The morning sun, already promising a sweltering day, beat down on the dusty patch behind the small hillside clinic. A rooster crowed lazily from somewhere down the slope, its cry swallowed by the rustling leaves of the baobab trees and the clatter of morning life beginning in the village.
Smoke curled from thatched kitchens, where women pounded yam and stirred thick morning porridges. Children darted barefoot between narrow alleys, chasing goats and each other, laughter echoing like wind chimes through the air. The distant clang of metal rang from Mzeem's forge, where sparks danced off heated iron as he shaped farming tools with slow, deliberate rhythm. Somewhere uphill, the local herbalist's voice could be heard calling out the names of roots and tinctures as she laid them out to dry.
But just behind the clinic, tucked away from the waking world, Leonotis stood in grim determination, locked in battle with a silent enemy.
He swung his tree-branch sword at the dummy—really just a bundle of dried thatch tied with strips of worn fabric to a crooked wooden post. Dried grass flew loose with each strike, but the blows lacked precision. Slash, parry, thrust.
Gethii's instructions echoed in his head, the cadence of discipline, though his movements had not yet earned grace. He lunged forward, shifting his weight just as he'd been taught—but the effort felt clunky, forced. The stick bent too much with every swing, betraying his inexperience. His body was youthful and eager, but his limbs lagged behind the choreography he imagined.
Sweat trickled down his temple, carving lines through the fine layer of red dust coating his skin. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth, dry bark, and the faint perfume of crushed herbs drifting from the clinic's open windows. A lizard darted across the training patch, pausing briefly to blink at Leonotis before vanishing beneath a rock.
He struck again. Harder this time. A burst of effort that he hoped would trigger a surge of power. But the tingle of ase that should have accompanied the movement—the subtle flicker of something ancient and strong—was barely there. A whisper, a taunt.
His shoulders slumped. He dropped the stick to his side and let out a sigh, long and low, as the promise of strength once again slipped through his fingers. His ase felt like a nearly dry well—there, but just out of reach.
The village sounds carried on around him. A woman called out to her sons to fetch water from the spring. The rhythmic thump of pestles in mortars pulsed like a heartbeat from nearby courtyards. A cow lowed, somewhere near the western ridge, where the grass was greener and the herders let their animals graze under the watch of sleepy dogs.
Leonotis closed his eyes and recalled Gethii's patient voice: *Feel the wind move with you. Don't push it. Draw it.* He inhaled, feet spread shoulder-width apart, knees bent. He could almost hear Gethii's footsteps circling him like a hawk, correcting his stance with the soft tap of a wooden staff.
He focused on a swaying branch across the yard.
"Inhale. Hold the breath at the base," he murmured to himself. The air filled his lungs, his muscles coiling like springs. He raised his arm, then slashed downward, shouting, "Air strike!"
Nothing.
No shift in the wind. No stirring dust. Not even the curious tilt of a nearby bird's head.
He stood there, breathless, the only movement the slight sag of his shoulders.
Another sigh. This one smaller. More tired.
The sun had climbed higher now, and the dusty courtyard shimmered in its glare. A solitary beetle trudged across the cracked ground, undisturbed by Leonotis's failed magic or the world's indifference. With a groan, he let the stick fall to the earth. It landed with a soft thud, scattering more dust. Then he collapsed backward, arms flung out, eyes aimed skyward.
The clouds drifted lazily across the blue, unconcerned with the boy's ambitions. Overhead, red-billed hawks circled in the heat, riding invisible currents. A bee buzzed past his ear.
Then—
A shadow moved across the sky.
Leonotis sat up abruptly, blinking against the light. There—soaring between two hills, high above the tallest trees—was a giant bird. Its wings beat slowly, majestically, each stroke stirring the wind like the sails of an old ship. Suspended beneath it, tethered by glowing rope and swaying slightly in the air, was a large, ornate carriage—its lacquered sides painted with shimmering gold symbols, its glass windows catching the sunlight like fragments of starfire.
He stared, mouth agape. The weariness vanished. Even his frustration with his faltering magic evaporated in the face of such wonder.
Someone important was coming to Idara village. And for reasons he could not yet name, Leonotis knew this was not a passing visit. This—whatever it was—was the beginning of something.
"Leonotis, inside now!" Chinakah called from the clinic doorway. "Leonotis, wait upstairs," she added as he entered.
The massive bird-drawn carriage landed with a gentle thud on the packed earth in front of Leonotis's old family home—a modest compound nestled beneath towering ebony trees whose roots coiled like sleeping serpents. The afternoon sun gilded the scene with warm gold, illuminating the ornate carvings and burnished metalwork that adorned the carriage. The giant bird pulling it, with feathers that shimmered like molten bronze and deep emerald, flexed its massive wings before settling down, eyes sharp and alert.
Two figures emerged from the carriage's shadow: one broad-shouldered and muscular, moving with the calm assurance of a seasoned warrior; the other slight and angular, his movements precise and almost serpentine. Both wore long black coats embroidered with the insignia of a Black Crown—a symbol of the kingdom's elite enforcers and the secretive inner circle of King Rega's court.
Chinakah, the caretaker and steadfast guardian of Leonotis's home, hurried forward with practiced grace. Her dark eyes flicked toward the insignia, recognition and unease crossing her face. Without hesitation, she offered them earthenware cups filled with cool water and honey—a gesture of hospitality and tentative goodwill. The men declined without a word, their gazes scanning the compound like predators assessing their territory.
Upstairs, Leonotis pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the majestic bird and the enigmatic men below. He traced the glint of sunlight dancing on the creature's feathers and imagined the untold tales it must carry. He wondered if Gethii, his absent mentor, had ever ridden such a beast during his countless adventures—perhaps soaring over war-torn landscapes or skirting the jagged peaks of the Shadow Mountains. More than anything, Leonotis pondered the true purpose of the black-coated visitors. What business did they have here, in this forgotten corner of Idara Village?
He strained to catch their words as Chinakah spoke softly, but the conversation was muffled and distant. Then, suddenly, Chinakah's eyes snapped upward toward the window, her expression sharp and urgent. Get out of sight, her gaze implored.
But fate was cruel. One of the men's eyes locked onto Leonotis immediately, and with a measured nod, he pointed at the boy.
"Come down, Leonotis," Chinakah called, her voice taut with unspoken tension.