Chapter One: The Price of a Daughter
The wind smelled like firewood and sea salt the morning they sold her.
In the coastal village of Boffa, Guinea, life moved slowly like the tide that brushed its shores and the old women who whispered behind woven veils.
Smoke curled up from earthen stoves, roosters cried into the dawn, and market girls began their chants under the mango trees. But that morning, the sky was a dull gray, and nothing tasted right in the air.
Sira Diallo knelt outside her mother's hut, grinding dried hibiscus leaves into a wooden bowl. She was preparing tea for the elder midwife, something to ease her cough. Her fingers moved quickly, skillfully, from memory, her mind elsewhere.
On any other day, she would've hummed softly or argued with the goats for chewing the plantains. But not today.
Today was her mother's funeral.
Or what passed for one.
The grave was shallow, the soil still damp from last night's rain. No stone marked the spot, only a ring of cowries and three broken pieces of calabash. Her mother had died gasping, bones shivering under soaked blankets, her eyes sunken and far away. Fever. Maybe a curse.
No one came to help. Not even the priestess. No one wanted to touch the family of the dead.
Especially not hers.
"You must leave this place, Sira," her aunt had said days ago, arms folded, voice tight. "You've got no father. Your mother's gone. You think we'll feed another grown mouth?"
Sira didn't answer her. She simply turned back to the fire and stirred.
But in the silence of the next morning, a new visitor arrived.
His name was Karamo Diallo. Her uncle. A man with oily eyes and a beard too neat for someone who never lifted a hoe. He hadn't shown up for the burial, hadn't brought water, hadn't even sent a prayer.
But now, dressed in fine indigo robes and gold-threaded sandals, he walked into the hut with the confidence of a man who owned the ground beneath him.
"I come with an opportunity," he said, seating himself without invitation. "A blessing, even. For you, and for your mother's name."
Sira narrowed her eyes. "Now you speak of her?"
Karamo chuckled, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Don't be foolish. I've secured something greater than this dirt village can offer. Traders have come to the coast. Rich ones. Easterners. They offer silver, silk, jade"
She stood. "And what do you want from me?"
He paused. "You are... exceptional. You can read, speak clearly, and heal with your hands. You're healthy. Tall. Still untouched by any man. That has value in their land."
A terrible chill ran through her spine.
She didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Until he pulled out a silk cloth from his satchel and unwrapped it.
Inside were ten silver coins and a jade ornament shaped like a flute.
"My price," he said.
Sira didn't remember how long she ran.
Through the cashew trees, past the fishing boats, feet slamming against wet sand. Her mind screamed while her mouth stayed shut. There was nowhere to go. No one to beg. No voice that would speak louder than Karamo's in the village square.
By sundown, she returned home to find strangers waiting, men with pale eyes and darker skin, wearing robes that glimmered under the last orange rays. They smelled like spice and oil and the sea.
One of them stepped forward and bowed. "You are honored," he said in broken Mandinka. "Chosen."
Sira didn't answer. She turned her back and tried to run again.
But the grip on her arm came swift, brutal, final.
A cloth soaked in herbs pressed against her nose.
The last thing she heard was the flute — not a song, but a sound like mourning as the world around her darkened.
****
She awoke on a ship.
Not a canoe, not a fishing boat, but a monstrous vessel made of dark wood and iron rails. The floor creaked with every wave, and the walls bled salt. Her hands were wrapped in silk not rope and her ankles tied with red ribbon.
Even her clothing had been changed: gone were her wrap skirts and bare feet. Now she wore something long and pale and perfumed.
A girl she did not recognize sat nearby, painting Sira's toenails with crushed orchids.
"What is this?" she rasped, throat dry.
The girl looked up. Her face was plain, blank. "You are being prepared," she said.
"For what?"
Silence.
There were no beatings. No cages. No shouts.
The traders treated her like something sacred, a rare beast to be fed carefully, watched closely, protected. But it was all a show. She knew. The silk cuffs on her wrists were still cuffs. The soft words still meant prison.
She saw other girls on the ship, three or four of them, each from different coasts, speaking tongues Sira didn't understand. But none were taken above deck. None were told why they were there.
And when one girl cried too long, she vanished the next morning.
No one spoke of it.
After what felt like endless days and nights, they reached land.
It wasn't a beach. It was stone polished docks, pagodas with golden eaves, dragon statues curled around gates. Flags in crimson and pearl fluttered in the air, and the scent was unfamiliar: sweet rice, incense, strange flowers.
The city rose behind the harbor, huge and proud, surrounded by high red walls. The Red Lotus Empire, someone whispered.
She was taken in a litter not walked, not shoved, but carried like an offering. Up stone steps, past fountains and gates, into the heart of a palace so vast it swallowed the sky.
Women in pale robes awaited her. Some bowed. Others stared with pity. None smiled.
"You will not speak unless spoken to," one of them said.
"You will eat what you are given. Wear what is selected. Sleep when the bells ring."
"And if I do not?" Sira asked coldly.
The woman paused. "Then you will be returned to the sea."
Her chamber was too large.
A golden basin, silk sheets, carved screens painted with birds. It was beautiful in the way a cage is beautiful: meant to distract from the bars.
At dusk, a healer came.
He didn't speak her language, but he examined her carefully, her hips, her belly, her breath, her teeth. He lit incense and rubbed her stomach with jasmine oil. A translator told her what the healer noted.
"She is strong," the translator said. "Good womb. Wide hips. Warm blood."
Sira recoiled. "Why does that matter?"
But they didn't answer. Only bowed again.
"You are to be prepared for the Imperial Surrogacy Rite," he added.
"You will carry a child for the royal family."
Sira froze.
"What?"
The translator smiled gently. "You have been chosen to birth the future."
That night, she dreamed of her mother.
Not as she died not shivering or gaunt but whole, young, eyes full of fire.
"Sira," she whispered, standing in a field of stars. "Your body is not theirs. Not even for a crown."
Sira reached for her, but her mother vanished into lotus petals.
When she awoke, the stars outside her window had already faded.
And the palace bells rang.
By morning, she was no longer a girl from Boffa.
She was property of the Red Lotus Empire.