"Push! Push!" a midwife screamed, her hands gripping and slowly pulling on two tiny, bloody legs. "Yolo, press her stomach!" she barked at a chubby woman nearby.
Yolo pressed her round body against the agonizing, middle-aged woman. The woman groaned, sweat covering her forehead and thighs like a towel drenched in water. She summoned the last of her strength and pushed with all she had, desperate to meet her baby girl. Four older ladies stood at her sides, holding her hands and praising her for her endurance. They had done so for over eight hours, with no rest. The birthing was nearly over after such a long struggle, and their nerves finally began to relax.
It didn't last long.
A high-pitched cry soon filled the small mud hut. A tiny baby girl entered the world in this remote village. "It's a spirit child! She will have a great future," the midwife declared, wiping the blood from the newborn's body.
Cheers of happiness and excitement followed her announcement. In Nubia, spirit children were those born feet first. People believed they were chosen by the Ancestors. It was a rare occurrence, but whenever such a child was born, they grew to become remarkable figures.
Legends portrayed spirit children as divine beings capable of interacting with other realities. They often drew inspiration and power from those unseen worlds to succeed in life. As a result, they were viewed as superior, almost celestial, beings. A prophecy lingered in the hearts of many—that one day, a spirit child would unite the five kingdoms. Yet, as with most prophecies, people took it lightly and paid it no serious mind.
The mother lovingly embraced her child, tears streaming down her cheeks. The viscous, whitish fluids were wiped away, and the umbilical cord was severed. The midwife and her assistants began their folkloric music, songs meant to welcome spirit children. The sound of joy vibrated in the hut.
"HAAAAH!! HELP!" The women's high-pitched tunes were suddenly interrupted by a scream of agony from outside.
"What's happening out there?" the midwife asked, shaken. They lived in a small village of a hundred people, tucked away in an isolated part of Mura. They never received visitors, nor did they experience conflict. Life here was peaceful and quiet. Then why was someone screaming for help?
The women hesitated. Halting the welcoming ceremony was a bad omen for the spirit child and those performing the ritual. They decided to carry on, hoping it was nothing serious.
"AAAHHH! AAH!" More screams followed. Louder. Closer. More frequent. Yolo, unable to stand the suspense, rushed to the wooden door. Her heart throbbed with anxiety. What could be happening? Were her friends and family—who were likely gathered under the massive tree outside—safe? She shoved the door open with all her might.
What she saw left her breathless.
"Eek!!" A cry of pure horror escaped her throat before she collapsed to her knees.
The ground outside was drenched in crimson. Crimson flames devoured the sky. The air was thick with smoke and the choking stench of burning wood and flesh. The scorching flames spread in every direction, turning everything to ash. The lapas—simple village homes—burned one after another. Their wooden poles crackled and crumbled into charcoal.
Villagers ran in every direction, some trying to douse the flames, others fleeing in terror. Yolo let out a gut-wrenching cry of agony. She couldn't comprehend what she was seeing. Who had their village offended? Why was there so much blood staining the grasses? Why were they under attack? A flood of unanswered questions raced through her mind until her body, overwhelmed by the shock, gave out. She fainted.
Feeling the heat waves pouring in through the open door, the women inside realized something catastrophic had befallen their village. They rushed to drag Yolo back inside and shut the door behind them.
"What should we do?" a slim woman dressed in azure asked, her voice trembling with panic.
"We're safe here… Let's not go out. The men will take care of the fire," the midwife said, trying to reassure everyone.
In their rush to pull Yolo back inside, they hadn't noticed the lifeless bodies already strewn outside their hut. And so they stayed, trembling, as the newborn baby's cries filled the air, mingling with the chaos outside.
The village was engulfed in terror. Houses turned to ash one after another. Men, women, and children ran desperately, searching for loved ones, looking for a way to escape. The flames were terrifying enough, but they weren't the villagers' only enemy.
Tall, slender, light-skinned ebony men dressed in matching red garb rode through the village on powerful horses. Their swords swung mercilessly at every living being they came across. Every time they neared a villager, blood sprayed like a fountain onto the surrounding grass. Iron sliced through flesh, severing bones. One by one, like dominos, the villagers fell—lifeless and broken.
Witnessing their neighbors fall in droves, many villagers could no longer bear to run. How could they face their ancestors in the afterlife if they died fleeing? With heavy hearts, burning with grief and anger, they grabbed whatever they could—rakes, hoes, shovels, machetes—and fought back with desperate rage.
Their swings were fueled by grief, confusion, and a need for justice. What had they done to deserve this? Who had they angered? Why?
But survival, as always, was dictated by strength, not justice. Despite the villagers' resolve, they couldn't stand against seasoned killers. Heads flew, limbs dropped, and the ground turned into a swamp of blood.
"Mom! Mom!" A ten-year-old girl bawled beside the headless body of her mother, sprawled lifeless on the dirt. The child had witnessed her mother's beheading but had been powerless to intervene. She crawled across the bloodied ground, dragging her once-beautiful white dress through the mud, until she reached her mother's severed head. Trembling, she clutched it to her chest, sobbing, begging. "Mom, wake up… Mom… Please wake up!"
Swoosh!! Splurt! Blood sprayed as the child's head flew through the air, landing near the hooves of a hunched stallion. Atop the horse sat a tall, light-skinned, ebony man, his expression cold and detached. His body, glistening with blood under the sun, presented a haunting, almost surreal image.
"Is this section done?" the commander asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Yes, Commander," replied the man who had just killed the girl, seated atop a Camarillo white horse. He wiped the blood from his iron sword and slid it back into its sheath.
Phweeee! Phweeee! Whistles sounded from the distance. The two men, their task complete, galloped toward the source of the whistle. There, they met with five other riders.
"Why did you blow the whistle?" the commander asked, wrinkling his bushy brows. "Did you find the spirit child?"
"That house. They have to be there." A braided man pointed toward the hut where the midwife and the women remained.
"Kill everyone and collect the spirit child's blood," the commander ordered, galloping away, leaving a trail of death and dread behind.
—
The bright sun hung high over the busy town of Diza in Mura. It was noon, the busiest time of the day. Hundreds of people flooded the narrow streets, kicking up clouds of dry dust that smeared onto the buildings, giving them an aged, weary appearance.
Inside one such dusty building, a middle-aged woman burst aggressively into a government bureau. Her face was twisted in rage as she glared at the official sitting leisurely at his desk, smoke curling from his pipe.
"What is the meaning of this?" she shouted, barely able to control her anger.
"The meaning of what?" the man asked lazily, exhaling smoke from his nostrils as he crossed his legs on the table.
"Don't play dumb! How will the King react if he learns what happened?" She shut the door behind her, afraid of being overheard.
"How will he come to know?" The man remained relaxed, raising an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you plan to…?" He lifted his gaze, and an eerie chill settled over her as his pupils darkened with menace.
The woman trembled. "You know I cannot. I'd be just as guilty if the King found out." She swallowed hard, dread rising in her throat. "How do you plan to cover the destruction of an entire village? Trees have ears. Birds can talk," she warned.
"Don't worry, dear. No news will leak," he said with eerie calm, blowing more smoke from his nose. "Unless someone tells him."
The woman's eyes widened with confusion. Why was this man so calm? Foreigners had annihilated an entire village under their jurisdiction. Not only were they aware, but they had also helped cover it up, all for personal gain. The King—King Bakar—was a notoriously hot-tempered ruler who wouldn't tolerate such disrespect. If he learned the truth, wouldn't he go on a rampage? Killing every government official in Diza for their betrayal? It was exactly the kind of thing Bakar would do.
"Are you not scared of the King? How can you sit there, so calm?" she asked, her voice shaking.
"There are entities far more terrifying than King Bakar," the man said quietly, eyes closed. "If I had a choice, do you think I would sacrifice my own countrymen?"
The woman froze. King Bakar was a tyrant. A man who ruled with blood and iron, destroying all who stood against him. He had united Mura through violence, crushing countless enemies. He was feared by all. Yet, the man before her claimed there were worse monsters.
"May I know who they are?" she whispered, leaning forward.
"You'll know with time," he replied, dismissing her with a lazy wave of his hand.
Realizing she'd get no more answers, she bowed her head and left the office, her mind racing with fear and doubt.
—
"Your Highness, an important letter from Ankh," a minister announced, presenting the scroll to Bakar's counselor under the scrutiny of nineteen other ministers.
Twenty ministers from across the kingdom had gathered at the Royal Hall for the Royal Conference. Held once every four months, this was where all officials reported on the state of their administrative zones.
For the ministers, this was more than a formality—it was a chance to get close to the royal circle. To do so, they brought news that might please the King and his counsel. Such proximity brought recognition and chests of gold. The opportunity was too precious to miss.
But closeness to power also bred jealousy. In past years, many ministers had lost their lives because of it.
Babidi, the minister who delivered the letter, was fully aware of this. Yet, he couldn't let this chance slip through his fingers. The letter bore Ankh's Royal Blood Crest. It had to be important. He hadn't expected that his proximity to Ankh would bring him such an opportunity.
"Adviser Toure, what does the letter say?" King Bakar asked aloud.
Adviser Toure unsealed the papyrus and read it out loud, each word clear and deliberate.
"Letter to the King of Mura, Bakar.
His Highness, Prince Tak of Ankh, requires assistance to reclaim his rightful seat on the Golden Throne of Ankh. Aware of Mura's incredible military prowess, the prince humbly requests support.
Assistance provided will be rewarded with countless gold chests and an unbending alliance between both kingdoms.
The prince awaits your favorable reply.
Castle of Andara."
Toure finished reading and sat back down, calm and composed. The ministers, however, erupted in a wave of discussion. Voices rose across the hall as everyone processed the news.
From his grand and imposing Iron Throne, Bakar sat silently, observing them.
Five minutes passed before silence returned.
"Toure, what do you think of the letter?" Bakar asked, his gaze fixed on his counselor.
"Hem! Hem!" Toure cleared his throat. "This is magnificent news, Your Highness. This letter increases our chances of unifying the five kingdoms. By aiding Ankh with our forces, we can easily infiltrate their lands. If we strategize well, we could annex both Gold Land and Ankh." He stroked his grey beard with pride.
Half the ministers nodded in agreement. Bakar's primary ambition was to unite the five kingdoms under his rule. This new opportunity aligned perfectly with his goals.
The other half wore stern, doubtful expressions. Some even shook their heads in disagreement.
"Who disagrees with Toure?" Bakar asked, noticing the hesitation.
"Me, Sir!" A young woman in her twenties stepped forward.
"Oh?" Bakar raised an eyebrow. "Why are you against Toure's words, Fatima?"
She bowed her head respectfully. "As Adviser Toure said, our priority is Gold Land. Diverting our focus to Ankh could cause us to lose sight of that objective. Conquering Gold Land first ensures economic stability. Afterward, conquering others will be easier." Her voice, clear and sweet like a bird's song, captivated the hall.
"Fair," the King nodded. "Anyone else?"
Rustle! Babidi's clothes shifted as he raised his long, thin fingers. This was his moment. Having delivered the letter, he knew he had to stand out further if he wanted a place near the King's counsel.
Two weeks ago, when he first received the letter, Babidi had spent his time analyzing what it might contain. If he could anticipate the contents, he could prepare a compelling argument for the Royal Conference.
Babidi was smart, meticulous, and driven. Coming from a poor background, he had clawed his way to his current position. But he wasn't satisfied. His ambitions stretched much higher.
After days of research, he had formed a theory. The royal crest indicated the letter was from someone with royal blood—either the King, his cousins, a prince, or young princes. Babidi knew it couldn't be from King Takam—it would've been sent directly to King Bakar. Furthermore, the letter came from Andara, a city governed by the King's brother.
Babidi quickly pieced things together. He had prepared well.
"I have an idea, Your Highness," he said confidently. This was his chance to shine.