The secret garden existed in a place most citizens of Ankh would never see—hidden behind walls within walls, accessible only to those who knew the ancient pathways through the capital's oldest quarter. Here, where the air itself seemed heavy with meaning, nine wooden chairs sat arranged in a perfect circle beneath a canopy of flowering acacias.
Water flowed through carefully carved channels, creating patterns that were both random and deliberate—the chaos of nature guided by human intention into something approaching art. Stone sculptures depicting the great teachers of old stood silent witness at the cardinal points, their weathered faces seeming to watch with eternal patience.
When the elder meeting signal rang—a specific pattern of temple bells that carried across the city—those who understood its meaning dropped everything and came.
Elder Tam arrived first, his plump figure moving with surprising haste through the garden paths despite his obvious discomfort. Sweat poured down his face, and his breathing came in great gasping wheezes that suggested a man who'd spent more time managing accounts than managing his health. He collapsed into his designated chair with relief that bordered on theatrical.
"This better be important," he muttered to no one in particular, fanning himself with one meaty hand. "I abandoned crucial trade negotiations for this. The silk merchants from Ace Kingdom won't be pleased."
Others arrived in quick succession, each bringing their own energy to the gathering space.
Elder Yeso came next—a man whose squared head seemed too large for his body, giving him a top-heavy appearance that made his movements seem perpetually off-balance. But his eyes held the fervent light of true belief, and when he sat, it was with the careful precision of someone accustomed to ritual and ceremony.
Elder Joh stomped in like a small storm given human form. The dwarf's grey hair bristled in all directions as if it too shared his perpetual state of agitation. His hands, though small, were scarred and calloused from years of working with stone and wood—the hands of someone who'd built as much as he'd designed. He threw himself into his chair with enough force to make it creak in protest.
"About time," he grumbled. "Some of us have actual work to do."
Elder Ramon entered with the bearing of a man who'd spent his life preparing for violence. Tall, robust, built like the warriors he commanded, he moved with economical grace that suggested every motion served a purpose. His eyes swept the garden automatically, assessing entries and exits, potential threats and advantages. Old habits from decades of military service.
Elder Odili was the youngest of the nine, and her presence still drew surprised looks from those who forgot that wisdom didn't always come with wrinkles. Her green eyes—unusual in Ankh, suggesting ancestry from distant lands—held intelligence sharp enough to cut. She wore her youth like armor, daring anyone to dismiss her based on age alone.
The others filtered in: Elder Koffi, whose specialty in agriculture had kept Ankh fed through three droughts; Elder Nsia, the merchant whose trade networks spanned three kingdoms; Elder Badu, the physician whose knowledge of herbs and healing had saved countless lives; and Elder Ama, the scholar whose library held texts dating back to the founding of Nubia itself.
Nine elders. Nine domains. Nine voices that together guided Ankh Kingdom when the throne could not.
They settled into their chairs, the comfortable silence of people who'd worked together long enough to not need constant chatter. Some poured water from the communal pitchers. Others adjusted their robes or wiped sweat from their brows. All waited.
Because the tenth chair—positioned slightly elevated from the others—remained empty.
Then he arrived.
Steward Zogo moved through the garden like shadow given substance. He was darker than charcoal, his skin gleaming in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the acacia leaves. Tall—impossibly tall, towering over even Ramon's considerable height—he wore a crimson textile tied at his waist in the traditional style, leaving his muscular chest bare to the elements.
But it wasn't his physical presence that commanded the space, impressive though it was. It was something else—something in the way he moved, the way he held silence like a weapon, the way his eyes seemed to see not just what you showed but what you hid.
Mystery surrounded him. Authority radiated from him. When Steward Zogo spoke, even kings listened.
He crossed his lengthy arms behind his back and stood at the center of the circle, his gaze moving from face to face with careful deliberation.
"Why did you gather us today, Steward Zogo?" Tam finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. "I abandoned crucial duties for this talk. It better be important."
The complaint hung in the air, and several elders shifted uncomfortably. One didn't complain to Steward Zogo—not unless one was very brave or very foolish. Sometimes both.
But Zogo's expression didn't change. If he took offense, his face gave no indication.
"You will understand the importance shortly," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "First, tell me how activities in the kingdom fare." His gaze fixed on Tam with the intensity of a hawk spotting prey. "The economy. How does it stand?"
Tam cleared his throat, his earlier irritation forgotten under that penetrating stare.
"Cough! Cough! Hmm, our economy is... it's great, actually. Better than great. The people lack nothing—food is abundant, trade is thriving, local businesses are booming. The people are happy, peace reigns over our lands..." He nodded to himself, warming to the subject. "Our kingdom is in an excellent state."
"Correct," Zogo acknowledged. He turned to the square-headed man beside Tam. "And you, Yeso? How goes the spiritual health of our people?"
Yeso straightened in his chair, pride evident in his posture.
"Ah! Perfect, perfect. The people respect and glorify Ra with proper devotion. Furthermore, they follow the three principles of Ma'at—truth, justice, and harmony. Crime is at its lowest point in a decade, while spiritual enlightenment reaches new heights each season." His fervent eyes gleamed. "The ancestors smile upon Ankh, Steward. Of this, I am certain."
The calm and collected Steward nodded, seeming satisfied with these reports. He walked slowly to the empty tenth chair and sat with graceful economy of movement, his crimson textile pooling around him like blood on marble.
"Good news indeed," he said. Then, with the casual tone of someone mentioning the weather: "We received a letter of threat from Gold Land."
The effect was immediate and electric.
"What?" Joh's voice cracked like a whip. "A threat? Are they mad?"
Silent whispers erupted around the circle, elders leaning toward each other in shocked discussion. Anger welled up visibly—in reddening faces, in clenched fists, in eyes that blazed with insult.
"We have to retaliate!" Joh barked, his small frame practically vibrating with rage. "Who do they think they are? Do they believe Ankh is weak? That we can be threatened without consequence?"
He was on his feet now, his grey hair seeming to bristle even more fiercely. His hands gestured wildly as he spoke, decades of hot temper overriding whatever diplomatic restraint he might have once possessed.
"Calm down, brother Joh," Tam said, though his own expression showed worry. "We know nothing about why they sent this letter. There could be—"
"What do you mean, calm down?" Joh rounded on him, eyes blazing. "They think of us as an easy target! Do you want to be walked on like dirt beneath their golden sandals?"
Tam's face flushed. "How dare you suggest—"
"I suggest nothing! I state facts! Gold Land believes they can threaten us because people like you have made us soft!"
The two elders went back and forth, their voices growing louder with each exchange. Veins bulged on necks and temples. Other elders watched with expressions ranging from concern to barely concealed amusement—apparently this was not the first time Tam and Joh had clashed.
Then, cutting through the rising cacophony like a blade through silk:
"Shhh."
It was barely more than a whisper, but both arguing elders froze mid-sentence. The garden fell silent so completely that the trickling water sounded loud in the sudden quiet.
Steward Zogo hadn't moved from his chair. His expression remained calm, almost serene. But something in that single sound—in the quality of silence that followed it—reminded everyone present exactly who held true authority in this circle.
"I have yet to disclose their motive," Zogo said, his voice carrying effortless authority despite its measured tone. "Why all the ruckus?"
Tam and Joh sat down quickly, properly chastened. They knew his methods. Everyone in Ankh who'd risen to positions of influence knew what happened to those who pushed Steward Zogo's patience too far.
"Ostensibly," Zogo continued, as if the outburst had never occurred, "Princess Reloua of Gold Land is being held captive by us. They've given us three weeks to escort her back safely, or else conflict will arise."
The silence that followed was different—not shocked silence, but the heavy silence of people processing information with serious implications.
"Oh!" Odili's green eyes widened with sudden understanding. "That explains why she wasn't at the inter-kingdom convention a week ago. There were whispers she'd taken ill, but if she truly disappeared..."
"That is impossible!" Ramon's voice cut across hers, sharp with certainty. "I would have known if a Gold Land princess was present in our kingdom. My intelligence network covers every major city, every port, every border crossing. A foreign royal couldn't enter or disappear without my knowledge."
Chatters erupted again, but this time with different energy—less anger, more confusion. The elders leaned forward in their chairs, engaging in rapid discussion as they tried to make sense of contradictory information.
"It's a fabricated lie," Joh announced, his hands gesturing emphatically. "An excuse to initiate war. Don't be fooled by this transparent ploy."
"They can't lie about such a thing," Tam countered, their earlier argument apparently forgotten. "A princess doesn't just disappear. For them to act this outrageously, to send a formal threat, she must actually be missing."
"She did disappear," Steward Zogo said, cutting through their speculation with the weight of certainty. "This much is confirmed through our own sources. However..."
He paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully, his eyes closing as he processed information through frameworks of logic and intuition.
"However," he continued, "the chances of our citizens being responsible is effectively zero. From Tam's report, our people lack nothing. They wouldn't risk their peace and prosperity for a kidnapping's uncertain rewards. From Yeso's report, Ra is respected and the principles of Ma'at are followed. This means our citizens are living righteously."
His eyes opened with absolute clarity.
"Either she had an accident in the wilderness—unlikely given that princesses travel with substantial guards—or she was attacked by her own people. Perhaps as part of an internal power struggle that seeks to use her disappearance as pretext for war."
The words fell like stones into still water, and the ripples of implication spread through every elder's mind. It made horrible, perfect sense.
"What do you propose we do, Steward?" Odili asked, her young voice steady despite the weight of the situation.
"Our goal is not war," he said simply. "Being hot-tempered is foolish." He glanced at Joh. "Ramon—order your subordinates to search for the princess in every corner of our land. If she is here, we find her. If she is not, we have evidence to present."
Ramon stood immediately, saluting. "Yes, Steward. I will carry out this task at once."
"In the meantime, I will send word to King Donkeu that his daughter is not held captive by us. If he accepts this in good faith, the situation resolves peacefully."
"And if he doesn't?" Nsia asked quietly.
Something cold flickered in Zogo's eyes.
"If he insists, if he acts with violence based on lies..." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "Then we retaliate. With everything we have."
Every elder understood. Ankh didn't have infinite wealth or massive armies. But they had something deeper—spiritual power, ancient knowledge, and the will to defend what was theirs.
"The meeting is concluded," Zogo said, rising. "You are free to return to your duties."
He walked from the garden, his crimson textile disappearing into shadows.
The elders sat in silence.
"War," Tam said quietly. "We might actually be going to war."
"Not if the Steward can prevent it," Odili said, though even her optimism sounded strained.
"Can anyone prevent it?" Yeso wondered aloud. "If the ancestors have decreed that blood must water Nubia's soil..."
He left the thought unfinished.
One by one, the elders departed, leaving the secret garden to its flowers and flowing water and ancient stone witnesses.
And in the silence they left behind, if one listened carefully, one might have heard something like a sigh from the old teacher statues—as if they'd seen this pattern before, in other kingdoms, in other times.
As if they knew how rarely wisdom prevailed when pride and fear were given voice.
The garden waited, beautiful and terrible in its patience.
It would still be here when the blood came.
It always was.