MURA KINGDOM - THE IMPERIAL PALACE
Huge. Magnificent. Ancestral. Luxurious. Imperial.
These were the words the citizens of Mura used to describe the abode of their king, though in truth, no words could quite capture the raw presence of the place. At the extreme north of Gazaiah, the capital state of Mura, Great King Bakar's Imperial Palace rose like a monument to power itself—not the soft, golden power of wealth like Gold Land possessed, but something harder, darker, more ancient.
The palace had housed eighteen generations of kings, and the weight of all those years seemed to press down on the very stones like a physical force. It covered a hundred hectares containing the keep, the dungeons, ancestral shrines, the Royal Hall, and countless other structures necessary for running a kingdom built on iron and blood.
And everywhere—surrounding it all like silent sentinels—stood eighteen giant sculptures erected around the palace grounds. They were crafted from bronze, silver, and gold, each one depicting a king who'd ruled Mura in ages past. Some stood proud and tall, others sat in contemplation, still others were frozen mid-battle with weapons raised high. They were eye-dazzling in their craftsmanship, but there was something unsettling about them too—the way they seemed to watch, to judge, to remember.
The gray antique stone walls surrounding the palace were carved with scribbles recounting the kingdom's history—victories won, treaties signed, enemies crushed, legends born. These stories were made open to the public once every six months during the royal exposition, when commoners could walk among the sculptures and read the tales of kings and feel small beneath the weight of history.
But today was not a day for commoners.
Today, the palace grounds thrummed with tension like a drum skin stretched too tight.
Aflutter and agitation reigned throughout the castle as people busily paced up and down the royal grounds, expressions of doubt, worry, anger, and apprehension etched on their faces. The decree announced by the king two days prior had created the foulest atmosphere ever experienced within these ancient walls—and these walls had seen civil wars, assassinations, and plagues.
Servants whispered in corners. Ministers argued in hushed tones. Guards gripped their weapons a little tighter than usual. Even the air itself seemed charged with the electricity of impending storm.
War was coming.
Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. The only question was when, and with whom, and how much blood would water Nubia's soil before it was done.
In stark contrast to the tense atmosphere surrounding the castle and its tenants was the relaxed and joyous humor of ten-year-old Princess Sol.
She hummed a folkloric tune while happily dancing around the royal garden, wielding a wooden sword that she swung through the air with more enthusiasm than technique. Her movements were graceless and childish, but there was something endearing about her complete absorption in her play. Her dark eyes sparkled with innocent joy. Her laughter rang out like bells.
She was, quite simply, beautiful in the way that only children could be—before the world taught them fear, before politics corrupted innocence, before they learned that smiles could be weapons.
The modest crowd present in the garden couldn't help but watch her with expressions ranging from fondness to melancholy. In a palace preparing for war, her joy felt like something precious and fragile—a flower blooming in winter, beautiful because it shouldn't exist at all.
"What a fine young lady," a sickly thin elderly man said, smiling despite himself. "She will flourish to be the most beautiful and charming flower of our kingdom."
Minister Azam was a man who'd learned to survive in Bakar's court by reading moods and speaking carefully. His fawning look was practiced, his tone perfectly calibrated as he glanced at the figure standing beside him.
That figure did not respond immediately.
King Bakar stood unmoving like a mountain, unfazed by the words spoken. He was seven feet tall—a giant who towered over lesser men, making even the tallest warriors look like children beside him. His muscular torso was exposed to the scorching sun, revealing a body that looked carved from some dark metal rather than flesh. Dark hair covered his chest. His shoulder-length braids were dyed red and hung like serpents around his face.
His brown skin gleamed like armor in the sunlight, seeming to repel rather than absorb the light. And from him—from his very pores—came the stench of blood. Not fresh blood, but old blood. The accumulated scent of violence done so often it had soaked into his being like wine into wood.
He resembled something from myth. A bear given human form. A war god who'd decided to walk among mortals for reasons of his own.
His gaze was sharper than any blade, and when those eyes fixed on you, you felt them pierce through skin and bone to examine your very soul. His aura made brave men hesitate and cowards flee. Even ghosts, it was whispered, shivered at his sight.
He was the mightiest, wisest, and strongest man in the kingdom. He was the king of Mura, who had ruled for the last twelve years and brought the imperial army to its highest might. Under his reign, Mura had become a military power that made other kingdoms nervous.
In his presence, few dared to speak carelessly. Most chose silence over the risk of saying something that might displease him.
Minister Azam waited, his fawning smile growing slightly strained as the silence stretched.
Finally, King Bakar spoke.
"Beautiful, indeed." His voice was indifferent but imposing, resonating through the garden like distant thunder. "Yet not apt."
Minister Azam's smile faltered. "Wherefore, sir King?"
"To lead an army. What else?" Bakar's gaze shifted to the minister, and Azam felt it like a physical weight pressing against his chest. "Am I in the fog, Minister? Or are you questioning my judgment?"
A stressed expression appeared on Azam's face. He bowed quickly, deeply. "No, sir King. I don't dare say that. I would never question—"
"Then be silent."
Azam straightened but said nothing more, his previous smile completely vanished. He stood there like a statue, not daring even to shift his weight.
King Bakar was feared by most men in the kingdom, and with good reason. He ruled with an iron hand and believed it to be the most effective method of governance. In the past, he'd resorted to extreme approaches to build loyalty in his servants—approaches that involved dungeons and screams and lessons learned too late to matter.
In foreign kingdoms, he was considered tyrannical. A blood-thirsty vampire who drank the life from his own people. Diplomats spoke of him in hushed, fearful tones. Other kings used him as a cautionary tale for their heirs.
But Bakar paid no heed to such words. Let them call him monster. Let them fear him. Fear was respect wearing a different mask, and respect kept kingdoms strong.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
The sound of ritualized clapping rang through the princess's garden as a servant approached, his body hunched forward in the required posture of absolute submission. He moved quickly but carefully, eyes fixed on the ground, never rising high enough to meet the king's gaze.
"Important letter for the mighty king!" he announced, his voice trembling slightly.
Sol's attendant—a middle-aged woman who'd served the royal family for decades—stepped forward to retrieve the letter from the servant's outstretched hands. The servant kept his head bowed throughout the exchange.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
The servant backed away, still hunched, still clapping the ritual pattern, until he was far enough to turn and hurry away without giving offense.
The gesture was common in Mura—required, in fact. Whenever in the presence of the king, from servants to government officials, one performed the clapping ritual. It was a sign of submission, of recognition that you existed only because the king allowed it.
Some called it degrading. Bakar called it necessary.
The attendant handed the sealed letter to the king. Bakar opened it with one hand—a casual motion that belied the strength required to tear the wax seal—and read its contents.
His expression changed. Subtly, but those who knew him could read the shift—a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tension in the jaw, something that might have been satisfaction or might have been hunger flickering across his features.
"Anything wrong, sir King?" Azam asked, having noticed the change despite his best efforts not to stare.
"Nothing much." Bakar folded the letter with deliberate care. "I will ride at dusk to meet Tora. Notify the royal escort."
Tora. The warlord. The general who commanded Mura's eastern legions and had ambitions that matched Bakar's own appetite for expansion.
If Bakar was riding to meet Tora personally, it meant war plans were accelerating. It meant the storm everyone felt building was about to break.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
Minister Azam bowed and exited the private garden, moving as quickly as dignity allowed. He had preparations to make. Messages to send. And perhaps, if he was wise, prayers to offer to whatever gods might still listen to men who served monsters.
Great King Bakar stood alone in the garden—save for his daughter, who continued her innocent play, unaware that her father was about to paint Nubia red with other people's blood.
He watched Sol dance with her wooden sword, and for just a moment, something almost like tenderness crossed his brutal features.
Then it was gone, replaced by the iron mask he wore like a second skin.
War was coming.
And Bakar would make sure Mura emerged from it stronger than ever, no matter how many kingdoms had to burn to achieve it.