The days bled into one another, a relentless cycle of pain and precision. The raw, searing agony of the ritual wound slowly faded, replaced by the deep, muscular burn of ceaseless exertion. Their world was the training compound, a universe bounded by red earth walls and a sky that seemed to watch their suffering with a pitiless, brass-eye sun.
Nawi's body was no longer her own. It was a rebellious, aching thing that was being systematically broken and reassembled. They woke before dawn to the clang of the iron bar, their muscles stiff and protesting. They stood in the chill silence until the sun touched the grey stone, a test they had all now mastered, the memory of Efua's flayed back a more effective teacher than any command. Then the real work began.
Their days were a symphony of strain, conducted by the merciless baton of Yaa and her veteran Mino assistants.
They ran. They ran until the world narrowed to the tunnel of their own vision, until the sound of their own ragged gasps was the only thing in their ears, until the taste of copper filled their mouths. They ran laps around the compound's perimeter, their bare feet slapping rhythmically on the hard-packed earth, kicking up puffs of red dust that coated their sweating skin, gritty in their mouths and eyes. The sun would climb, turning the dust in the air to a shimmering, suffocating haze. Nawi learned to disassociate, to send her mind away from the fire in her lungs and the leaden weakness in her legs. She would focus on the rhythm, on the back of the recruit in front of her, on the distant, geometric shape of the palace roofs against the sky. She saw girls stumble and vomit, only to be hauled to their feet and shoved back into the run. Collapse was not an option.
They drilled. For hours, they practiced the same movements over and over—the low, gliding march; the sharp, synchronized turns; the complex hand signals for silent communication. A flicker of hesitation, a half-second out of step, and the sharp crack of a training stick would land on a shoulder or the back of a thigh, a stinging reminder of imperfection. The air was thick with the sounds of shouted commands, slapping feet, and the sharp, percussive thwack of wood on flesh.
They built strength. They carried heavy sacks of sand on their backs, their spines protesting, their legs trembling as they were forced to squat until their thighs screamed. They did push-ups until their arms gave way and their faces met the dust. They wrestled each other in the hot sun, grappling in the dirt, learning the brutal geometry of leverage and pain. Nawi, lean and wiry, often found herself matched against Mosi, whose greater size and strength were a crushing advantage. Mosi took a vicious pleasure in these matches, using them not to learn, but to dominate, to inflict humiliation, her knee digging into Nawi's back, her whisper hot and foul in her ear. "You are nothing, river-rat. You will break."
Through it all, Nawi observed. She watched Zevi, whose ambition was a fuel that burned hotter than the sun. Zevi was always first, always the fastest, always the most precise. She pushed herself to the brink of collapse, her eyes blazing with a need for recognition that bordered on desperation. She saw the veterans as idols to be emulated, and she mimicked their every mannerism, their stoic expressions, their economy of movement.
She watched Asu, who was her quiet anchor. Asu's strength was different. It was the strength of the earth itself—patient, deep, and unyielding. She did not seek to be first, but she never, ever gave up. When others fell, Asu was there with a steadying hand, a shared sip of water from their meager ration, a wordless look of solidarity. In the brutal wrestling matches, she used her low center of gravity and farmer's strength not to cripple, but to control, to submit her opponent with a quiet efficiency that infuriated the violent Mosi.
And Mosi… Mosi was a lesson in itself. Her cruelty was a carefully honed instrument. She learned quickly, not out of a desire to serve Dahomey, but out of a voracious appetite for power over others. She formed a small, sycophantic circle of followers, girls who were weak-willed and feared her more than the instructors. She was the shadow in their ranks, a constant reminder that the enemy was not always across a battlefield.
The hierarchy of the recruits was slowly solidifying, not through official rank, but through the unspoken language of pain, endurance, and spirit.
Weeks into this grueling regimen, the nature of their training shifted. The focus on drills and running continued, but a new, ominous structure began to take shape at the far end of the main training yard. It was a wall, but unlike any they had seen. It was not made of mud-brick, but of densely packed, interwoven branches of acacia, famed for its long, needle-sharp thorns that were as hard as iron and could punch through leather. The wall was twice the height of a man, and it stretched the width of the yard. It looked less like a construction and more like a living, malevolent entity, a barrier of pure pain.
A low murmur of dread went through the recruits the first time they saw it. The veterans, however, looked upon it with a kind of grim familiarity.
The day of the Thorn Barrier arrived with a sky the colour of bleached bone. The air was hot and still, heavy with the promise of suffering. Yaa stood before them, her arms crossed, her gaze resting on the terrifying structure.
"The enemy does not fight on flat, open ground," she began, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "They hide behind walls. They fortify their villages. To reach them, you must be able to go where they believe you cannot. This," she gestured with her chin towards the acacia wall, "is a teacher. It will teach you that pain is a door, not a wall. It will teach you that your body is a tool that can be used, even when it is broken. It will teach you the difference between wanting to stop, and choosing to continue."
She picked up a long, dry stick and walked towards the thorn barrier. With a casual flick of her wrist, she pressed the tip of the stick against one of the long, grey thorns. There was a faint snap as the thorn pierced the hard wood with ease.
"The acacia does not care about your pain. It does not care about your fear. It only exists. Your task is to overcome what exists. You will scale this wall. You will get to the other side. There are no techniques. There are no tricks. There is only the will to find handholds and footholds where there are none."
She turned back to them, her expression utterly serious. "You will be cut. You will be torn. You will bleed. This is not a punishment. It is an education. The first lesson is this: the thorns are sharpest when you hesitate. Commit. Move. The faster you move, the less you will feel."
The first recruits were called forward. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror. The first girl, trembling violently, approached the wall. She reached out a tentative hand, searching for a gap. Her fingers brushed against a thorn, and she yelped, snatching her hand back as a bead of blood welled on her fingertip.
"Hesitation," Yaa stated flatly. "The thorn has already won. Again."
The girl tried again, this time grabbing a thicker branch. But as she put her weight on it, her foot slipped, and her leg scraped down the wall. She screamed—a short, sharp sound—as a series of parallel tears opened on her calf, blood immediately welling and streaking down her dark skin. She fell to the ground, clutching her leg, sobbing.
The veterans watched, their faces impassive. The other recruits stood in horrified silence. The air, already thick with heat, now carried the first, coppery scent of fresh blood.
One by one, they were sent forward. It was a massacre of flesh. The thorns ripped at their hands, their arms, their legs, their feet. The simple cotton wraps they wore were shredded, offering no protection. The air filled with the sounds of ripping fabric, sharp cries of pain, and the ragged, sobbing breaths of girls trying and failing to conquer the impossible. The dust at the base of the wall was soon spotted with dark, red drops.
Zevi was called. Her jaw was set, her eyes burning with that familiar, frantic intensity. She didn't look for a safe path; she attacked the wall. She lunged, grabbing two thorny branches, hissing as the points dug deep into her palms. She kicked her foot into a gap, ignoring the thorns that scored her instep. She moved with a furious, jerky energy, hauling herself upward. Thorns snagged in her hair, tore at her ears, ripped a long gash across her shoulder. But she didn't stop. She was a whirlwind of self-inflicted violence, and through sheer, brutal force of will, she dragged her bleeding, trembling body over the top and disappeared down the other side. A moment of silence, then a thud.
Yaa gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Mosi was next. She approached with a swagger, but Nawi saw the faint tremor in her hands. She studied the wall for a moment, then chose her path with a calculating coldness. She moved more slowly than Zevi, but with a deliberate strength, using her powerful arms to bear her weight, minimizing the contact points. Still, the thorns found her. They caught on the heavy muscles of her thighs, ripped across her back. She gritted her teeth, her face a mask of suppressed rage, but she made it over with fewer, deeper cuts than the frantic Zevi. Her efficiency was, in its own way, just as terrifying.
Then it was Asu's turn. She walked forward calmly, her kind face set in an expression of profound focus. She did not look at the wall as an enemy, but as a problem to be solved. She placed her hands carefully, not on the thick, obvious branches, but on the smaller, interwoven ones, testing their strength before committing her weight. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, like water finding its way through rock. Thorns still scratched her, snagged her wrap, drew lines of blood on her arms, but she accepted each small injury without a sound, her breathing steady. It took her longer, but when she reached the top and lowered herself down, her wounds were superficial, a map of careful passage rather than violent assault.
Nawi watched, her heart a frantic drum in her chest. Her turn came.
She walked towards the wall. The scent of blood was overpowering here, mixed with the dry, dusty smell of the acacia wood. Up close, the thorns were monstrous, like the claws of a petrified beast. She could see the fine, glistening trails of blood left by those who had gone before her. Her palms were slick with sweat.
The thorns are sharpest when you hesitate.
Commit. Move.
She thought of Binta. She thought of the cane falling on Efua's back. She thought of the cold, assessing eyes of Commander Nanika. This wall was just another chain. Another thing to be overcome.
With a cry that was part fear, part fury, she launched herself at the wall.
She did not choose her holds with Asu's wisdom or Mosi's calculation. She embraced Zevi's method of violent commitment. She grabbed, she hauled, she kicked. Agony exploded in her hands as thorns punched through her skin, feeling like hot nails being driven into her bones. She felt a long, searing tear open up on her thigh as she scrambled for a foothold. The pain was immediate and breathtaking, a white-hot fire that screamed through her nerves. Blood ran freely down her arms, making her grip slippery.
But she didn't stop. She embraced the pain, made it her fuel. Each tear of her flesh was a sacrifice to the stubborn will that had defined her since childhood. She grunted with the effort, her muscles quivering, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. Thorns snagged in her hair, pulling sharply at her scalp. One sliced across her cheek, just below her eye, and she felt the warm trickle of blood down her face.
The top seemed an impossible distance away. Her arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. The world shrank to the next handhold, the next foothold, the next wave of pain to be endured and pushed past.
Then, her hand closed over the top. It was a nest of thorns. She didn't care. She clenched her fist, feeling the points dig deep into her palm, and using that final, excruciating anchor, she hauled her body over the summit.
For a single, dizzying moment, she was on top of the thorn barrier. The training compound sprawled below her, a panorama of dust and suffering. She saw the other recruits, small and waiting, their faces upturned. She saw Yaa, looking up at her, her expression unreadable.
Then she was falling, tumbling down the other side, thorns raking her back and legs on the way down. She hit the ground with a jarring thud that knocked the wind from her lungs. She lay there, gasping, her body a single, screaming nerve ending.
She was on the other side.
She pushed herself to her hands and knees, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her hands were a bloody ruin, embedded with tiny, black thorn tips. Her legs and arms were cross-hatched with deep scratches that oozed blood. The cut on her face stung fiercely. She was a mess of pain and gore.
But she had done it.
One by one, the rest of the recruits made their attempts. Some failed repeatedly, collapsing at the base of the wall in a bloody, weeping heap, only to be ordered to try again. The sun climbed to its zenith and began its slow descent, and still the ordeal continued. The Thorn Barrier was not a test to be passed once; it was a lesson to be learned through repetition.
By the end of the day, every one of them was torn and bloodied. The training yard looked like a butchering ground. They stood, or rather, swayed on their feet, before Yaa. The dust was stuck to their bloody skin, giving them a grotesque, reddish-brown coating. The air was thick with the smell of iron and sweat.
Yaa surveyed them, her critical gaze taking in their shredded wraps, their bleeding limbs, their exhausted, pain-glazed eyes.
"You have met the Thorn Barrier," she said, her voice somehow softer in the twilight. "You now know the taste of its lesson. Pain is not your master. It is a tool. You have learned that you can function while you are in agony. You can move, you can think, you can fight, even when your body is screaming for you to stop. This is the first, true step to becoming Mino."
They were not sent to the infirmary. They were given bowls of salt water and rough cloths and told to clean their own wounds. The sting of the salt in her myriad cuts was a fresh hell for Nawi, but she gritted her teeth and did it, pulling out the visible thorn tips with her teeth or with trembling fingers. Asu worked silently beside her, helping to clean a deep gash on Nawi's back that she couldn't reach.
That night, in the barracks, there were no sobs. Only a deep, exhausted silence, broken by the occasional hiss of pain or the rustle of a straw mat. The scent of blood and salt water filled the dark hall.
Nawi lay on her stomach, every inch of her body throbbing. The physical pain was immense, a constellation of fire across her skin. But beneath it, something else was stirring. A grim, hard-won satisfaction. She had looked into the face of pure, physical torment and had not broken. The Thorn Barrier had cut her to ribbons, but it had also cut away a layer of fear. The defiant hatred in her heart was still there, but it was no longer the wild, desperate flame of a cornered animal. It was cooling, hardening, transforming into something more durable, more patient. It was becoming a core of steel, tempered in the fire of agony and quenched in her own blood.
The path to revenge was not a straight line. It was a wall of thorns. And she had learned how to climb it.