the camp. The air was thick with the rustle of preparing men, and as we moved, I overheard a conversation that stopped me in my tracks.
"The Kano people are all bastards!" a young warrior exclaimed, his voice laced with venom. "For taking our beautiful princess and returning her in dirty rags after maltreating her like a slave! I personally will bring the head of that king to her, and maybe then the King would look upon me and bestow me a title and the hand of our princess in marriage!"
"Danjuma the dreamer," another one called, laughing. "Who told you the princess was returned in dirty rags?"
"Kai! My uncle is a guard at the palace," he hissed back. "He saw her with his own two eyes, our Gimbiya Rungume—the whispered one. He said if not for the dirty clothes, she was the fairest thing he had ever laid eyes on."
A chill ran down my spine. The words were a bitter dose of reality. Even though praised, my actions had already become a story, a legend, whispered in the night and sooner or later, they would come to know the full truth.
That's when I saw them.
The Masu Jikin Karfe. They were not a crowd, but a single, silent thunder. Perhaps a hundred in total, but their presence was immense. They moved with a deadly, quiet purpose. They were all men, tall and broad-shouldered, their bodies a testament to years of rigorous training. Their skin was an unnatural, ash-dusted bronze, and intricate tribal tattoos spiraled up their arms and legs. They wore no elaborate armor, only simple leather breastplates, their chests and legs exposed to the night. Their weapons were not of metal, but something else entirely—shining, dark obsidian blades, polished to a perfect, terrifying sharpness.
They were a single, living entity, an ancient, lethal force. The whispers of the "Men with Iron Bodies" echoed in my mind. They were the children of the earth, the guardians of Uzazzu. The Madawaki walked at their head, his scarred face a mask of silent resolve. He turned and his eyes found mine, and in that fleeting glance, I saw it again—the primal thrill of the hunt, the cold certainty of a predator. He was the most dangerous of them all, a blade forged in silence and shadow.
My eyes swept across the vast war camp. Three thousand mounted warriors, their horses painted with protective sigils. Five thousand foot soldiers, spears rising like a forest. Two thousand archers with curved bows carved from ironwood. And among them, the gifted—the Yayan Agaji, children of magic, who could shroud the camp in mist or summon desert beasts.
They were fathers. Brothers. Sons. Young boys barely grown into men. All marching for a war I had started. All willing to die for a cause they believed in—a legend they had already begun to whisper.
And for the first time, I understood the true weight of the throne I had so defiantly rejected. The weight of their lives.
And so my eyes watered at the very thought of their lifeless bodies.