The first hint of dawn was not a colour, but a chill. It seeped through the high, arched window of my bedchamber, a silken cold that found its way past the heavy drapes and the suffocating warmth of my downy blankets. I was already awake, my body thrumming with a restless energy that made the luxurious bed feel like a cage. The palace was a tomb at this hour, silent but for the distant, rhythmic tread of the guards on the night watch—a sound as predictable and dull as the drip of water on stone.
I moved with a silence born of long practice. The gown of silver-threaded silk from the night's endless banquet was a puddle on the floor, abandoned for the simple, sturdy linen tunic and leather breeches I kept hidden behind a false panel in the wall. The fabric was rough, familiar, a second skin that my real skin had been craving. Pulling on soft-soled boots, I strapped the leather vambraces to my forearms, the weight of them a comfort. Then, my hands found her.
She was leaning in the shadowed corner, a length of polished ashwood, seven feet of perfect balance. My spear. Her name was a breath in my mind: Zalika. 'The Fierce One'. The early light caught the oiled sheen of her shaft and the dull grey of the practice blade at her tip—blunt, but with a weight that could still crack a rib. To hold her was to feel the pieces of my soul click back into place.
The route to the old courtyard was a ghost's path, one I'd carved through years of evasion. Down the servants' stair, its stone steps worn smooth and cool beneath my feet, through the silent, cavernous kitchens that smelled of yesterday's bread and cold ashes, and out into the cloistered walkway open to the sky. Here, the air was different. It was no longer the still, perfumed air of the inner chambers, but alive with the scent of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and the coming day.
The training yard was my cathedral. The high walls, streaked with moss and old scars from forgotten drills, enclosed a space of hard-packed earth. Wooden practice dummies, their bodies gouged and splintered, stood like silent sentinels. And in the centre, waiting, was Captain Adem.
He was a mountain of a man, his head shaved clean, his dark, serious face a roadmap of old battles. In his full regalia, he was an imposing figure of authority. Here, in a simple leather jerkin, he was something else entirely: my sparring partner.
"Princess," he greeted, his voice a low gravel in the stillness. He held his own practice sword, a heavy, blunt thing.
"Captain," I nodded, falling into the ready stance without a word. The formalities were a waste of breath. This was our ritual.
The world narrowed. The distant, fading stars, the pale lemon light bleeding into the indigo sky, the soft coo of a waking dove—it all fell away. There was only the feel of the earth under my boots, the grip of the ashwood in my hands, and the man standing twenty paces away.
He moved first, as he always did. A testing lunge, powerful and direct. It was the move of a soldier, meant to overwhelm. I didn't meet it. I flowed around it, the shaft of my spear a spinning extension of my will. The thwack of wood on wood was a sharp, satisfying report that echoed off the walls. I let his momentum carry him forward, using his own strength against him, guiding him past me with a deft twist of Zalika.
He grunted, pivoted, and came again. A horizontal sweep aimed at my ribs. I dropped, the air hissing where the sword had passed, and swept my spear low. He leapt back, but not before the tip grazed his shin. A flicker of respect in his eyes. This was our language. Not the simpering pleasantries of the court, but the honest conversation of combat.
He pressed his attack, and I gave ground, not in retreat, but like a river parting around a rock. My spear was a whirlwind of defence, a circle of impenetrable wood. Block, parry, deflect. The impacts travelled up the shaft and into my bones, a percussion I felt in my teeth. This was real. This was the algebra of force and angle my grandfather had taught me, brought to vivid, breathing life.
I saw an opening. A tiny over-commitment in his stance, his left foot planted a fraction too heavily. My body reacted before my mind could form the thought. I feinted high, and as he raised his sword to block, I reversed my grip, dropped, and swept his legs out from under him with the butt of the spear.
He hit the ground with a heavy thud and a explosive oof of air. In the same fluid motion, I was on him, the blunt point of my spear hovering a hair's breadth from his throat.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, pluming in the chill air. The sky above was now a soft lavender, illuminating the sweat on his brow and the dust on my tunic.
A slow smile spread across his face, genuine and unguarded. "Yield," he rasped.
I stepped back, offering a hand to pull him to his feet. He took it, his grip calloused and strong. "You left your flank open," I said, the thrill of the fight still coursing through me, making my voice bright. "You always do when you commit to the overhead strike."
"And you are the only one fast enough to exploit it, my lady," he replied, brushing the dirt from his jerkin. There was no shame in his voice, only a warrior's acknowledgment of a superior skill. "Your grandfather would be proud. The 'Unrivaled Spear Princess' indeed."
The name, spoken aloud here in my sanctuary, sent a shiver of pure, undiluted joy through me. This was who I was. Not the ornament in silk, but the weapon in linen.
The sound was so alien it took me a second to recognize it. The sharp, disapproving click of a tongue.
The energy in the courtyard shattered.
We both turned. Standing in the arched entrance to the walkway was my mother, Queen Bakwa.
She was a vision of composed fury, backlit by the growing dawn so she appeared as a silhouette of absolute authority. She was already dressed for the day in a gown of deep, royal blue, embroidered with threads of gold that caught the early light. Her hair was an intricate crown of braids, not a single strand out of place. A veil of finest gossamer floated from her headdress, a symbol of her grace and remove. She smelled of rosewater and cold authority.
The scent of the training yard—sweat, leather, damp earth—suddenly felt vulgar in her presence.
"Captain Adem," her voice was like ice cracking on a winter pond. "You are dismissed."
Adem shot me a look of profound sympathy, then bowed stiffly. "Your Majesty." He retrieved his sword and retreated, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the tense silence. I was alone.
My mother did not move from the archway. Her eyes, the same shade of brown as mine but hardened by a lifetime of rule, scanned me from head to toe. They took in the dishevelled hair plastered to my damp forehead, the dusty tunic, the functional, ugly breeches, the vambraces, and finally, the spear still held loosely in my hand. Her gaze was a physical pressure, stripping away the warrior and finding only the disappointing daughter beneath.
"Must I be subjected to this spectacle, Amina?" she began, her voice dangerously quiet. "Must the Queen of Zaria, before the sun has even properly risen, witness her firstborn, her heir, rolling in the dirt like a common… mercenary?"
The word hung in the air, laced with contempt. I tightened my grip on Zalika, the familiar grain of the wood my only anchor.
"I was not rolling in the dirt, Mother," I said, my own voice tighter than I intended. "I was training."
"Training!" The word exploded from her, sharp and short. "For what? To lead a charge? To guard a gate? Is that the destiny I bore you for? Is that the future your father and I have spent sixteen years building for you?"
She took a step forward, and the rosewater scent grew stronger, cloying. "Look at you. You are sixteen years old. The daughters of other kings are composing poetry, mastering the lute, learning the delicate art of diplomacy. They are preparing for a dance at dusk with a potential ally, a marriage that will secure a border or broker peace."
She gestured with a perfectly manicured hand, a flick of the wrist that encompassed all the soft, civilized things I despised. "And you? You are here, at dawn, engaged in a… a duel. Sweating, grunting, fighting. It is unbecoming. It is un-royal."
The heat of the fight had faded, leaving a cold, hard knot in my stomach. "Grandfather said—"
"Do not speak to me of your grandfather!" she snapped, her composure fracturing for a single, revealing instant. "He filled your head with romantic notions of battle and will. He is not here, Amina. He is not the one who has to present a civilized, stable kingdom to our neighbours. They do not see a 'lioness'. They see a wild, undisciplined girl who prefers a spear to a sceptre. They whisper that the House of Bakwa is producing barbarians, not queens."
Her words were like arrows, each one finding its mark. I felt the ember of my grandfather's prophecy, the warm weight of his belief in me, grow cold under her disdain.
"This," she said, her eyes locking onto the spear in my hand as if it were a venomous snake, "this is not your nature. It is a distraction. A rebellion. Your nature is to rule. Your duty is to your people, and that duty is performed in the council chamber, not the courtyard."
"How can I protect my people if I cannot even hold a weapon?" I shot back, my voice rising. "How can I be their shield if I am soft?"
"Protection is not about brute force!" she retorted, her own voice rising to meet mine. "It is about wisdom! Alliances! Trade! A well-negotiated treaty saves more lives than a thousand skilled spears. A strong economy is a better fortress than any wall. You think like a soldier, Amina, and I need you to think like a queen."
She closed the distance between us now, her presence overwhelming. She did not touch me, but her gaze held me pinned. "The world is not a map in your grandfather's dusty room. It is a web of delicate silks, and you are blundering through it in combat boots. You will put that… thing… away." Her eyes flicked to Zalika. "You will bathe. You will attire yourself in a manner befitting your station. You will join me in the Sun Chamber to receive the emissaries from Kano, and you will listen, and you will learn. The time for these childish games is over."
For a long moment, we stood locked in a silent battle of wills. The scent of her rosewater fought with the smell of my sweat. The perfect order of her gown mocked the disarray of my tunic. The weight of a thousand expectations pressed down on me, threatening to crush the lioness inside.
Slowly, my knuckles white, I lowered the spear. The fight was over. I had lost.
Without another word, Queen Bakwa turned, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone floor, and walked back into the palace, leaving me alone in the courtyard as the sun finally broke over the walls.
The light was warm now, but I felt only cold. I looked down at Zalika, my Fierce One. She felt heavy, not like a part of me, but like a burden. The echoes of the duel were gone, replaced by the echoing silence of my mother's decree. A duel at dawn was my freedom, my truth. But the dance at dusk, with all its hidden steps and suffocating rules, was my duty. And as the heir to Zaria, duty, it seemed, was a cage with no key.