The pain was her new dawn.
It did not arrive with the gentle, golden fingers of the Harvest Sun, but as a low, throbbing fire that had smoldered in the dark hours and now reignited with the first grey light seeping through the barracks' single, high window. It was a deep, internal ache, a raw and violated feeling that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Nawi woke to it before she was fully conscious, a animal groan catching in her throat as she shifted on the hard cot. The scent of the medicinal poultice, a cloying mix of bitter leaf and ash, filled her nostrils, a permanent reminder of the ritual.
The long hall was steeped in the sounds of other women's suffering—soft whimpers, ragged breaths, the creak of cots as bodies tried to find a position that didn't aggravate the wound. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, fear-sweat, and that faint, metallic hint of old blood. This was not the vibrant, messy life of her village; this was the sterile, painful aftermath of creation, the birthing room for weapons.
A sharp, percussive clang shattered the gloom. The iron bar on the main door was thrown back with a force that echoed off the mud-brick walls.
"On your feet, candidates!"
The voice was Yaa's, the Mistress of Initiates, and it was as abrasive as grinding stone. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, a rigid cutout against the slowly brightening sky. Two veteran Mino flanked her, their postures radiating impatience.
A wave of stifled moans and hisses of pain moved through the barracks as a dozen young women struggled to sit up, then to stand. The simple act of putting weight on their feet, of the muscles shifting in their lower bodies, was a fresh trial. Nawi moved slowly, deliberately, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She focused on the rough texture of the dirt floor beneath her bare feet, the chill of the morning air on her skin—anything to separate her mind from the fire in her core.
"The King does not feed idle hands or nurse tender flesh," Yaa announced, her eyes scanning them with cold disapproval. "Your purification was yesterday's work. Today, you begin to earn the title you have been given. Outside. Now."
They stumbled out into a courtyard still silvered with dew and the long, blue shadows of dawn. The air was clean and cold, carrying the distant, woody scent of cooking fires and the distinctive, damp-earth smell of the Abomey morning. The vastness of the royal compound sprawled around them, a maze of walls and low-slung buildings, but their world had already shrunk to this single, dusty square.
They were made to stand in a ragged line. Nawi's observant eyes, though clouded with pain, began to pick out the individuals who would now be her world.
To her immediate right was a girl who seemed carved from tension itself. She was tall and whip-thin, with sharp, angular features and eyes that burned with a fierce, almost frantic intensity. She held herself stiffly, ignoring her pain through sheer force of will, her gaze fixed hungrily on Yaa as if trying to devour the secrets of command. This, Nawi would learn, was Zevi. Her ambition was a tangible aura, a scent of ozone before a storm.
To her left was another girl, shorter and sturdier, with a round, kind face that was now pale and beaded with sweat. Her hands, clasped in front of her, were strong and capable, a farmer's hands. When she swayed slightly from a wave of pain, she didn't curse or grit her teeth, but simply breathed deeply, her eyes closed, as if searching for a center of calm within the storm. This was Asu. Her strength seemed to come not from a desire to dominate, but from a deep, patient well of endurance.
And then there was Mosi. She stood a few places down, a head taller than most, her body already hinting at the powerful warrior she would become. But her beauty was marred by the curl of her lip and the cold, assessing cruelty in her eyes. She didn't just endure the pain; she seemed to feed on the weakness of others, her gaze flicking over the stumbling, groaning recruits with open contempt. She caught Nawi looking and her eyes narrowed, a silent challenge issued and filed away.
"You are nothing," Yaa began, pacing before them, her footsteps unnervingly quiet in the dust. "You are less than nothing. You are raw clay, and we are the potters. You will be molded, fired, and glazed in the colors of Dahomey. The first and only lesson you need to learn today, and every day until you die, is obedience. Not thoughtless obedience, but instantaneous, perfect, unquestioning obedience. Your body must learn to move before your mind has finished the thought. Your will must become an extension of mine. Of Commander Nanika's. Of the King's."
She stopped, letting the words hang in the cold air.
"Your first command is this: you will stand. You will not move. You will not speak. You will not fall. You will stand until the sun clears the wall and touches this stone." She pointed to a specific, flat grey stone embedded in the earth a few feet away. "The one who falls, speaks, or moves without permission will learn the price of disobedience."
And so, they stood.
The first few moments were manageable. The cold was a distraction from the pain. But as the sun slowly climbed, its light a pale, tentative gold, the true ordeal began. The chill faded, replaced by a growing warmth that did nothing to soothe their aching muscles. The throbbing between their legs became a constant, maddening drumbeat. The strain of holding a single position seeped into their calves, their thighs, their backs.
Nawi focused on her breathing, as her mother had done during the most punishing labor. She focused on the minute details of her surroundings. She watched a trail of small, black ants navigating the rugged terrain of the courtyard, carrying bits of leaf twice their size. She observed the way the light slowly crept across the hard-packed earth, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. She listened to the sounds of the waking palace—the distant calls of sentries, the rhythmic chop-chop-chop from a kitchen yard, the faint, melodic strain of a priestess's morning prayer.
She could feel Zevi beside her, trembling with the effort of her perfect, rigid stance. She heard the soft, shaky exhales of Asu. From down the line, there was a muffled sob, quickly stifled.
The line of sunlight touched the edge of the grey stone.
It felt like an eternity. Sweat trickled down Nawi's temples, despite the coolness of the morning. Her legs trembled violently. The internal fire flared with every slight shift of balance. She locked her knees, a dangerous gamble, but the only way to remain upright.
Then, from the end of the line, a voice, thin and cracked with pain and desperation.
"I… I cannot. My legs… they are giving way."
It was a girl named Efua, one of the river-tribe girls who had wept during the ritual. Her face was ashen, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
Yaa, who had been standing as still and silent as a statue, turned her head slowly. The only sound was the whisper of her cotton tunic.
"You have spoken," Yaa said, her voice devoid of anger. It was a simple statement of fact, cold and final. "You have moved." For Efua had indeed shifted her weight, her body swaying.
Efua's eyes widened in terror. "Please, I only meant… the pain…"
"The pain is irrelevant," Yaa interrupted. "The command was clear. You have failed."
She nodded to one of the veteran Mino. The warrior, a woman with shoulders like a bull and a face that looked hewn from granite, stepped forward. In her hand, she carried not a weapon, but a stout, flexible cane of polished hibiscus wood.
"The price of disobedience is pain," Yaa announced to all of them, though her eyes were on Efua. "A clean, simple, instructive pain. It is a language you will all learn to understand. Ten strokes."
A collective, silent gasp went through the line. Nawi felt her own blood run cold. Ten strokes with that cane would strip the skin from Efua's back.
"No, please!" Efua begged, stumbling back a step, her hands coming up in a pathetic, warding gesture.
The granite-faced Mino did not speak. She moved with terrifying economy. She grabbed Efua by the arm, her grip like a manacle, and forced her to bend over, supporting her weight with one hand on her knees. Efua's sobs became hysterical.
The first stroke cut through the air with a sharp whistling sound.
THWACK!
The impact was a sickening, meaty thud. Efua screamed, a short, sharp shriek of pure, unadulterated agony.
Nawi flinched. The sound was a physical blow. She could almost feel the burn of the cane on her own skin. She saw Zevi's jaw tighten, her ambition momentarily eclipsed by primal fear. Asu had tears streaming silently down her face, her eyes squeezed shut. Mosi, however, watched with a faint, unsettling gleam in her eyes, her body tense with a strange, vicarious excitement.
THWACK!
The second stroke landed just below the first. A bright red weal rose instantly on Efua's dark skin. Her scream was choked this time, becoming a strangled gurgle.
THWACK!
The third. Efua's body jerked violently. The veteran Mino holding her didn't budge.
Nawi could not look away. Her mother's last words echoed in her head. You survive. This was survival. This was the reality of the chain she had chosen. This was the cost of keeping Binta safe. She had to witness it. She had to absorb it. She had to learn.
THWACK!
The fourth stroke. Efua's screams subsided into low, animal-like moans. Her legs buckled, but the Mino held her firm.
The punishment was not just for Efua. It was for all of them. Each whistle of the cane, each wet, brutal impact, was a lesson carved into the air, into their minds. It taught them the value of silence. The necessity of endurance. The absolute power of the hierarchy they now inhabited.
THWACK!… THWACK!… THWACK!
By the eighth stroke, Efua had gone limp, her body held up only by the iron grip of the Mino. Her back was a grotesque tapestry of overlapping crimson welts, some of them already beginning to ooze blood. The sound of the cane was wetter now.
THWACK!… THWACK!
The final two strokes fell on the unresponsive body. The sound was dull, final.
The granite-faced Mino released her. Efua crumpled to the ground like a sack of grain, lying motionless in the dust. The coppery smell of fresh blood now mixed with the scents of dust and dew.
The sun finally, fully, cleared the grey stone, bathing the courtyard in its full, revealing light.
Yaa looked down at Efua's prone form, then back at the rest of them. Their line was ramrod straight now, every trace of weariness and pain vanquished by sheer, petrified terror.
"Let this be the first cut," Yaa said, her voice still calm, still flat. "The cut that severs your old will from your new one. Disobedience is death. It is a slow death of the spirit that leads to a quick death of the body. Here, we practice only for a quick death of the enemy. Your enemy today was your own weakness. You have seen it defeated."
She gestured to the two Mino. "Take her to the infirmary. The rest of you… you have stood. Now, you will learn to walk."
The rest of the day was a fresh hell, a battle fought against their own broken bodies and the relentless demands of their instructors. They were taught how to march in the Dahomey style—a low, gliding step that conserved energy and made little sound. They practiced for hours under the climbing sun, their throats parched, their bodies screaming in protest. The simple act of lifting a foot and placing it down became a Herculean task, the motion tugging and burning at their healing wounds.
They were given a midday meal of cold porridge and a single gourd of water to share among four. They ate in silence, their bodies aching, their minds replaying the sound of the cane over and over.
In the afternoon, they were taught how to stand at attention, how to turn, how to respond to basic commands. The movements were simple, but the expectation of perfection was absolute. A flicker of hesitation, a slightly slouched posture, a moment of inattention—all were met with a sharp correction, a hissed command, or the threat of the cane.
Nawi moved through it all in a daze of pain and determination. She watched Zevi, who performed each movement with a furious, desperate precision, always first to mimic the instructor, her eyes alight with the need to excel. She saw Asu, who moved with a slow, deliberate grace, her face a mask of concentration, enduring each moment with a quiet, unbreakable will that Nawi found herself gravitating towards.
And she saw Mosi. Mosi, who was strong and coordinated, used her physical advantage not to help others, but to highlight their failures. She would "accidentally" bump into a struggling recruit, causing them to stumble. She would smirk when someone was chastised. Her cruelty was a weapon she was already sharpening, and her chosen whetstone was the suffering of her peers.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of violet and orange, they were finally, mercifully, dismissed. They stumbled back into the barracks, their bodies pushed past all limits. The scent of their own sweat and the lingering, ominous smell of blood from the courtyard followed them inside.
Efua's cot was empty.
No one spoke of her. Her absence was a louder lesson than her screams had been.
Nawi collapsed onto her own cot, not even bothering with the thin blanket. Every muscle fiber shrieked in protest. The fire between her legs had been fanned into a blazing inferno by the day's exertions. She stared up at the thatched roof, where shadows were gathering in the deepening gloom.
The first cut had indeed been made. Not with a machete on a battlefield, but with a cane on a girl's back, and with the relentless grind of discipline on her own spirit. The defiant hatred she carried for Nanika and the kingdom was still there, a hard, cold gem in her chest. But it was now buried under layers of sheer physical exhaustion and the stark, terrifying understanding of what it truly meant to be Ahosi.
This was not the path of a warrior she had imagined. It was the path of a slave being forged into a master's tool. She had chosen the sword to wield it herself, but here, on the first day, she had learned that the first and most important weapon was not the sword, but the will. And their will was being systematically broken and remade.
She closed her eyes, the image of Efua's broken body imprinted on the back of her eyelids. The first cut was the deepest. It was the one that taught you all the others were possible. And as she drifted into a exhausted, pain-haunted sleep, she knew, with a chilling certainty, that it would not be the last.