Dawn crawled slowly over Do, gilding the stone roofs and the surrounding hills. The light didn't strike; it brushed gently, as if afraid to disturb the kingdom's measure.
Under the veranda of the Riverside House, Famory was already awake. He wasn't sharpening a weapon, but a silence. His grey eyes followed a bird cutting through the sky, and with every flap of its wings, the air seemed to align itself with his breathing.
Below, a few young Donso were training. One of them tried to channel his Nyama into a short spear; the light bent, ricocheted off a stone, and faded instantly.
Famory didn't speak. He only tilted his head slightly, and that gesture alone silenced the clumsy ones.
"Nyama isn't a fire," he murmured calmly. "It's a rhythm."
Everyone fell quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Djata stepped out from the training hut.
Vespera, still sheathed in its leather casing, rested on a small stone altar a little aside. He bowed to it, not like one greets a weapon, but like one respects a presence.
Balla, sitting on a low wall, tuned his ngoni casually.
"You didn't sleep, did you?" he asked without looking up.
"I tried," Djata replied. "But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the blade."
"And what was it doing?"
"Nothing. It was looking at me."
Famory finally lifted his gaze.
"That's already much. A Totem weapon doesn't speak; it measures."
The three of them left the city a moment later, followed by the curious eyes of the apprentice hunters.
People whispered:
"The son of Niani… Famory is taking him himself?"
Rumors in Do traveled fast, but never faster than the wind.
They took a steep path winding up toward the southern hills. The sound of drums faded behind them, replaced by the wind slipping through tall grass.
"Why is Do built so high?" Djata asked.
Famory answered without turning:
"Because here, we learn to see before acting. A hunter who only looks at the tracks often forgets the shadow of the wind."
Their walk ended on a broad plateau swept by the breeze. In its center stood a massive kapok tree, its twisted roots forming steps toward the sky.
Famory planted his staff in the ground.
"Here begins your first step."
Balla settled a little farther away, ngoni resting on his knees, ready to translate the heartbeat of the world.
Famory placed the leather sheath before Djata. Vespera seemed to absorb part of the light around it.
"Take it."
"You said it was supposed to come to me."
"And it will. But it must first know the temperature of your blood."
Djata gripped the hilt.
The contact was icy, almost painful. A current surged up his arm, sharp and sudden, like an invisible bite.
He flinched. The blade vibrated with a crisp, dry sound, closer to judgment than music.
Famory didn't move.
"What did you feel?"
"That it wanted to push me away."
"No. It recognized you. But it found your step too fast. Nyama cannot stand impatience."
Balla plucked three slow notes. The sound stretched into the air, then vanished, swallowed by the wind.
Famory continued:
"Close your eyes. Breathe. Let your Nyama flow into the blade like water into the earth.
If you force it, you'll break it. If you hold back, you'll lose yourself. Find the middle."
Djata obeyed.
The blade's cold shifted to warmth, then to heat without burning. His breathing steadied, and something opened inside him — not power, but listening.
He felt the flow pass from his palm to his chest, then to his injured leg. Where pain had built its wall, the warmth settled.
And suddenly, the blade vibrated.
Vespera's golden lines lit up one by one, forming filaments pulsing at the same pace as his heartbeat.
An image formed in his mind: a lion walking through a plain of ashes without leaving prints, each step drawing a road of light.
Famory nodded.
"You heard it. Now listen to yourself."
Before Djata could answer, a rumble rose from the ground.
Not thunder. A breath.
The grass bent, and a shape appeared: a leopard of ash, made of emptiness and glowing dust.
Around the plateau, young Donso who had followed them in secret froze in fear.
One whispered:
"A Nyama beast… living."
Famory raised a hand, and silence fell instantly. Even the wind stopped moving.
"Don't move, Djata. It's not attacking. It's testing you."
The beast approached, its breath making the golden lines on the blade tremble.
Djata felt fear, but also measure. He slowly placed Vespera on the ground, point toward the earth.
"When water becomes clear, it reflects the sky," he murmured to himself.
The ash leopard paused, then rested its forehead against the blade. A vibration passed between them — neither fire nor ice, only truth.
Then the beast dissolved, carried away by a gentle wind.
Famory knelt, palm to the ground.
"The blade's first step.
You didn't try to win.You learned to let your strength breathe.
That is how one carries a Totem."
Balla plucked a single pure note. The world seemed to hold its breath before turning again.
Time in Do wasn't counted in seasons, but in heartbeats.
Three years passed.
Three years where the sun rose on the same hills, but never on the same Djata.
In the mornings he followed Famory to the plateaus: steps, footing, blade angles, breathing. They made him run through tall grass with the blade sheathed, until his legs trembled but his breath stayed steady.
"A hunter who pants," Famory said, "offers his throat before his weapon."
In the afternoons he trained in the courtyards of the Riverside House, facing older Donso — wooden blades at first, steel later.
Blows whistled, splinters flew, and every mistake earned him another bruise.
At night, he listened to Balla.
The jeli wasn't teaching him only to hear; he taught him to feel when silence weighed more than a cry, when one breath hid another.
"If you want to strike true," Balla said, "you must know where the world lies."
Vespera changed too.
At first, it was just a heavy blade he had to tame. Then it became… present.
Sometimes, while Djata repeated a sequence, a thought appeared among his own:
"Your front foot is too impatient."
Or:
"If you breathe like that, you won't cut anything but yourself."
He would turn around, thinking someone had spoken. The courtyard stayed empty, save for rustling leaves and distant drums.
"You heard that?" he once asked Balla.
"I heard that you're finally asking the right questions," the jeli replied.
Then one evening, as the sun slipped behind the walls, everything changed.
Djata was alone on a terrace overlooking Do. The stones were warm with the memory of the day.
He had just finished a sequence with Vespera, sweat soaking his clothes, yet his breath was steady.
He sheathed the blade… and felt something stir beside him.
Exactly at shoulder height.
He turned sharply.
A small figure floated there, at arm's length.
Not an animal. Not a spirit. A fine, luminous humanoid shape, no bigger than his open hand, draped in a veil of golden light that unfolded gently.
Its features were delicate, almost androgynous, its eyes deep gold streaked with molten metal. Thin geometric markings crossed its cheeks like engravings of light.
The presence emitted no warmth, only the sensation of contained sharpness, like a blade still in its sheath.
Djata jumped.
"BY THE SPIRITS, WHAT IS THAT?!"
He stumbled back, hands raised.
The figure tilted its head.
"You are loud."
The voice was clear, ageless. Not in his mind this time — it vibrated in the air.
Djata looked around.
"Hey! Do you see this?!"
Below, two apprentice Donso looked up.
"Who are you talking to?" one called.
"No one!" the other laughed. "The heir of Niani is starting to chat with the clouds."
The golden figure sighed.
"They don't see me. They don't hear me. Stop yelling like a butchered rooster."
Djata froze.
"So… it was you speaking in my head all this time?"
The figure crossed its arms — or something like arms.
"I wasn't 'speaking.' I was correcting. It was necessary. Your feet were an embarrassment to your leg."
"…"
Djata stared.
"And now you show up like it's normal?!"
"It's not 'normal.' Your bond has progressed enough for my Manifestation to take form. That's all."
"Your what?"
The figure stared patiently.
"My totemic Manifestation. The way your Totem appears when the bond stops being an accident… and becomes a choice."
Djata opened his mouth, then closed it.
Below, the apprentices kept glancing up.
"He's really talking to himself…"
"Maybe that's just how people from Niani are."
The Manifestation floated right to Djata's face.
"Listen carefully. To them, there is only a boy on a terrace, waving at nothing.
I am visible and audible only to you. Because you chose me. And because I measured you."
"Measured?"
"Remember what your grey-eyed hunter says?
'A Totem weapon does not speak, it measures.'
I am that measure. I speak when needed. Only to you."
Djata swallowed.
"So… if I talk out loud again, they'll all think I'm crazy."
"Exactly. You learn quickly. Use your mouth when you're alone. Use your thoughts when others are present."
He focused, frowning.
"Like this?"
The golden figure blinked.
"Better. This tone is tolerable. You used to think too loudly."
Djata laughed despite himself. Something inside him finally clicked.
"So your name is still Vespera? Or do you have another form-name or something?"
"Vespera is enough. I do not need more. You are the one who will need naming one day."
"Naming how?"
The Manifestation looked toward the northern horizon, where the sky was already darkening.
"That is not mine to say. I am the blade. You are the beat. We shall see how far you can strike without breaking."
A shiver ran down Djata's spine. Not fear. Promise.
"So… you're staying with me like this?"
"As long as you hold me with measure, yes. As long as you do not lie to what you are, even more.
Remember: a Totem weapon is not for grand gestures. It is to remind the world where it must stand."
The Manifestation drifted back, then dissolved into a thin shimmer of light that returned to the invisible thread of Vespera.
The blade vibrated at his hip, a single heartbeat.
Djata remained alone on the terrace, looking north.
The wind rising from the hills no longer smelled the same. Beyond the horizon, something was already darkening.
Balla appeared at the edge of the terrace, as if stepping out of an shadow.
"Who were you talking to earlier?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.
Djata hesitated, then answered simply:
"To what helps me not lose myself."
Balla nodded gently.
"Then keep listening. Because sooner or later… the world will try to un-tune you."
He plucked a brief, clear note.
Below, the city kept living. Above, a young heir of the Mandé had taken, for real, his first step with the blade.
And far to the north, though Do did not know it yet, something had already begun to walk in the night.