The morning sun hit Zeila like a spear of gold. From the deck of his flagship, Kafi watched the coastline stretch out in a crescent of sand, stone, and stubborn pride. This place wasn't just a city. It was a gateway, the northern throat of the Somali coast, a crossroads for merchants who came from Arabia, Persia, India and, occasionally, fools who sailed too far from the Mediterranean.
Zeila had history. It had poets, traders, fishermen, and enough stubborn clans to make any diplomat cry. And today, it had something else: the heir of the Ajuuran Empire with a plan that would either make him legendary or get him stabbed in his sleep.
Kafi stood with his arms crossed behind his back, trying to look older than eleven. His robes were clean, simple, and royal. His hair was tied back. And his eyes, sharp and calculating, carried centuries of ambition he didn't dare speak aloud.
Behind him, the newly built ships bobbed in the water. Bigger than any dhow in the region. Faster than most European vessels. Built exactly how he designed them using memories nobody else in this world had. Memories that made him dangerous. Memories that he guarded the way normal people guarded their last piece of bread.
General Mukhtar stepped up beside him. "Young Sultan," he said, bowing slightly. "The elders of Zeila are waiting. They want to know your terms."
"They'll like the terms," Kafi answered. "They just don't know it yet."
Mukhtar blinked. "That's... confident."
"It's not confidence," Kafi muttered. "It's necessity."
He walked off the deck and onto the pier, flanked by his guards. The streets of Zeila bustled with activity: market stalls overflowing with fish, incense, pottery, and cloth. Locals shouted prices. Children darted between legs. Camels groaned in the heat. Frankincense burned somewhere, drifting through the air like a whisper of holiness.
Inside the council hall, the city elders waited. Gray-bearded men in embroidered robes. Clan leaders with sharp eyes. Merchants who smelled like sea salt and stubbornness.
One elder stood. "You come with ships. Soldiers. Intentions we do not yet understand," he said. "Why has the heir of the Ajuuran Empire come here?"
Kafi took a breath. His voice came out steady. "Zeila belongs to Somalia. To Africans. To our people. It has always been ours, but others have used it more than we have."
Murmurs rippled across the room.
He continued. "The world is changing. The Ottomans are strong. The Europeans are hungry. Arabia wants control of the waters. If we do nothing, outsiders will shape our future."
Kafi stepped forward. "But if we act now, together, we shape it ourselves."
One merchant squinted at him. "And what do you propose? We are a trading city, not a war kingdom."
"Trade is exactly why I'm here," Kafi said. "I have ships. I have goods. Frankincense. Coffee. Cotton. Spices. And soon, more. But to reach the Gulf of Aden safely, to connect with the Ottomans directly, we need Zeila unified under the Ajuuran banner. Protected. Organized. Strengthened."
Mukhtar crossed his arms, watching the elders carefully.
Kafi raised his chin slightly. "In return, Zeila will become the jewel of East Africa. The heart of our trade routes. The first city in a rising African sphere that no foreign empire will dare underestimate."
The room fell silent.
Then the oldest elder, leaning heavily on his carved staff, spoke. "You are young."
"I don't have time to stay young," Kafi replied.
The elder stared at him long and hard. Then nodded. "Then take Zeila. But protect it better than anyone before you."
A wave of approval spread through the hall. Not loud. Not dramatic. But certain.
Outside, the people gathered as news spread: Zeila was now part of the Ajuuran Empire.
Kafi walked onto the balcony, looking over the port. The Gulf of Aden glittered before him like a promise.
From here, Ottoman ships passed through on their way to Asia. From here, the empire could speak with giants and not be ignored.
Zeila was just step one.
Behind the calm expression on his face, Kafi's mind raced with plans.
Ethiopia.
The Swahili Coast.
The Red Sea.
If Africa was to rise, it needed someone to drag it up with both hands.
And, apparently, that someone was an eleven‑year‑old with too many secrets and not enough patience