I wasn't supposed to be out here.
By all rights, I should've been sitting cross‑legged on the polished stone floor of the palace's back courtyard, reciting historical lineages and religious doctrines under the watchful gaze of Queen Mariam. Instead, I was slipping through the crowded lobby of the Hotel we were staying at with my hood up. My pulse still embarrassingly jumpy from the memory of almost collapsing the palace roof on my classmates almost a week ago.
I needed air. I needed noise. I needed to be somewhere I wasn't a prince, a prodigy, or a potential walking disaster.
So, I went to the marketplace.
Not the polished, diplomatic temples where dignitaries sipped imported wine and pretended to understand our problems. Not the high‑rise district where the wealthy lived in glass towers that touched the clouds. I went to the real city — the one that breathed, laughed, argued, cooked, danced, and lived.
The night market.
Even from a distance, I could hear it: the hum of drones overhead, the chatter of vendors, the rhythmic clatter of pans, the laughter of children weaving between adults. The neon signs flickered in Amharic and English, casting warm colors across the narrow streets. The air smelled like roasted berbere chicken, fried dough, and sweet buna coffee.
I exhaled for what felt like the first time all week.
This was what I needed.
I slipped into the crowd, letting it swallow me whole.
The first thing that hit me was the warmth — not just the temperature, though the grills and steamers certainly contributed. It was the warmth of people. Families huddled around tables, friends teasing each other, vendors calling out with playful competitiveness. Everyone seemed… happy. Not wealthy, not powerful, not extraordinary. Just happy.
A woman with a baby strapped to her back waved me over to her stall.
"Betam k'onijo liji, try this one," she said, handing me a skewer of sizzling meat. Beautiful boy. She said it like she said it to everyone.
I took a bite. The spices exploded across my tongue, and I couldn't help the small smile that crept up.
"Good?" she asked.
"Very," I said, handing her a few birr.
She winked. "Come back if you want more. First one is always the trap."
I laughed — genuinely — and moved on.
At another stall, a group of teenagers were arguing about which club team was better. They dragged me into the debate without hesitation, even though I barely said two words. One of them shoved a cup of spiced tea into my hand. Another slapped my back like we'd known each other for years.
A middle‑aged man selling holographic trinkets insisted I take one for free "because your face looks like it needs it." I didn't know what that meant, but I accepted the tiny floating lion that roared softly when tapped.
An elderly woman sitting on a stool grabbed my wrist as I passed.
"You walk like someone carrying too much," she said, squinting at me. "Eat something sweet. Sweetness helps the heart remember itself."
I didn't know whether to laugh or bow, so I did an awkward combination of both.
Everywhere I turned, people were smiling, talking, living. There were class differences — I wasn't naïve. Some wore old clothes, some wore new ones. Some stalls were high‑tech, others were barely more than a table and a lamp. But no one looked hungry. No one looked desperate. No one looked like the world had forgotten them.
It was… grounding.
Humbling.
And for a moment, I forgot about the palace and the penthouse. I forgot about the way the ceiling had cracked above my classmates' heads. I forgot the horrified look on Queen Mariam's face. I forgot the way my Focus had surged out of control, wild and furious, like it wanted to tear the world apart.
Here, I was just another boy wandering the market.
Or so I thought.
"RAHJAH!"
The voice hit me like a slap. Loud. Familiar. Annoyingly cheerful.
I turned — reluctantly — and there he was.
Cisqo.
Same age as me, maybe a couple inches taller. Skin darker than mine, smooth and unblemished. Clean‑shaven. Short dreads that were clearly in the early stages of locking, the tips twisting in different directions like they had their own personalities. And that smile — that stupid, wide, toothy smile that made him look like he was permanently amused by the world.
Or by me.
He jogged over, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere.
"Look at you!" he said, grabbing my shoulder like we were lifelong friends. "I knew I'd see you again. You move too stiff to stay cooped up with Kai."
I stiffened. "I don't move stiff."
"You do," he said immediately. "Like a soldier pretending to be a civilian."
I glared. He grinned wider.
We met three days ago at a pickup soccer match. I joined at the behest of my cousin, hoping to burn off some energy. He'd been the one who kept teasing me calling me 'dekama boy' even though he didn't know who I was.
Or maybe he did. Hard to tell with him.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"What do you mean? I live here," he said, gesturing around. "This is my kingdom."
He said it with such confidence I almost believed him.
Before I could respond, he clapped his hands together.
"Perfect timing! I'm heading to Adey Abeba Stadium. Western Kingdom vs France. International friendly. You coming?"
I blinked. "Right now?"
"Yes, right now. Unless you have something better to do. Like brooding. Or walking stiffly."
"I don't brood."
"You do," he said again, already turning and motioning for me to follow. "Come on. You'll love it."
I should've said no. I should've gone back to the penthouse. I should've done a lot of things.
Instead, I followed him.
The closer we got to the stadium, the louder the city became. Music blasted from speakers. Vendors sold flags, scarves, and glowing face paint. Kids ran around with inflatable soccer balls. Drones hovered overhead, projecting highlights from past matches onto the sides of buildings.
Cisqo walked like he owned the place.
Every few steps, someone called out to him.
"Cisqo!"
"Eh, my guy!"
"Where you been?"
"Come dance with us later!"
He responded to each one with a joke, a handshake, a hug, or a ridiculous pose. It was like watching a celebrity move through a crowd — except he wasn't famous. Not officially. He was just… loved.
I stayed close, partly because I didn't want to get lost, partly because I was studying him. Trying to understand him. Trying to figure out why he irritated me so much.
Maybe it was because he was everything I didn't allow myself to be — loud, carefree, unburdened.
Maybe it was because he didn't seem intimidated by me at all.
Or maybe it was because he saw through me more easily than most people did.
When we reached the stadium gates, he turned to me with a grin.
"Ready?"
"I've never been to a match in person," I admitted.
He froze. "Never?"
"No."
He stared at me like I'd confessed to never breathing air.
"Oh, we're fixing that tonight," he said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me inside.
The stadium was a living creature.
The moment we stepped into the lower bowl, the roar hit me — thousands of voices chanting, singing, stomping. The pitch glowed under the lights, impossibly green. The players were warming up, moving with a grace and precision that made my chest tighten.
I'd watched games on screens before, but this… this was different.
This was art.
We found our seats just as the national anthem played. The entire stadium rose, hands over hearts, voices unified. Even I felt something stir inside me — pride, belonging, something deeper.
When the whistle blew and the match began, the stadium erupted.
I couldn't look away.
The Western Kingdom team moved like a single organism — passing, sprinting, anticipating each other's movements with uncanny accuracy. France countered with equal skill, their formations tight and disciplined.
I leaned forward, heart pounding.
I could see everything — the angles, the openings, the rhythm of the game. My Focus wasn't active, but my instincts were. I could tell when a player was about to break formation, when a pass would be intercepted, when a shot would miss by inches.
And for a moment — a dangerous, intoxicating moment — I imagined myself down there. Running across the pitch. Feeling the ball at my feet. Hearing the crowd scream my name.
But that wasn't my life.
Not with my birth. Not with my responsibilities. Not with the power inside me that could level a building if I lost control again.
Still… I couldn't stop imagining it.
The first half ended in a scoreless draw, but it felt like the most intense thing I'd ever witnessed.
Cisqo stretched his arms above his head. "Grab a drink?"
I nodded, still dazed.
We walked through the concourse, weaving between fans. I bought a cold drink, mostly to have something to hold. My hands were shaking slightly — from excitement, not fear.
Cisqo leaned against a pillar, watching the crowd.
"You're quiet," he said.
"I'm thinking."
"About the game?"
"About… everything."
He smirked. "Deep."
I rolled my eyes. "I was going to say something earlier."
"About what?"
"About you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Me? What about me?"
I hesitated, then said it.
"You're… well‑liked."
He blinked. "That's what you wanted to say?"
"I mean," I said. "People look up to you. They want to be around you. You make them feel… I don't know. Seen."
For the first time since I'd met him, his smile faded.
He looked away.
"It's the least I can do," he said quietly.
Something in his tone made me straighten.
"What do you mean?"
He shrugged, but it wasn't casual. It was heavy.
"It wasn't always like this," he said. "People didn't always… trust me. Or want me around. I wasn't always someone worth greeting."
I frowned. "What changed?"
He didn't answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
"I decided I wanted to be someone who made life easier for others. Even if it's just by smiling. Or joking. Or being the loudest idiot in the room."
"That's not nothing," I said.
He shook his head. "It feels like nothing. I wish I could do more. Inspire people quietly. Lead without trying. Like you."
I froze.
"Like me?"
"Yeah," he said, looking at me with a strange intensity. "You walk into a room and people straighten up. You don't even try. You just… have it."
I didn't know what to say.
Because I didn't feel like a leader. I felt like an extra..
Before I could respond, he changed the subject.
"Anyway," he said, forcing a grin back onto his face. "About that pickup game. The way you moved? Scoring that winning goal? If you could do that all the time, you'd be down on that pitch right now."
I stiffened.
That goal had been a product of Focus — looking back, that was just my supernatural power bubbling up to the surface. I didn't know it then but now it's painfully obvious. I couldn't tell him that though. I couldn't tell any commoner that.
So, I shrugged. "I got lucky."
He stared at me for a long moment.
"You're lying," he said.
My heart skipped.
"You know, I think we relate more to each other than you think."
I skewed my head, what could he possibly mean by that? I thought he would go deeper but he instead pushed off the pillar.
"Come on," he said. "Second half's starting."
He didn't press the issue.
But he knew.
We watched the second half in silence.
Not awkward silence — comfortable silence. The kind that didn't need filling.
The match intensified. The Western Kingdom scored first — a beautiful curved shot from outside the box that made the stadium explode. France equalized ten minutes later with a header that silenced the crowd for a heartbeat before the chanting resumed.
The final whistle blew with the score tied 1–1.
It didn't matter.
The energy was electric. People hugged strangers. Flags waved. Music blasted. The stadium felt like the center of the world.
Cisqo and I walked out together, letting the crowd carry us.
Outside the stadium, the night air was cooler. Quieter. The festivities were still going, but the intensity had mellowed.
We stopped where started, in the middle of the still lively market.
"Welp," Cisqo said, stretching his arms out wide. "This was fun."
"It was," I admitted.
He looked at me — really looked at me — and his expression softened.
"I don't know why," he said slowly, "but I feel like I can be honest with you. Like I don't have to be… Mr. Sociable. Or the guy everyone expects."
I swallowed.
"I feel the same," I said before I could stop myself.
He smiled — not the big toothy grin, but a small, genuine one.
"Let's hang out again," he said. "Here. Or anywhere. You have iContact?"
I hesitated only a second before taping my forehead and activating my share feature.
He typed his info in and stepped away.
"See you around, Rahjah."
"See you, Cisqo."
He disappeared into the crowd.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the marketplace as a whole.
Then I turned and headed back toward the penthouse, my mind buzzing with everything I'd seen, everything I'd felt, everything I'd learned.
Tonight, I wasn't a prince. I wasn't a weapon. I wasn't a mistake.
I was just a boy in a city full of life.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.