The royal compound smelled of dust, leather, and tension.
Malik — Sundiata now — walked slowly through the corridor, forcing his body to match the confidence he did not yet fully feel. Servants lowered their eyes as he passed, but warriors watched him carefully.
Not loyalty.
Measurement.
They were deciding whether he would live long enough to rule.
Good, he thought.
That meant the situation was honest.
Outside, drums beat three slow strikes — the signal for council assembly.
A guard leaned close. "My prince… the chiefs argue already."
"Of course they do," Sundiata replied calmly.
If they were united, I would already be dead.
He stepped into the council courtyard.
Twelve chiefs sat beneath stretched animal hides forming a circle of authority older than the kingdom itself. Gold ornaments glittered under the sun; spears rested within easy reach.
No throne stood at the center.
That alone told him everything.
Power here was negotiated, not commanded.
Chief Bakar of the Western Riders spoke first.
"The boy lives," he announced bluntly. "Good. Then we decide who truly rules."
Murmurs of agreement followed.
No one bowed.
Perfect, Malik thought. Now I know the battlefield.
He walked into the center and remained standing.
Silence spread gradually — not from respect, but curiosity.
"You called council," said an elder. "Speak quickly. The borders burn."
Malik surveyed them one by one, memorizing faces, posture, alliances.
Three hostile.Four uncertain.Two opportunists.Three waiting to follow whoever wins.
Same as every political body in history.
"You believe this kingdom is dying," he said.
No greeting. No ritual.
Shock flickered across several faces.
Bakar snorted. "We know it is dying."
"Yes," Malik said simply. "Because none of you rule it."
Angry voices rose instantly.
He raised a hand.
"You rule tribes. You rule warriors. You rule cattle."
He let the words settle.
"But no one rules food."
Confusion replaced anger.
Good. Disruption achieved.
Malik continued.
"The granaries are empty in the north. Caravan raids have doubled. Soldiers abandon posts after campaigns because they owe loyalty to chiefs, not the crown."
He pointed toward the horizon.
"You argue over authority while famine prepares to crown itself king."
Silence deepened.
He had their attention now — not emotionally, but intellectually.
Chief Nala narrowed her eyes. "You speak like an old man, not a prince."
"I remember what happens next," he answered quietly.
Not a lie. Not entirely truth.
Bakar leaned forward. "And what do you propose, boy?"
Here it was.
First irreversible move.
Malik inhaled slowly.
"From this day," he said, "grain belongs first to the kingdom."
The courtyard erupted.
Outrage. Laughter. Shouting.
He allowed chaos to grow before speaking again.
"I am not taking your harvest," he said sharply. "I am preventing your extinction."
He turned toward the guards.
"Bring the maps."
A rolled hide was spread across the ground — trade routes, rivers, settlements roughly marked.
The chiefs leaned closer despite themselves.
Hook set.
Malik knelt.
"These routes," he said, tracing lines with his finger, "carry gold north."
Another line.
"These carry salt south."
Then he tapped empty regions.
"And here… people starve between them."
Understanding began dawning.
Trade existed.
Coordination did not.
"If grain moves like gold," he said, "no clan starves. No warrior deserts. No chief loses strength."
Nala spoke carefully. "You want centralized storage."
"Yes."
Bakar laughed. "And who controls it? You?"
Malik met his gaze.
"No. The law."
That confused them more than anything else he had said.
Perfect.
Because law was an alien weapon here.
A faint shimmer appeared before Malik's vision.
CIVILIZATION INTERFACE
Decision Detected: Central Grain Authority
Projected Outcomes:
Short-term unrest: HIGH
Famine risk reduction: 63%
Political centralization begins
Warning:
Elite resistance probability — 78%
He ignored the warning.
Risk was unavoidable.
He stood.
"You fear losing power," he said calmly. "But famine will take more from you than I ever could."
He let silence stretch until discomfort forced attention back to him.
"Support this reform," he finished, "and your tribes grow stronger."
His voice hardened slightly.
"Oppose it… and history will remember you as the chiefs who killed their own kingdom."
The wind moved through the courtyard.
No one spoke.
The first crack in the old world had appeared.
Finally, Chief Nala rose slowly.
"If the prince lies," she said, "we remove him."
She placed her spear upright — a symbol of conditional support.
One by one, others followed.
Not loyalty.
Acceptance of a gamble.
Bakar hesitated last, eyes cold.
Then he planted his spear as well.
"For now," he muttered.
Malik allowed himself a single internal breath of relief.
Step one complete.
The kingdom had not yet been saved.
But for the first time, it had chosen direction over habit.
And direction was how empires began