The blood of Gbeka had dried to a brittle, brown crust on their uniforms, a gritty testament to their victory. The return to Abomey had been met with a respect that was no longer ceremonial, but earned. The male soldiers they passed no longer looked at them with curious assessment, but with a frank, professional acknowledgment. They had been tested in fire and had not melted. They were Mino, not in name, but in deed.
The following days were a whirlwind of aftermath. There were weapons to clean until they gleamed, minor wounds to be treated with stinging poultices, and the relentless, comforting routine of the compound to re-establish. The shared experience of the raid had fused their unit into a single, cohesive entity. Even Mosi's casual cruelty was now tempered by a grudging recognition that the woman beside her in the shield wall was the reason she was still breathing. They moved with a new, unspoken synchronicity, their communication reduced to glances and subtle shifts in posture.
Nawi moved through it all in a haze. The cold clarity of the battle had shattered, leaving behind a tangled knot of pride, shame, and a gnawing, unsettling confusion. She had been effective. Brilliant, even. The veteran Reapers had clapped her on the shoulder, their normally impassive faces showing a flicker of approval. But the memory of the surrendering man's face, of her own raised knife, of Nanika's sharp command, played over and over in her mind. The rage that had fueled her was now a banked fire, but it smoldered, dangerous and unpredictable.
Three days after their return, the summons came. It was not from Yaa or Adesuwa, but from a senior aide to Commander Nanika, a woman whose bearing was so rigid she seemed carved from stone. She entered the barracks as they were mending their gear, the air thick with the smell of leather oil and thread.
"The Leopard King has taken notice of your unit's performance at Gbeka," the aide announced, her voice crisp and formal. "You are granted the distinction of attending the Grand Council this evening. You will be silent observers. You will bear witness to the machinery of the kingdom you serve. Prepare yourselves."
A stunned silence followed her departure. Then, a nervous, excited energy filled the barracks. To attend the Grand Council was an honor usually reserved for seasoned commanders and veteran regiments. It was a sign of immense favor, a signal that they were being groomed for something greater than mere line soldiers.
Zevi's eyes shone with a blazing, almost feverish light. This was the recognition she had craved, the ultimate validation of her worth. "The Grand Council," she breathed, her fingers tracing the edge of her bow. "We will see the strategies planned. We will hear the arguments of the generals."
Mosi puffed out her chest. "They will see the faces of those who secure their victories."
Even Asu looked intrigued, a thoughtful expression on her face. "To see how the decisions are made… it is a great responsibility."
Nawi alone felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The machinery of the kingdom. That was precisely what frightened her. She had been a cog in that machinery at Gbeka, a sharp, spinning cog that had sliced through flesh and bone. Now, she was being invited to look at the great engine itself.
That evening, they were prepared not for war, but for ceremony. They washed again, this time using water scented with crushed lavender. They were given fresh, unworn uniforms, the blue and white stripes vibrant and stark. Their faces were painted, but with more subtle, ceremonial patterns—delicate white lines around their eyes, a single red stripe across their cheekbones. They were to be presentable, impressive, but not intimidating. They were artifacts of the kingdom's power, being brought in for display.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of violet and gold, they were led by Nanika herself through parts of the royal palace Nawi had never seen. They moved past courtyards where sacred parrots preened in silkwood trees, through halls whose walls were adorned not with weapons, but with intricate tapestries depicting the history of Dahomey. The air here was different. It smelled of beeswax polish, slow-burning sandalwood incense, and a dry, papery scent that spoke of scrolls and treaties.
They arrived at a set of massive, carved mahogany doors, inlaid with brass symbols of the leopard and the razor clam. Two towering Mino of the royal guard stood motionless on either side. At a nod from Nanika, the doors were swung inward without a sound.
The Grand Council chamber stole the breath from Nawi's lungs.
It was vast, its ceiling supported by towering columns of dark, polished wood. The walls were covered in the same brilliant bas-reliefs as the palace exterior, telling stories of conquest and kingship that seemed to move in the flickering light of dozens of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling. The floor was of smooth, cool terracotta tile. The air was heavy, still, and thick with the scent of the lamps, the sandalwood, and another, more potent aroma: the smell of power.
In the center of the room was a great, U-shaped table made of a single, colossal slab of ebony. Seated around it were the most powerful people in Dahomey.
Nawi's eyes, trained to observe, took in everything at once. On the right side sat the male generals. They were older men, their bodies thick with muscle and privilege, their faces set in lines of authority and ambition. They wore ceremonial robes of vibrant kente cloth and glinted with gold and ivory jewelry. They were the Hawks. She could see it in their posture, in the aggressive set of their jaws, in the way their hands rested on the table like coiled weapons. They smelled of palm wine, expensive oil, and a faint, sharp scent of barely suppressed impatience.
On the left side sat the Mino leadership. Commander Nanika took her seat among them. These women, while just as formidable, carried their power differently. Their postures were just as rigid, but it was the rigidity of a drawn bow, not a clenched fist. Their faces were calm, their eyes watchful and analytical. They wore their formal uniforms, their only jewelry the simple, significant ivory bracelets and elephant tusk necklaces of their rank. They were the Doves. The term was not one of peace, but of a different kind of strategy—the strategy of the patient hunter, not the charging bull.
At the head of the table, in a throne-like chair carved with leaping leopards, sat a man who could only be the Viceroy, representing the absent King Ghezo. He was a large man, with a thoughtful, heavy-lidded gaze that missed nothing.
Nawi and her unit were directed to a row of low stools along the wall, behind the Mino commanders. They were to be seen, but not heard. Spectators in the theater of empire.
The Council was already in session. A male general, his voice a booming baritone that filled the chamber, was speaking.
"—the Oyo are weakened! Their internal disputes have left their northern flank exposed like a rotten fruit. We must press the advantage! A full-scale campaign into the Yoruba lands before the rains come. We can seize their grain stores, their forge-works. We can break their spine for a generation!" He slammed a heavy fist on the ebony table for emphasis, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
A murmur of agreement rumbled through the Hawks.
Then, a Mino commander, an woman with a face as serene and impenetrable as a deep lake, spoke. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the rumble with the precision of a Gbeni knife.
"General Kondo's passion is commendable," she began, her tone dry. "But a full-scale campaign is a thirsty beast. It drinks men, it drinks grain, it drinks powder. The Oyo spine may be cracked, but it is not broken. To march deep into their territory would stretch our supply lines to the snapping point. We would be fighting not just their warriors, but hunger, disease, and a hostile land. The cost could cripple us, even in victory."
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning the male generals. "I propose instead a series of targeted raids, led by the Mino. We strike their supply caravans, their isolated villages, their sacred groves. We bleed them slowly, demoralize them, make the cost of defiance so high they sue for peace on our terms. It is cheaper. It is smarter. It is the way of the leopard, not the rampaging elephant."
A debate erupted, a complex, terrifying dance of rhetoric and power. The Hawks argued for overwhelming force, for glory, for the decisive, masculine blow that would expand the empire's borders. The Doves argued for economy, for patience, for the strategic, surgical application of power that preserved Dahomey's strength.
Nawi listened, her mind reeling. This was a world away from the simple, brutal calculus of the training yard or the raw chaos of the raid. This was war refined into an intellectual exercise. These people were moving wooden blocks on a map that represented living, breathing villages like Gbeka—like Keti. They spoke of "casualties" and "resource allocation," not of blood-soaked dust and the sound of a man gurgling his last breath.
She saw Zevi leaning forward, enthralled, drinking in every word, her mind clearly racing to follow the strategic arguments. Mosi looked bored, her interest peaking only when the talk turned to direct combat. Asu listened with a deep frown of concentration, her practical mind grappling with the logistics of supply lines and grain stores.
But Nawi felt overwhelmed. The scale of it was suffocating. Her revenge, her personal war, was a tiny, insignificant spark next to this continent-spanning conflagration they were debating. She had thought the Mino were the sharpest tooth of the leopard. Now she saw they were also its brain, its cunning, arguing against the brute strength of its own body.
The Viceroy listened to it all, his expression unreadable, occasionally asking a sharp, clarifying question that silenced both sides.
The debate swung to the recent action at Gbeka.
"The success of the new intake at Gbeka proves the efficacy of our training," General Kondo said, gesturing vaguely towards where Nawi and the others sat. "They are sharp, aggressive. We should leverage this new blood. Assign them to the vanguard of the push into Oyo territory!"
Commander Nanika turned her head slightly, her flinty gaze sweeping over her new warriors before returning to the General. "The new intake performed adequately because the target was appropriate to their skills. To throw them into a major campaign would be to waste the resources we have invested in them. They are sharp tools, General, not blunt instruments. They require a master's hand, not a lumberjack's."
Her words were a defense, but they also felt like a possession. Her tools. Her resources.
The Viceroy finally spoke, his voice a low, weary rumble. "The campaign into Oyo lands is approved… in principle." A wave of triumph passed over the Hawks' faces. "But it will be conducted as Commander Nanika suggests. A series of targeted, simultaneous strikes by the Mino, designed to cripple their logistics and morale. The main army will be held in reserve, to be deployed only if a decisive opportunity presents itself. We will be the leopard, General. We will stalk, we will wound, we will wait for the moment to sink our teeth into the throat."
The decision was made. The Doves had won. The Hawks acquiesced, though the air simmered with their discontent.
As the Council moved on to other matters—tax collection, temple offerings, the price of salt—Nawi sat in a daze. She had come in expecting to see a plan for vengeance, a map to her own personal war. Instead, she had seen a cold, calculating machine that used vengeance as a fuel, a machine in which she was a well-oiled, highly valued part.
She had a seat at the table, but it was at the very back of the room. She could see the mechanisms of power, but she had no hand on the levers. The rage that had defined her felt small and childish in this room of grand, dispassionate strategy. She had wanted to break the machine, but the machine was so vast, so complex, so deeply embedded in the very fabric of this world, that the thought of challenging it now seemed ludicrous.
When they were finally dismissed and filed out back into the warm, night air, the sounds of the city felt jarringly normal. The debate in the council chamber echoed in her mind, a cacophony of conflicting truths.
Zevi was buzzing with excitement. "Did you hear the scope of it? The entire Oyo frontier!"
Mosi shrugged."Talk. I care about the fighting."
Asu was quiet,then said, "They think of everything. The food, the roads… it is… immense."
Nawi said nothing. She looked up at the stars, the same stars that had shone over Keti. The path of the warrior had seemed so clear: train, fight, kill, get closer to the center of power, and then… what?
Now, she had seen the center of power. It was not a single villain to be slain. It was a room full of people, some cruel, some cautious, all making decisions that shaped the fate of thousands. And she was now, unquestionably, one of their instruments.
The seat at the table had not brought clarity. It had only revealed the terrifying, immense scale of the table itself. She was a Reaper of Dahomey, honored and respected. And she had never felt more trapped, or more uncertain of who she was becoming.