Dawn had not yet broken, but Do was already awake.The gates stood open, not to welcome, but to let warriors march out.
In the courtyards, the Donso tightened their belts, checked their spears, adjusted their armor, tied their gris-gris charms around their forearms.No one spoke loudly. Everyone already knew.
Ever since Captain Diala had returned from Tièbani the day before, saying:
"They didn't take the city. They erased it."
…no one in Do laughed without reason.
At the base of the Great Tree, Diala stood in full armor, her squad lined up behind her. She was no longer the messenger of disaster. She was the guardian of the north.
Some of her warriors still carried the cinders of Tièbani on their skin and in their eyes. Yet their gazes did not waver. They stared at the horizon like one stares at a debt that must be paid.
Famory walked past them, his hand resting on Sani-ko's hilt. The blade still slept in its sheath, but the Nyama around him vibrated like a beast waking up.
"You stand firm, Captain."
Diala nodded, her eyes still fixed on the north.
"As long as Do stands, I stand."
She paused, then added in a lower voice:
"This time they won't cross ashes. They will cross our bodies."
Famory gave her a faint smile with no joy in it.
"Then we will teach them what it costs to step on a hunter."
Above them, on the stone terrace, Nyangolo placed both hands on the Great Drum.Faama Bamba finally stepped out, draped in his cape, his gaze already lifted toward the north.
He asked nothing. He already knew.
Today there were no speeches.Today, bonds were forged.
He descended from the terrace and walked to the exposed roots of the Great Tree. The ground there seemed to breathe in the open air.
Around him formed the circle of officers:Sambaké, massive as a wall of flesh;Kani Sira, straight-backed, eyes already on the sky;Sirani, calm and tense like a serpent waiting;General Kéba Dioma, jaw clenched;Famory, abyssally composed;Diala, burning with vigilant fire.
Not far away, Djata, Bory, and Nana watched with the delegation from Niani. They were elites sent for alliance, not for war. Their armor was fine, but their numbers were small. They were protectors who had happened to arrive in the middle of a storm.
But destiny had not asked their opinion today.
Bory leaned toward Djata."You feel that?"
Djata frowned slightly. The ground vibrated beneath his sandals, like something stirred within the depths.
"It feels like the earth is afraid," he whispered.
Nana shook her head softly."No. It's waking up."
Faama Bamba lifted his hand. Silence fell instantly, heavy and precise.
"Yesterday, they tried to swallow our memory."
His gaze swept across the assembled Donso, faces carved by sleepless vigilance.
"So today we bind our memory to the earth. Whoever marches against Do will march against its roots."
Nyangolo struck the sacred rhythm: one beat — silence — three beats.
The sound rolled against the trunk, then traveled down into the roots, as if someone were striking the very heart of the kingdom.
The Faama raised his hand, palm open. Nyama motifs drew themselves across his skin, slow and sure.He traced ancient mandingue glyphs of earth in the air.
Not long. Not with effort.With the ease of a man who has done this a thousand times, and who, this time, does it for an entire kingdom.
"Let the Nyama of the living and the dead unite beneath my steps. Let Do cease to be a city and become a single breath."
Under his feet, the roots shivered.
Streams of green and ochre light surged beneath the soil, racing toward the walls, then sliding northward like veins expanding through the land.
The Donso felt warmth rise under their boots. Some looked down, startled to see the ground glow briefly beneath their steps.
Then the earth answered.
A protective dome rose above the city, woven of those same green and ochre hues. It did not look like a solid wall, but like a vast skin of light, breathing with the rhythm of the Great Tree.
The filaments of light spread to the outposts and ran toward the hills, enveloping Donso squads in their living glow.
The Root Network had awakened.
Every hunter felt Nyama circulating inside them, warm and vibrant, connected to the heart of the Faama.Talismans trembled. Breaths aligned without conscious effort.
A silent message inscribed itself into their bodies:
You are not alone.
They became immune to the erasing power of the Shadows.And if they fell… the Faama would know.
Famory nodded slowly.
"This is the true strength of a Faama. The power to connect."
Balla, seated near the Great Tree, plucked three quiet notes on his ngoni.
Nothing exaggerated. Just three notes.But an invisible wave rippled across the city. Soldiers felt their breathing settle, like someone gently adjusting the rhythm of their hearts.
Fear did not vanish.It simply stepped aside.
The jeli's Word harmonized their souls.Do breathed with one heart.
Bory blinked, surprised."It's like someone pulled a blanket over the cold in my head."
Nana allowed herself a faint smile."That's a jeli in wartime. He doesn't sing to make you forget. He sings so you don't break."
Djata watched Balla without blinking.He felt the same calm, but something deeper resonated in him, like an ancient string being touched.
Vespera, under his tunic, quivered for a heartbeat.
A thin voice brushed his thoughts.
"Do not lose this rhythm."
Djata inhaled more deeply.He placed his hand on the sheath for a second, as if answering.
In the north, Donso squads were spreading out gradually.
The root-light pulsed beneath their feet, showing boundaries, paths, and vantage points. Support drums echoed orders from hill to hill, returning patterned signals recognizable from afar.
Diala, at the head of her unit, watched the gray horizon.
"Formation!"
The drums struck the command. The pattern spread across the hills, repeated, amplified, reflected.
The hunters straightened their ranks and struck their chests with a closed fist.
"For Do!"
The cry ran across the landscape like fires lit on distant hills.
Young Arbi, eyes tired but bright with determination, checked the mechanism of his Fanga-Tiri again. Nyama-blue projectiles vibrated in the air, trapped in their firing channels like lightning held in place.
"Captain, the reserves are full!"
Diala nodded, still watching ahead.
"Good. We still don't know what they look like when they arrive… but we know what they'll look like once we hit them. If the shadow advances, let the light pierce it."
She signaled to Arbi.
"One test shot. We don't waste our first cries without knowing how they carry."
Arbi stepped back, took a breath, and anchored his feet firmly into the earth.
"Locked," he whispered as Nyama flickered in his eyes.
The Donso around him slowed their breathing, careful not to disturb the aim.The Root Network pulsed through their legs and shoulders.
Arbi fixed his gaze on a distant rock jutting from the plain like a dark tooth. His Nyama followed.
"Fire!"
The Fanga-Tiri screamed.
A piercing whistle tore through the air, followed by a streak of blue Nyama crossing the distance.The impact shattered the rock with a sharp crack; an incandescent blast wrapped the stone, lifting earth around it.
The ground trembled beneath their feet, as if the shock traveled back through the roots.
A spray of light shot toward the sky like a stolen piece of daylight.
Some Donso let out nervous laughs. Others stared, stunned.
"By the spirits…" someone whispered. "We really built that?"
Diala studied the impact. The rock was no longer the same. Split top to bottom, broken into uneven plates, half collapsed into dust.
She did not smile, but her shoulders eased slightly.
"Perfect," she said.
She turned to her warriors, her voice carrying across the line.
"You saw it. That is what a single breath can do when it knows where to strike. When they come… Do will be ready."
Far to the north, the sky remained gray.But for the first time since Tièbani, fear stepped back.
The drums resumed softly, as if marking that promise.