The change began not with a fanfare, but with a silence. The relentless cycle of drills, runs, and punishments simply ceased. For three days, they were left largely to themselves within the barracks compound. The absence of shouted commands, the lack of the heart-clenching clang of the iron bar at dawn, was itself a kind of disorientation. The silence was a void, and into that void crept a restless, nervous energy. They were like bowsstrings drawn taut for months, suddenly released but still thrumming with latent force.
On the fourth morning, the air was different. It was the day of the new moon, a sliver of absence in the pre-dawn sky, a time for beginnings and endings. Yaa and Adesuwa entered the barracks, but they were not alone. They were accompanied by four senior Mino from the royal guard, their postures impossibly erect, their faces bearing the serene, unassailable authority of veterans who had seen the forge and knew they were perfected steel.
The senior Mino carried not weapons, but folded cloth. The air in the barracks, usually thick with the smell of sleep and sweat, was suddenly filled with the crisp, clean scent of new, densely woven cotton and the faint, astringent aroma of indigo dye.
"Today, you shed the skin of the candidate," Yaa announced, her voice holding a rare, formal gravity. "You will be cleansed. You will be clothed. You will be armed. You will become what you have worked to be."
They were led to the bathing courtyard for the last time. But this was no brutal scrubbing. The senior Mino themselves performed the ritual, their hands firm but not rough, using soft sponges and soap infused with the fragrant oils of shea and moringa. The water was warm, a luxury Nawi had forgotten could exist. It sluiced away the grime of the training yard, the lingering psychic grit of the execution, the dried memory of mud from the ravine. It was a baptism, not into innocence, but into a new identity. The scent of the oils clung to her skin, a pleasant, alien perfume that masked the familiar smells of her own effort and fear.
When they were dry, standing shivering in the cool dawn air, the senior Mino unfolded the cloth.
This was not the coarse, undyed cotton of recruits. This was the uniform of the Mino. A pair of tight, blue-and-white striped trousers that would stop at the knee, and a sleeveless tunic of the same material, cut to allow for maximum movement. The fabric was sturdy, but soft against her scrubbed skin. As Nawi pulled the tunic over her head, she felt a shift. The garment fit her newly honed body perfectly, hugging her shoulders, loose across the back for the draw of a bow or the swing of a blade. It was not just clothing; it was a second skin, the skin of a warrior.
Next came the armor. Not plate or chain, but a form of spiritual and physical fortification. They were given wide, stiff leather belts, tooled with the symbol of the Mino—a stylized razor clam shell, representing both the cutting edge of their weapons and the sacred, hidden nature of their womanhood, now dedicated to war. The leather smelled rich and smoky, and the weight of the belt around her hips was a satisfying anchor.
Then, the senior Mino approached each of them with small pots of pigment. This was the final, irrevocable mark. With meticulous care, they painted their faces and arms. White kaolin clay was applied in sharp, geometric patterns around the eyes, to reduce glare and present a terrifying, skull-like visage to the enemy. Fierce red ochre, the color of blood and earth, was streaked along cheekbones and jawlines. Finally, deep indigo blue, the color of the royal house and the deep, unknowable night, was used to trace symbols of strength and loyalty on their brows and the backs of their hands.
Nawi stood perfectly still as the cool, wet clay was applied by a veteran's steady fingers. She felt the transformation happening not just on her skin, but within. The paint was a mask, but it was also a revelation. The girl from Keti was being painted over, erased by these sacred, warlike colors. She watched as Zevi's face was transformed into a stark mask of ambition and focus, her sharp features made even more severe by the stark white and red. She saw Asu's kind face become a solemn, imposing icon, the gentle strength in her eyes now framed by a message of unyielding power. Even Mosi's cruel beauty was subsumed into something greater, something impersonal and deadly.
They were no longer individuals. They were a sisterhood. A unit. A weapon.
When the painting was done, they were lined up and presented with small, polished metal mirrors.
Nawi looked at her reflection and did not recognize herself. The face that stared back was a stranger's—a fierce, painted specter. Her eyes, the ones that had once observed dragonflies and water spiders, now looked out from a mask of war, hard and knowing. The scar on her cheek from the Thorn Barrier was now just one more line in a tapestry of violence. The uniform, the paint, the set of her own jaw—it was complete. The physical transformation, begun with starvation and pain, honed by the thorn and the knife, was now finalized by cloth and pigment. She was Mino.
But the final, most profound step was yet to come.
They were marched from the bathing courtyard, not to the training ground, but to the Armory, a long, low, heavily guarded building at the heart of the royal precinct. The air here was different from anywhere else in Abomey. It was a dry, metallic atmosphere, filled with the holy scent of oiled steel, seasoned wood, and the ghost of a thousand whetstones. The silence was profound, broken only by the whisper of their bare feet on the hard earth floor.
Along the walls, gleaming in the dim light, were racks of weapons. Spears stood in bristling forests. Bows of supple iroko wood hung in silent curves. But they were led to a central stone dais, upon which lay their final designation.
Commander Nanika stood before the dais. In her hands, she held a long, narrow bundle wrapped in antelope hide. Her eyes, always flinty, now held a blazing, almost religious intensity.
"You have been tested in fire and blood," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the hall. "You have been given a new history, a new song, a new face. Now, you are given your true hands. The hands of a Mino are not for comforting children or kneading dough. They are for holding the power of life and death. Each of you has shown a propensity, a nature that aligns with one of our sacred regiments."
She began to call names.
"Zevi. Your ambition is a sharp point. Your focus is a laser. You see the one target that matters. You are Fanti." A senior guard stepped forward and presented Zevi with a long, beautifully crafted bow and a quiver of arrows fletched with eagle feathers. Zevi took them, her face a mask of triumphant reverence. It was the ultimate validation of her striving.
"Asu. Your strength is in your roots. Your patience is a deep well. You are the unmovable rock upon which waves break. You are Agbarya." Asu was given a heavy, broad-bladed spear and a tall, body-length shield of hardened buffalo hide. She hefted them, her stance widening, becoming an implacable fortress.
"Mosi. Your power is a blunt force. Your cruelty is a hammer. You break what is before you. You are Agbarya as well." Mosi received an identical spear and shield, but she held them with a possessive, aggressive glee, as if they were toys she had long desired.
Then, Nanika's eyes fell on Nawi.
"Nawi." The name hung in the metallic air. "You are a paradox. You are fire and ice. You have a rage that could consume a forest, but you have learned to focus it to a single, needle point. You are stubborn, you are observant, and you are relentless. You do not break your enemy with a shield wall or pierce him from a distance. You get close. You look into his eyes. You are a Reaper."
Nanika unwrapped the antelope hide. Nestled inside were eight knives.
They were not the simple, functional blade she had used in the execution. These were works of art and death. Each was slightly different, but all had the same essential form: a blade about the length of her hand from wrist to fingertip, curving wickedly to a needle-sharp point. The steel was dark, etched with fine, swirling patterns that caught the light like water. The handles were of polished ebony, carved to fit the hand perfectly, inlaid with small, white cowrie shells. They were beautiful, and they were utterly, terrifyingly lethal.
"The Gbeni," Nanika said, picking one up. It seemed to disappear in her hand, becoming an extension of her fist. "The razor of the Reapers. You will carry four on your belt, two on your arms, and two in your hair. Your battlefield is the space between heartbeats. Your work is intimate. You are the final argument in the dark."
She held the bundle out to Nawi.
Nawi reached for them. Her hands, now clean and painted with indigo, did not tremble. As her fingers closed around the cool, smooth ebony of the handles, a jolt, like static, seemed to travel up her arms. The weight was perfect. The balance was exquisite. They felt… right. They were the physical manifestation of the cold, sharp thing she had become. The hatred, the focus, the patience Iyabo had taught her—all of it found its true expression in these eight slivers of polished steel.
She slid four into the sheaths on her leather belt. She strapped two more to her forearms with soft leather bindings. She tucked the final two into the tight knot of her hair. The weight was distributed, a part of her now. She was armed.
The final stage of the ceremony was the Presentation.
They were marched out of the armory, now a full regiment—a line of archers, a phalanx of spears, and Nawi, the sole Reaper of their intake. They moved through the palace grounds, their new uniforms a splash of stark blue-and-white against the red earth, their painted faces turning the heads of every servant and priestess they passed.
They emerged into the Great Parade Ground, a vast, dusty plain before the main gate of the inner palace. And here, the silence of the day was shattered.
Arrayed in perfect, silent ranks were the male army of Dahomey. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Their bodies were oiled and gleaming, their regimental colours flying. They stood at strict attention, their spears pointing skyward like a metallic forest. The air vibrated with their silent, massed presence, the smell of their collective sweat and discipline a stark contrast to the fragrant oils on the Mino.
Commander Nanika led her newly minted warriors to the center of the field, directly before the male generals. The sun was high now, beating down on the painted faces, glinting off the new spearpoints and the dark blades at Nawi's hips. The eyes of the entire male army were upon them. It was an assessment, a judgment.
For a long, heart-stopping moment, there was absolute silence. Nawi could feel the weight of their gaze, a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and ingrained tradition. She stood straight, her shoulders back, her face a frozen mask, her hands resting lightly on the ebony handles of her knives. She met the gaze of a grizzled captain, and she did not look away.
Then, the general of the army, a massive man with a chest full of ivory medals, stepped forward. He looked over the line of young women, his expression unreadable. Then he raised his clenched fist high into the air.
And from a thousand male throats, a roar erupted that seemed to shake the very foundations of Abomey.
"MINO!"
The word was a thunderclap. Our Mothers.
It was not a cheer. It was an acknowledgment. A salute. It was the highest honor the male army could bestow. It was a recognition of their lineage, their sacrifice, their terrifying power. The sound washed over them, a wave of pure, unadulterated respect.
In that moment, something clicked into place for Nawi. The conflict did not vanish. The hatred for the kingdom still smoldered in its sacred hearth. The memory of her mother, of Binta, of Keti, was still a fresh wound. The ghost of the executed boy still walked at her side.
But as the cry of "MINO!" echoed across the parade ground, a different kind of pride surged through her—a cold, hard, defiant pride. It was the pride of the survivor. The pride of the weapon that knows its own sharpness. They had tried to break her, and instead, they had forged her into this. They had given her this uniform, these blades, this fearsome respect. They had handed her the very tools of her revenge and called it a blessing.
She was Nawi of Keti, and she was a Reaper of Dahomey. The two truths were now irreversibly fused, a paradox of identity that was her strength and her prison. The mark of the Mino was upon her, in the paint on her face, the weight of the knives on her hips, and the echoing cry of a thousand soldiers that was now, forever, a part of her story. The transformation was complete. The girl was gone. The warrior stood in her place, ready for war.