Nyasha woke to the rocking of the earth — no, not earth, but wood beneath her. The air was thick with salt, the stench of sweat, and the bitter sting of despair.
She was bound at the wrists and ankles, thrown among others who shared her fate. The slavers' ship groaned under the weight of its human cargo as it sailed farther from the shores of her beloved land.
Through the narrow slats of the ship's hold, Nyasha saw the endless sea. The sacred mountain, Kirimaara, was gone — swallowed by distance and the cruelty of men.
Tears burned her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not where her captors could see. Not where they could taste her weakness.
> "Daughter of Kinywa wa Kobia," she whispered to herself, "You are not broken."
The days blurred together. Hunger gnawed at her belly. The whip cracked for the smallest defiance. But Nyasha watched. Listened. Waited.
At night, as the waves whispered secrets, she dreamed of Kiini Kiro, of the strength that lived in her blood.
---
One stormy dusk, the sky turned dark as a curse. The wind howled like spirits avenging the wrong done to her. The sea rose, furious and wild.
Lightning tore the heavens. Thunder shook the ship's bones.
Men screamed. The mast split in two. The slavers' vessel — once so proud — was broken by the wrath of the storm.
Nyasha's chains snapped as the deck splintered beneath her. She plunged into the churning sea, salt filling her mouth, her lungs burning.
But she kicked. She fought.
The sea roared, but Nyasha clung to a broken beam, the wood cutting her skin as she held on.
All night she drifted, carried by the fury of the storm, her mind filled with prayers to Kiini Kiro, to the ancestors, to the mountain far behind her.
When dawn broke, the storm had passed. The sea was calm, but Nyasha was far from any land she knew.
And on the horizon, sails approached — not slavers this time, but the ships of an empire whose fate would soon entwine with her own.