The throne room of Mura was a monument to conquest.
Massive stone pillars stretched toward the ceiling, carved with the names of battles won and enemies crushed. Banners hung from the walls—blood-red and sun-gold—each one bearing the sigil of the Great Bakar's victories. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of incense and iron, as though the room itself remembered every warrior who had knelt here, every oath sworn, every head that had rolled across its stone floor.
At the center of it all sat King Bakar.
He did not sit like other kings—draped in silk, surrounded by advisors, lounging in false comfort. No. Bakar sat like a mountain. Unmoving. Unyielding. His massive frame filled the throne as though it had been carved specifically for him, and his presence pressed down on the room like a physical weight.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, fixed on the doors at the far end of the hall.
And then they opened.
Rachid entered slowly, his movements measured and careful. He was dressed in fine robes—deep crimson with golden embroidery—but they hung on him awkwardly, as though he had never quite grown into the expectation they represented.
He was tall, lean, his face sharp and intelligent. But there was no strength in his stride. No warrior's confidence. He moved like a scholar forced to play the role of a prince.
And Bakar despised him for it.
The disappointment was not new. It had been carved into the king's expression since the day Rachid failed to awaken the warrior's instinct that every son of Mura was supposed to inherit. Every generation of Bakar's bloodline had produced warriors—men who could break bones with their bare hands, who could command the battlefield with presence alone, who walked the Warrior Route as naturally as breathing.
But Rachid?
Rachid was weak.
Not in mind. Bakar would admit that much. The boy was clever. Perhaps too clever. But cleverness did not win wars. Cleverness did not crush enemies. Cleverness did not carry the weight of a legacy forged in blood and fire.
And so, every time Bakar looked at his son, he saw failure.
Rachid stopped ten paces from the throne and clapped his hands three times—sharp, deliberate sounds that echoed through the chamber. Then he lowered himself into a deep bow, his forehead nearly touching the floor.
"Your Majesty," Rachid said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. "I present myself before you."
Bakar did not acknowledge the bow immediately. He let the silence stretch, let it press down on his son like a hand around the throat.
Finally, he spoke.
"Do you know why I summoned you?"
His voice was not loud. Bakar never shouted. He did not need to. His words carried the weight of absolute authority, each syllable landing like a hammer on stone.
Rachid straightened slowly, keeping his gaze lowered. "No, Father. I do not."
Bakar's eyes narrowed. "Look at me."
Rachid hesitated, then lifted his gaze. His eyes met his father's, and for a moment, the weight of that stare nearly drove him back down to his knees.
"You are my son," Bakar said, his tone cold and measured. "My blood runs through your veins. The blood of warriors. The blood of conquerors. The blood of those who have bent Nubia to their will for generations."
He leaned forward slightly, his massive hands resting on the arms of the throne.
"And yet, you cannot walk the Warrior Route."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Rachid's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Bakar continued, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "You are eighteen years old. A man grown. And you remain uninitiated."
The emphasis on the word was deliberate. Scathing.
"Do you understand what that means, Rachid? Do you understand what shame that brings to our bloodline?"
Rachid's hands clenched at his sides, but his voice remained steady. "I am aware, Father."
"Are you?" Bakar's eyes burned with something dark and ancient. "Every noble child in Nubia is initiated before the age of thirteen. Some earlier. The fortunate ones—the spirit-children—are born initiated. But you?"
He leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"You are eighteen. And you stand before me as a Disconnected commoner."
The words were a knife to the chest.
Rachid swallowed hard, his pride warring with the truth. "Father, I—"
"You what?" Bakar interrupted, his tone as absolute as a closing door. "You think I do not know why?"
Rachid fell silent.
Bakar's gaze did not waver. "You cannot walk the Warrior Route. Your body is weak. Your instincts are dull. You lack the hunger for battle that every true son of Mura possesses."
He paused, letting the weight of his disappointment settle.
"And because of that, my own spiritual advancement becomes more difficult."
Rachid's eyes widened slightly. "Father?"
Bakar's expression darkened. "You think the mystical paths exist in isolation? You think a father's failures do not weigh on his own progress?"
He gestured toward Rachid with one massive hand. "A bloodline is a chain, boy. Every link must be strong. When one link weakens, the entire chain suffers. Your inability to advance reflects poorly on me. On our ancestors. On every warrior who came before you."
Rachid's fists trembled, but he forced himself to speak. "Then give me another path, Father."
Bakar's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"You have never given me permission to follow another Route," Rachid said, his voice quiet but firm. "You insisted I walk the Warrior Route. But I cannot. I have tried. I have failed. But there are other paths. Other ways to serve."
Silence.
Bakar studied his son for a long moment, his gaze piercing, calculating.
Then, slowly, he nodded.