They had no kings.No names.Only the smoke and the silence.
High in the Semien Mountains, beyond where maps dared ink their lines, a forgotten order lived among the clouds. These were the Children of Smoke—monks, mystics, and scholars who claimed descent from the first human breath, the first fire, the first whisper between gods and mortals.
Few had ever seen them. Fewer had returned.
Sarive Tambwe had no time for legends. But Makonnen did.
The Pilgrimage
It had been six weeks since Queen Nali had joined the Afron cause. Word of their unity spread like wildfire. Villages once bitter enemies now flew the twin banners of Ashara and Afron: the golden lion and the solar spiral. But for all their military momentum, the brothers knew something vital was still missing.
"We have language," Sarive said one night by the campfire. "We have law. What we do not have is belief."
Makonnen nodded. "A sword can win a nation. But only faith can hold it together."
And so, with Sarive's reluctant blessing, Makonnen left the capital of Nyatunda and journeyed east, into the mountains, chasing rumors of the Children of Smoke—keepers of ancient wisdom lost even to time.
The Climb
The path was steep, cruel, and alive with wind. Makonnen, flanked by only five guards and a mule carrying scrolls, climbed for six days. There were no roads, only moss-covered trails and the occasional relic: a crumbling statue, a sun-bleached bone, a cave etched with glyphs in languages older than Egypt.
On the seventh day, the fog turned silver.
And then they saw it.
A monastery carved into the cliff face like a scar on the sky. Spires of obsidian jutted upward, half-swallowed by clouds. Dozens of robed figures moved along narrow bridges and terraces, tending fires, chanting in low hums that made the bones vibrate.
The leader approached. Her robes were deep blue, her skin like onyx, her head shaved except for a braided crown of hair.
"I am Amelakru," she said, her voice soft but echoing. "You come with questions."
"I come with need," Makonnen replied. "Africa is rising. But it needs more than laws. It needs memory. It needs meaning."
She studied him a long moment.
"Then come," she said. "But first, burn your name."
The Trial of Smoke
Inside the mountain monastery, Makonnen was stripped of his title and possessions, clothed in gray linen, and led into the Chamber of Breath—a circular room filled with smoke from ancient incense trees. There, the monks recited stories not written, but inhaled—myths passed through breath, not parchment.
One told of the First Sun, a god who gave humanity light and fire, only to be betrayed by his children, who sought to divide the earth. He wept, and his tears became rivers. He screamed, and his voice became language. His final act was to split his spirit into thirteen fragments, each buried in a different land.
Makonnen listened. And understood.
"What do you call this belief?" he asked.
Amelakru smiled. "We do not call it. It simply is. But your world needs names. So call it what you will."
"Solari," he said. "The Way of the Sun."
The Codex of Light
After days of fasting and ritual, Amelakru led Makonnen to a hidden chamber beneath the monastery. There, on slabs of volcanic stone, were etched the Thirteen Pillars of Balance—doctrines carved not with tools, but fire. He copied them by hand, translating into Offic with trembling fingers.
These were not commandments, but truths:
The Sun rises for all. So must justice.
There is no power without burden.
Light casts shadow. Embrace both.
The ancestors are not behind us—they walk beside.
Speech without memory is dust.
Silence is sacred, but not when truth is dying.
The divine lives in breath, not blood.
Balance is not stillness. It is movement in harmony.
The earth listens. Speak with care.
Gold blinds the greedy.
The body is a temple. The soul, a library.
No god is born above another.
The empire that forgets will be forgotten.
Makonnen wept as he finished copying the last line.
The Return
When he descended from the monastery three weeks later, the sun was just rising over the Sahel. He had changed. Thinner. Quieter. His gaze distant, but burning.
He returned to Nyatunda where Sarive met him in the great hall, surrounded by maps and war plans.
"What did you find?" Sarive asked.
Makonnen unrolled the scrolls.
"I found the soul of Afron."
The Third Law of Afron
That night, in a newly built amphitheater in Nyatunda, the brothers stood before thousands. Soldiers, scholars, children, and elders gathered to hear what would become known as The Third Law of Afron:
"Let it be known:An empire without spirit is a corpse.From the mountain flame we have drawn memory.From the Children of Smoke, we inherit balance.Solari shall be the light within the stone.All may follow. None are forced.But the sun shall rise for all."
As Makonnen read the law, the crowd fell to their knees—not out of submission, but reverence. They chanted a new word:
"Zuraa."(Light. In Offic.)
Addendum: The Scroll of Zuraa
Makonnen created a small book—The Scroll of Zuraa—a Solari text to be taught alongside the Offic language. It contained stories, not sermons. Reflections, not orders. Faith, not fear.
The religion of Afron had no pope, no prophet, no war in its name.
It had memory.