Guests spilled through the castle gates in waves of gold, vibrant bazin textiles, and heavily armed escorts. Golden banners floated lazily in the Istan breeze, their royal crests glittering under the sun.
Waving at the escort was a bald, robust man who casually scanned the arriving crowd, easily identifying most of the visitors. The frail yet handsome man could only be Rachid, accompanied by his two sisters, Dariane and Sol, who sat elegantly, their curious gazes wandering across the scenery.
At the head of the escort rode a bare-chested giant with snake-like red braids. The bald man identified him effortlessly—none other than the King of Mura.
"Long time no see, Tora. Always as nonchalant as ever," the giant dismounted his stunning horse and headed towards Tora with a warm grin. "Are you not excited to meet an old friend?"
The two men hugged dearly.
"Nothing exciting about seeing you," Tora said, breaking the hug with a smirk. Rachid and his sisters bowed to Tora, showing their respect.
Tora looked at the children and chuckled. "They've all grown so much. Time sure flies."
He hadn't seen them in five years. They had blossomed into beautiful young royals.
"Let's head to the Main Hall. You must all be fatigued from the journey. I ordered the servants to prepare a banquet just for you."
Together they walked towards the Main Hall—Tora, the king, and his children—followed by members of the royal escort.
Inside the hall, the powerful and uplifting sounds of Djembe drums and Balafon rang through the air. Vibing to the sound were youths painted blue from head to toe. Half their frames remained hidden beneath panther silk robes, creating a stunning contrast against their azure skin. A mesmerizing blend of colors unfolded across the hall.
Sol stayed rooted on the spot, mesmerized. Having spent most of her time isolated in her garden training with the sword or buried in history books, she had never experienced such a sight. Rachid remained stoic, unimpressed by the display. Dariane, however, smiled mischievously, her eyes lingering on the delicate men dancing to the beat.
"Let us all take a seat and enjoy," Tora invited.
The hall was uniformly decorated—square dinner tables made of bamboo spread across the lounge, stacked high with meat, sweet potatoes, cassava, fish, and palm oil. The sheer abundance could feed a village of fifty for three days.
Tora and his guests each chose a seat. The moment they settled in, the music stopped.
Tora stood up elegantly. "My house is your house. My food is your food. My life is in your hands. That is why you and your descendants are forever at home in Ista. Those were the words I swore in the past." He raised his muscled arm, a calabash of red wine in hand. "To the King!"
"To the King!!" The hall echoed, everyone downing their drinks.
Music erupted again.
"Brother! Brother!" Sol's sweet voice called out as she tugged on Rachid's sleeve for attention. "Who is Tora? Is he Father's friend?" she whispered innocently.
"He was once Father's enemy but is now the only person Father acknowledges," Rachid muttered with a smile, gently squeezing her hand. "Why do you ask? Want to marry him?"
Sol puffed her cheeks in protest, then aggressively devoured her food, abandoning all manners befitting a princess. Rachid chuckled—his sister always lifted his spirits. He doted on her more than anything, even more than his own life.
At the tip of the main table, King Bakar and Tora engaged in serious conversation.
"Your Grace! Surely you didn't travel all this way just to spend time here. What is it I need to know?" Tora asked knowingly.
"You guessed it," Bakar smirked. "I received a letter recently that sparked my interest. For our plan to advance smoothly, everything must be perfect." He paused, locking eyes with Tora. "You should already know why I'm here."
"To inspect our military forces?" Tora asked.
"Exactly." Bakar nodded. "I hope you've prepared accordingly."
"I have. Combats were organized in the arena. They'll commence after the banquet," Tora confirmed. "Your Grace, I'm no soothsayer. I can't read your mind. Why do you insist on testing me, when I've already sworn loyalty?"
"I trust you. That's why you're in charge of the elite army." Bakar chewed his meat thoughtfully. "I expect my general to be capable of understanding the big picture without needing every detail explained." He quaffed his calabash of red wine. "Someone unable to do that isn't fit to be a general."
Bakar appeared calm and detached, but his words shook Tora. If I hadn't guessed, would I still be standing here?
"At the end of the banquet, let's have some fun at the arena," Bakar said with a sly grin.
---
The arena overflowed with people—from toddlers to grandmothers. Cries of excitement, joy, and frustration filled the air as fighters engaged in fierce battles. Warriors poured heart and soul into each fight, hoping to impress the king himself.
Maybe if I do well, I'll get promoted. Maybe I'll meet the king. Such thoughts drove the fighters as they entered the spotlight.
One warrior's hopes crumbled after sustaining a brutal chest injury. Ink-red blood dribbled from his mouth as he sprawled across the dirt, pupils wide with disbelief.
"BOOOooo!! BOOOOOoo!" The disappointed crowd jeered, venting their frustration. The failed warrior was dragged away.
"Warrior So's power is immense! He easily crushed his opponent!" shouted a short, skinny man with gray hair. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the final confrontation! Introducing two great soldiers whose strength surpasses that of ordinary men! On stage: Warrior Boh and Warrior Jon!"
The arena erupted in cheers.
Two tall, muscular, and intimidating dark-skinned men emerged from the lower stands, each followed by a crew of three. They danced and sang to the hypnotic drumming, holding their traditional amulets high into the air while muttering incantations.
Warrior Boh showcased his amulet while one of his crew drenched him in green liquid. Meanwhile, Warrior Jon stretched, vibrating in a trance as he attuned himself to the deafening beat.
"Brother! Brother!" Sol squealed from the royal lodge, tugging Rachid's sleeve again. "What's he doing? Why is he wet? What are those amulets and bracelets? Why—"
"Those are called Gris-gris," Rachid said with a fond smile. "Witchcraft and magic are crucial during a fight. They help connect with the spirits of nature, bringing the highest concentration possible. Amulets, bracelets, and ritual water act as mediums for that connection. It may seem silly at first, but as the fight drags on, the most spiritually connected fighter wins."
Sol trembled, wide-eyed. She'd heard tales of nature spirits but never imagined their importance in battle. Words like Zen, Lwa, and Vodoun floated in her mind, concepts she had never fully explored.
"What are those spirits, Brother?" she asked, her voice high-pitched with wonder.
"Don't rush, Sister. You'll meet them in time," Rachid said, evading her question.
Tora, seated nearby, overheard. "You seem to know a lot about Gris-gris, young man," he praised. "Who do you think will win?"
Calm and composed, Rachid carefully observed both fighters. "For a final confrontation, their skills should be equal. Unlike the previous duels, this will come down to resolve." His gaze sharpened. "Warrior Jon will be the victor. His Gris-gris doesn't need to be flaunted. He's already in the zone."
"Interesting. Let's watch," Tora said.
The arena fell silent. The two warriors faced each other, the air thick with tension. The sun blazed, spotlighting Boh and Jon.
"AAAAGHH!" Boh lunged like a panther, knives in hand. Fearless, Jon advanced, sword slashing. Screech! Metal clashed, sparks flying. The first strike ended in a draw as both retreated.
Jon didn't stall. He swung with great strength. Boh ducked right, narrowly dodging. The crowd cheered at his speed. Boh stabbed at Jon's throat, but Jon rolled on his back to escape.
Flaring with anger, Jon charged, swinging with brutal force. It was a spar, but Boh had aimed to kill him. His eyes turned red. Boh barely blocked with his daggers but was sent staggering, his clothes torn from the blow.
Bloodlust flashed in Jon's eyes as he gripped his sword with both hands.
Fear flickered across Boh's face before he shook it off, regaining focus and springing forward.
Cling! Cling! Cling! The weapons clashed again and again until both warriors panted from exhaustion.
Boh, determined to finish, swung a heavy overhand strike aimed for Jon's head. But fatigue crippled him mid-swing—his body refused to move as he intended. Jon easily parried, then pressed his blade against Boh's neck.
"Your win," Jon declared.
The arena erupted. Cheers, howls, and song flooded the air as Jon lifted his arm in victory.
"More noise for our champion, Jon!" shouted the gray-haired announcer, riling up the crowd further.
"Your observation was spot on," Tora said, praising Rachid.
"You're too kind, sir. I was just lucky," Rachid replied modestly.
"Luck? Don't make me laugh. Normal people wouldn't notice, but you saw what really happened on that stage," Tora chuckled. "That loss of momentum wasn't from fatigue. It was the work of Gris-gris."
In Mura, Gris-gris were believed to protect the wearer from evil or bring good fortune. More than ornaments, they were spiritual tools connecting the natural and supernatural. Gris-gris doctors, known as marabouts, used alchemy and ritual to craft these items, and warriors sought them before every battle.
Tora, of all people, understood their true essence. He chuckled again, knowing the real victor today had been the spirits.
"Your Grace, are you satisfied?" Tora asked.
Tora knew it all; He knew why the King graced him with his presence, he knew not to frustrate the king, and he knew the importance of this elite force. The king had traveled to Istan to gauge the skill of his military. He had plans which required accomplished warriors and had hoped to find them here. Tora knew it well, Thus training 3000 warriors. He was an accomplished warrior and did not doubt his abilities, but would the king be satisfied? He had sworn an oath to Bakar, yet his life was still at stake. The performance provided by the base warriors was of quality, he would be pleased. Tora thought fervently.
"I am," Bakar said with a smirk. "Eleven duels took place. What did you say their rank was?"
"Lowest-ranked warriors," Tora replied confidently.
"Their skill exceeds that level. Concentration, agility, power—all top-notch. I'm satisfied. I expect your higher-ranked soldiers to be even better." Bakar smiled approvingly.
Tora, relieved, grinned back, his yellow teeth showing.
---
Meanwhile...
Thud! Thud! Thud! Donkey hooves trampled the grasslands as two enormous gray donkeys pulled a wooden carriage along a dirt path. The speed was modest, barely faster than a walk. At the front sat an ebony-skinned man, whip in hand, who occasionally lashed for more speed. His straw hat shaded him from the harsh sun. Now and then, he whistled folkloric tunes, lightening the mood.
Whistle! Whistle! Whistle!
Reloua smiled at the charming melodies. The coachman's whistling had kept her entertained throughout the journey. She glanced at Teleu, who sat opposite her, eyes closed. He'd barely spoken for two whole weeks, only answering when absolutely necessary.
"In two days, we'll reach Nkap," she said, knowing full well she was talking to a brick wall. "I'll tell you who I am and what your task will be."
"It's about time, don't you think?" Teleu finally spoke, catching her off guard.
"Hmph!" She pouted. "I, Reloua, am a Sichom. Princess of the Royal Family of these lands. Daughter of Donkeu Sichom and Aissatou Sichom," she said proudly. "I'm being plotted against by someone in the royal palace. That's why you're here. Your goal is to protect me and my brother."
To her dismay, Teleu remained utterly unfazed.
Shouldn't he be shocked? I've been waiting for this dramatic reveal!
"Why are you so calm? I'm a princess! Princess of the richest land in Nubia!" she said bitterly.
"Should I be surprised? Wasn't it obvious you were someone important?" Teleu replied coolly.
Confused, Reloua blinked. "How did you know?"
"Would an ordinary citizen be chased by mercenaries? I doubt it. Would they know such details about the royal family? Again, no. And that diamond ring on your left hand? That alone screams high status," he explained.
What a scary man… Reloua thought, dumbfounded.
His observation skills were terrifying. Calm under pressure, a skilled fighter, quick-thinking, and uninterested in things that weren't his business. Even when she almost died, he hadn't panicked. He's a perfect choice… but also dangerous if he has ulterior motives.
"You were lucky," she huffed. "From now on, address me as Young Lady, Young Miss, or Princess. You must blend in."
The carriage continued smoothly toward Nkap.