The journey to the palace felt longer than any road Amara had ever walked, though she sat on horseback under the watchful eyes of the royal guards. The night air smelled of dust and burning wood as the blood moon hung above, following her like an accusing eye.
She kept her gaze fixed ahead, fighting the panic rising in her chest. How could the spirits choose me? she thought. I'm just a healer's daughter, not some savior from the old tales.
Behind her, the village lights grew smaller until they vanished altogether, swallowed by the darkness of the surrounding forest. Every rustle of leaves seemed to whisper doubts she dared not speak aloud.
The Oracle rode ahead, silent under her beaded veil. Once, Amara gathered the courage to ask, "Why me?" But the Oracle only tilted her head, as though listening to a voice Amara could not hear, and gave no answer.
Hours passed before dawn's pale light spilled across the land, painting the road in soft gold. At last, the forest opened to reveal the walls of the royal palace: ancient stone crowned with carved leopards, rising proudly above the sprawling capital of Nyoka. Smoke curled from distant cooking fires, and narrow streets teemed with early traders, their colorful cloth and spices bright against the gray walls.
Amara's heart beat faster as the palace gates creaked open, welcoming her into a world she'd only ever glimpsed from stories whispered by traveling merchants. Inside, towering pillars etched with sacred symbols rose toward the sky. Servants in crisp wrappers bowed low, but their eyes darted to her — curious, fearful, or perhaps pitying.
Queen Mother Nnenna awaited her in the courtyard, regal in deep indigo cloth adorned with golden embroidery. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, swept over Amara from head to toe.
"So, the spirits truly have chosen you," she murmured. Her voice was calm but held an edge Amara couldn't miss.
"I didn't ask for this," Amara replied before she could stop herself, surprising even herself with the boldness of her tone.
For a moment, something flickered in the Queen Mother's eyes — something like sorrow, quickly buried beneath a queen's composure. "None of us do, child. Yet here we are."
A servant stepped forward to guide Amara through arched hallways decorated with woven tapestries of past Leopard Kings — men with proud stances and the same cold golden eyes she had heard whispered about.
At last, they reached a small chamber. Sunlight streamed through carved lattice windows, revealing a low bed, clay lamps, and a single stool. It felt both grand and strangely empty.
"You will rest here until the wedding ceremony," the servant said, her voice gentle but formal.
"The wedding?" Amara asked, her throat tight. "When?"
"Before the next moon rises."
Less than a day. The words hit Amara like a blow. She sank onto the bed, the thin mattress crackling beneath her weight. Through the window, she saw the bustling palace courtyard, heard the distant call of drummers practicing for the ceremony.
She wondered what kind of man awaited her — this king whose name brought silence to every room. What did he look like? Did he feel anything at all, or had the curse turned his heart to stone completely?
The walls seemed to close in around her, heavy with the scent of burning incense. Amara pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her own heart racing — alive, terrified, stubbornly refusing to accept what lay ahead.
I may be chosen, she thought, but I'm still me.
Outside, the blood moon faded from the sky, leaving behind only daylight and the echoes of a destiny she could neither flee nor fight — yet.