The Thorn Barrier had not been a culmination, but a commencement. It was the key that unlocked a new, more terrifying tier of their training. The days now bled together in a smear of dust, sweat, and the constant, low-grade thrum of pain. The wall of acacia had taught them they could endure, but endurance was only the foundation. Now, they were to be built upon it.
And Nawi was failing.
The problem was her anger. It was a live thing, a serpent coiled in her gut, its venom souring her every action. It had been her fuel, the core of steel that got her through the raid, the march, the ritual, and the thorn wall. But now, as the training shifted from sheer brutality to lethal precision, it betrayed her.
The training yard was a symphony of controlled violence, and Nawi was the dissonant note. They were learning the art of the agbaja, the short, heavy, sickle-shaped machete that was the signature weapon of the Mino. The veterans moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, the blades becoming extensions of their arms, whirling in sun-catch arcs that hummed through the air. Their strikes were economical, their parries crisp, their footwork a complex, silent dance in the dust.
Nawi, by contrast, was all furious, wasted motion. When she sparred with a partner—often the hulking, sneering Mosi—her attacks were wild, telegraphed swings, powered by pure hatred. She saw not a training partner, but the face of the warrior who had killed her mother, the leering soldiers who had chained them, the impassive gaze of Nanika. Her blade whistled through empty air as Mosi, with infuriating ease, sidestepped and delivered a stinging tap to her ribs with her own wooden practice weapon.
THWACK.
The impact was a burst of white-hot pain that stole her breath. The sound of the seasoned ashwood striking her ribs was a dull, mocking thud.
"Too slow, river-rat," Mosi hissed, her voice a low, smug whisper. "You fight like a child having a tantrum."
Nawi snarled, launching herself forward again, a clumsy, overhead chop that left her entire body exposed. Mosi didn't even bother to parry. She simply pivoted on the ball of her foot and drove the pommel of her practice blade into Nawi's kidney.
Nawi crumpled to one knee, gasping, the world swimming in a nauseating haze of agony. The dust filled her mouth, gritty and dry. She could smell her own sweat, sharp and frantic, and the oily scent of the wood treated with palm oil.
"Enough."
The command came from Adesuwa, the granite-faced veteran who oversaw their weapons training. Her voice was like two stones grinding together. She stood over Nawi, her shadow a cool blotch in the searing sunlight. "You are dead. Again. Your anger has killed you for the tenth time this morning. Get up."
Nawi pushed herself to her feet, her body a constellation of fresh bruises. She could feel the eyes of the other recruits on her. Zevi's gaze was one of cold, analytical disdain—Nawi was a problem to be solved, a flaw in the unit's efficiency. Asu's held a silent, worried empathy. But it was the look from Mosi that burned hottest—a gloating, predatory satisfaction.
"The agbaja is not a club," Adesuwa said, her voice cutting through the yard, meant for all, but aimed at Nawi. "It is a scalpel. It is a thought. It is the final, definitive argument. You do not argue with rage. You argue with truth. The truth of angle, of timing, of economy. Your rage is a fire that burns down your own house. Control it, or it will control you."
But Nawi couldn't. The fire was all she had. Without it, she was just a girl from a burned village, a prisoner in a gilded cage, a sister separated from everything she loved. The fire was her memory, her identity, her purpose. To extinguish it felt like a betrayal of her mother, of Binta, of herself.
Her failures mounted. In endurance runs, she would start too fast, fueled by fury, and burn out before the finish, stumbling in last, lungs heaving. In strength drills, she would strain against the heavy sandbags with such blind force that she injured her back, spending a night in silent, searing pain. During stealth exercises, where they were taught to move through dry leaves without a sound, her tense, angry footsteps crackled like a bushfire, giving away her position instantly.
She was becoming a liability. A joke. The stubborn, observant girl was being swallowed by a brute.
It was after a particularly disastrous sparring session where she had, in a blind rage, actually charged Mosi head-first, earning herself a split lip and a ringing in her ears that lasted for hours, that the summons came.
She was cleaning the practice yard, sweat stinging the fresh cut on her mouth, her body a tapestry of failure, when Yaa approached. The Mistress of Initiates smelled of clean cotton and lemongrass, a stark contrast to the reek of dust and effort that clung to Nawi.
"The Commander wishes to see you," Yaa said, her tone unreadable. "Leave the broom. Follow me."
A cold dread, different from the heat of her anger, trickled down Nawi's spine. Nanika. To be summoned by her could not be good. Was it to be dismissed? Sent to the slave block after all? Her heart hammered against her ribs as she followed Yaa's rigid back out of the main training compound and into the labyrinthine pathways of the royal precinct.
They did not go to Nanika's command quarters. Instead, they wound their way towards the older, quieter sectors of the palace grounds, where the buildings were smaller, their thatch roofs darker with age, and the air was scented with flowering vines and the quiet dust of history. They stopped before a small, solitary hut nestled in the shade of a massive, ancient baobab tree. The tree's gnarled branches looked like the muscles of a great, sleeping beast, and its presence seemed to swallow sound, creating a pocket of profound silence.
"Wait here," Yaa instructed, and with a final, inscrutable look, she turned and left.
Nawi stood alone, the silence pressing in on her. The only sounds were the drone of a lone bee and the whisper of the baobab's leaves. The hut's doorway was a dark rectangle, curtained with strings of dried seeds and small, polished bones that clicked softly in the faint breeze. The smell here was of dry earth, woodsmoke, and something else—something wild and musky, like cured hide and strange herbs.
After a long moment, a figure emerged from the hut, and Nawi's breath caught.
This was not a Mino like the others. This woman was ancient, her body so lean and wiry it seemed to be made of sun-baked leather and knotted cord. Her face was a web of deep fissures, each one a story carved into her skin. Her eyes, nearly lost in the folds of age, were not the flint of Nanika or the granite of Adesuwa. They were the color of dark amber, and they held a depth of knowledge that was primal, patient, and utterly terrifying. She moved with a slow, deliberate economy that spoke of a lifetime of conserving energy for the single, decisive moment. Around her neck, she wore a single, yellowed elephant's tusk, intricately carved with symbols of lightning and storm.
This was a Gbeto.
Nawi had heard the legends. The Gbeto were the originals, the first warrior women of Dahomey, forged in a time before the kingdom's great expansion. They were not just soldiers; they were elephant hunters, women who walked into the deepest forests alone to face the great, grey mountains of flesh and wrath, armed with nothing but a spear and an impossible courage. They were the foundation upon which the Mino were built, their ghosts the sacred ancestors of every warrior who now served. To meet one was like meeting a figure from a myth, stepped out of the campfire stories and into the dusty reality of the afternoon.
The old woman did not speak. Her amber eyes swept over Nawi, from her dust-caked feet to the fresh cut on her lip, to the tense, angry set of her shoulders. The gaze was not assessing her potential or her flaws as a recruit. It was seeing something else entirely. It was the gaze of a hunter looking at a trapped animal, understanding its panic, its rage, its futile struggle.
"The Commander believes you are broken," the old woman said. Her voice was a dry rustle, like wind through savannah grass. It was not loud, but it filled the silent space around the baobab tree completely. "She sees a tool with a crack in it, ready to shatter. She sent you to me to be discarded."
Nawi said nothing, her jaw clenched, the familiar anger bubbling up at being discussed as an object.
The Gbeto's lips stretched into a thin, knowing smile. "But Nanika was never Gbeto. She sees the weapon. I see the fire that can forge it. Or destroy it. I am Iyabo. Come."
She turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the hut. After a moment's hesitation, Nawi followed.
The interior was cool and dark, smelling strongly of the musky herbs, dried meat, and woodsmoke. The floor was hard-packed earth, scattered with animal skins. Simple clay pots and woven baskets lined the walls. A single shaft of sunlight, thick with dancing dust motes, pierced the gloom from a smoke hole in the roof, illuminating a low stool where Iyabo seated herself. She gestured for Nawi to sit on a mat opposite her.
"Show me your hands," Iyabo commanded.
Nawi, confused, held out her hands. They were calloused, scarred from the thorns, the nails broken and packed with dirt.
Iyabo took them in her own. Her touch was shockingly gentle, her fingers like dry, warm twigs tracing the lines of Nawi's palms, the raised weals, the scabbed-over cuts.
"These hands want to kill," Iyabo murmured. "I feel it. The tension is a scream. But they do not know how. They only know how to destroy. To be a hunter, to be a warrior, you must first learn how to hold. How to be still."
She released Nawi's hands and picked up a small, unlit clay oil lamp from beside her stool. She placed it in Nawi's palms.
"Hold this," she said. "Keep the wick level. Do not let the oil spill."
It was a simple, almost childish task. Nawi held the lamp, her brow furrowed in confusion. This was what the legendary Gbeto did? Played with lamps?
For a long time, there was only silence. Nawi sat, the cool clay of the lamp a smooth weight in her hands. She focused on keeping it steady. But after a few minutes, the memory of Mosi's smirk, the sound of the practice blade hitting her ribs, the scent of her mother's blood, all rushed back. Her anger flared. Her hands, reacting to the tension in her heart, began to tremble. The oil in the lamp sloshed, threatening to spill over the rim.
"Your fire burns you," Iyabo's voice cut through her thoughts, calm and absolute. "You hold the lamp, but your mind is in the training yard, is in your burned village. Your body is here, but your spirit is everywhere else, being whipped by memories. Bring it back. Here. To the lamp."
Nawi took a shaky breath, trying to force calm upon herself. It was like trying to hold back the sea with her hands. The trembling continued.
"Do not fight the anger," Iyabo said, her rustling voice taking on a hypnotic quality. "That is like trying to punch smoke. Acknowledge it. Feel its heat. Then, let it pass through you like the wind through the branches of the baobab. The tree does not stop the wind; it uses it to sway, to grow stronger roots. Your rage is a wind. Let it blow. But do not let it break you."
It was a different language. Not the language of commands and punishment, but of observation and acceptance. Nawi closed her eyes. She felt the anger, a hot, tight ball in her chest. She let it be there, without feeding it, without trying to strangle it. She focused on the sensation of the cool clay in her hands, on the slight weight of the oil inside. She imagined her bones were the roots of the great baobab, sinking deep into the earth, unshakeable. The wind of her rage could howl, but it could not uproot her.
Slowly, infinitesimally, the trembling in her hands ceased. The oil in the lamp grew still, its surface becoming a perfect, placid pool.
She didn't know how long she sat there, but when she opened her eyes, the shaft of sunlight had moved across the floor. Iyabo was watching her, her amber eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"Good," the old woman said, a single word of approval that felt more valuable than any praise from Yaa. "The first lesson. The body follows the spirit. If your spirit is a storm, your blade will be a leaf in the wind. If your spirit is a mountain, your blade will be an avalanche."
The next day, and for many days after, Nawi's training was split. Mornings were still spent in the collective hell of the main yard, running, drilling, sparring. But her afternoons were spent in the silent shade of the baobab tree with Iyabo.
The lessons were never what she expected. Iyabo did not teach her new fighting forms or secret techniques. She taught her how to see.
She had Nawi sit for hours, watching a column of ants carry a dead beetle, noting their efficiency, their single-minded purpose, their lack of rage. She taught her to track the path of a sun-spider across the hard earth, to predict its movements not by chasing it, but by understanding its nature. She made her hold a spear for so long that her arm went numb, not to build strength, but to learn the difference between muscle strain and the true, focused intent required to throw it.
"The Gbeto did not hunt the elephant by running at it, screaming," Iyabo said one afternoon as Nawi practiced throwing a light javelin at a woven-grass target. "That is how you become paste under its foot. We watched. We learned its paths, its habits, where it drank, where it slept. We became a part of the forest, so still that the birds would land on our shoulders. And when the moment was perfect, when the wind was right and the elephant's guard was down, we would strike. One blow. One perfect, focused blow. The elephant's rage at the end was immense, a force that could shatter trees. But it was too late. The strike had already been made."
Nawi threw the javelin. It was a clean throw, but it struck the outer ring of the target.
"You are still throwing your anger," Iyabo observed. "You are throwing the memory of your village at the target. Throw the javelin. Nothing else."
Nawi retrieved the spear. She took a deep breath, feeling the familiar heat rise in her chest. She acknowledged it. I see you, anger. You are there. Then she let the thought go, like releasing a bird from a cage. She focused only on the weight of the javelin in her hand, the flex of the shaft, the center of the target. Her world narrowed to that single point. She threw.
The javelin flew with a soft hiss and buried itself dead-center in the target with a satisfying thump.
A sense of calm power, entirely new, flowed through her. It wasn't the frantic, temporary high of a successful wild swing. This was deeper, more reliable. It was control.
Weeks blended into a month. The change in Nawi began to seep into her morning training. She was not suddenly the best, but she was no longer the worst. In sparring, she stopped charging. She began to watch. She saw the slight shift in Mosi's weight that signaled an incoming lunge. She saw the tiny, almost imperceptible flick of Zevi's eyes that betrayed her intended target. She started to move not as a reaction to her own fury, but as a response to her opponent's intention.
During one session, Mosi came at her with the usual brutal confidence, her practice blade whistling towards Nawi's head. Before, Nawi would have tried to meet it with a clumsy, force-against-force block. Now, she didn't block at all. She flowed inside the arc of the swing, her body moving with a new, acquired grace, and used Mosi's own momentum to unbalance her, sending her stumbling forward with a surprised grunt.
The training yard fell silent for a beat. Adesuwa, who was observing, gave a single, sharp nod. It was the first sign of approval Nawi had ever received from her.
Mosi scrambled to her feet, her face a mask of bewildered fury. "A lucky trick," she spat.
Nawi said nothing. She simply settled back into her stance, her breathing even, her spirit as calm as the oil in the lamp. She held the Gbeto's gaze within her, the ancient, patient amber eyes that saw the elephant, not the storm.
She had not conquered her anger. It was still there, a banked fire in her heart, the source of her hatred for Dahomey and her desire for revenge. But Iyabo had taught her to build a hearth around it. To contain it. To channel its heat, rather than be consumed by its flames.
The clumsy, furious girl was receding. In her place was something beginning to take shape—something focused, patient, and dangerous. The path to revenge was not a headlong rush. Iyabo had shown her it was a hunt. And Nawi was finally learning how to be the hunter.