The drums pounded through Zuba village, each beat rolling like distant thunder across clay rooftops and ancient baobab trees. It was the night of the Blood Moon Festival, when the spirits were said to walk among the living. Fires flickered in clay pots, casting dancing shadows on painted faces and woven wrappers dyed in shades of red and gold.
Amara moved through the crowd with quiet purpose, her hands still stained green from crushed herbs. She knelt beside a crying child, gently pressing a cool poultice to a burn on his arm.
"Easy now, Chike," she murmured, her voice soft as river water. The boy's whimper faded into silence, soothed by her touch and the calming scent of healing leaves.
An old woman nearby shook her head in quiet wonder. "Your hands hold the blessing of the ancestors, Amara," she whispered.
Amara managed a tired smile. If only that were true. If her hands truly held power, perhaps they could mend more than wounds — perhaps they could heal hearts, or even save her village from the growing drought that threatened the harvest.
She stood, wiping her palms on her wrapper, and let her gaze drift up the hill where the Oracle's ancient temple lay. And there, hanging heavy in the sky, rose the blood moon — round and red as spilled wine. The crowd around her fell silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Then came the sound of hooves on dry earth.
From the road emerged the royal guards, their black armor catching the moon's glow, each chest marked with a silver leopard sigil. They parted the crowd with practiced ease, and behind them rode a figure draped in flowing white cloth, her face hidden behind ivory beads — the Oracle of Nyoka.
Amara felt her breath catch in her throat. The Oracle never left the temple, not unless the spirits had spoken.
When the Oracle's horse stopped before her, Amara swallowed hard. She could feel the eyes of the whole village on her, heavy as the humid night air.
"Amara Rivers," the Oracle intoned, her voice calm and deep, echoing slightly under the beads. "Daughter of Miri Rivers. Born under the blood moon. The spirits have chosen you."
Amara felt her legs weaken. "Chosen? Chosen for what?"
"To become the bride of King Akinlabi," the Oracle replied, "the Leopard King."
A stunned hush swept through the crowd, followed by gasps and fearful murmurs. Amara's heart pounded in her chest so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it.
"No," she whispered, the word slipping out before she could think. "I… I won't do it."
The Oracle turned her veiled face toward Amara. "Child, it is not for you to refuse. The spirits have spoken. Without you, this land will wither, and war will consume us all."
Amara felt her vision blur. She searched the faces around her: the children she taught songs to, the elders who shared stories by the fire, her mother standing pale and silent at the edge of the crowd. Duty weighed on her shoulders like a stone.
A small hand tugged at hers. Chike, the boy she had just healed, stared up at her with wide, innocent eyes. "Will you save us, Amara?"
Her chest tightened painfully.
"I'm just one girl," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
"But you are the chosen one," the Oracle said softly.
As the guards stepped closer, Amara lifted her gaze once more to the blood moon, its crimson glow staining the world in shadow. Somewhere beyond the hills lay the palace of the Leopard King — a man she had never met, whose name made even warriors speak in hushed voices.
And though her heart trembled with fear, she took a deep breath and stepped forward — toward a fate she never asked for, and a king whose heart was as much a mystery as the curse that bound them.