The calm Nawi had cultivated under Iyabo's tutelage was a fragile vessel, and the world of the Mino was a stormy sea determined to shatter it. The focus she had learned, the stilling of the internal storm, was about to be tested against the most violent tempest the kingdom could conjure. They were moving beyond physical endurance, beyond weapon skills. They were now to be sculpted in spirit, their very humanity chiseled away to make room for something harder, colder, and infinitely more useful to the state.
The summons came not with the clang of the iron bar, but with the silent, grim presence of Yaa and two senior Mino at first light. The air was cool and carried the sweet, dewy scent of morning, a stark contrast to the grim finality on the instructors' faces.
"You will come," Yaa said, her voice devoid of its usual instructive tone. It was flat, a statement of inevitable fact. "You will be silent. You will observe. You will understand."
They were marched not to the training yard, but out of the royal precinct, through the waking city, and towards the great public square just inside the main walls of Abomey. The familiar sounds of Abomey—the chatter of merchants, the bleating of goats, the rhythmic hammering of smiths—felt distant, muffled under a blanket of grim anticipation. A crowd was gathering, their murmurs a low, anxious hum. The air here was different, charged with a morbid electricity. Nawi caught the scent of dust, of packed bodies, and beneath it, the faint, acrid smell of old blood that had soaked into the earth and never truly washed away.
In the center of the square was a raised platform of packed earth, stained dark in patches. A single, thick post, weathered and splintered, stood at its center. This was the Execution Ground. The knowledge settled in Nawi's stomach like a stone.
They were lined up at the front of the crowd, a row of young women in identical cotton wraps, their faces a mixture of confusion, dread, and forced stoicism. The citizens of Abomey glanced at them, their looks a complex mix of curiosity, pity, and a strange, grudging respect. These girls were being molded into the instruments of the kingdom's will; witnessing its ultimate expression was part of the process.
A drum began to beat—a slow, funereal rhythm that seemed to vibrate in the pit of Nawi's stomach. The crowd's murmur died away. From a side street, a procession emerged. A contingent of male soldiers led the way, their faces hard. Behind them walked two Mino warriors, their postures rigid. And between them, a man.
He was not a soldier. He was perhaps a trader, his clothes once fine but now torn and dirty. His hands were bound behind his back. His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, but he walked with a straight back, his one good eye scanning the crowd with a look of profound, weary defiance. He was not begging. He was not crying. He was simply… present.
Nawi's breath hitched. This was not a faceless enemy from a story. This was a man. She could see the graying hair at his temples, the lines of strain around his mouth. She could smell the sour scent of his fear, mixed with the dust and sweat. This was real.
The soldiers forced him to his knees before the post. A hulking executioner, his torso bare and gleaming with oil, stepped onto the platform. In his hands, he held a massive, double-handed sword, its blade catching the early sun with a cruel, clean glint.
A court official stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. His voice, reedy and official, cut through the heavy air.
"By the order of the Leopard King, Ghezo, ruler of Dahomey, this man, Koffi of the Oyo tribe, is found guilty of espionage and the poisoning of a royal well. The sentence is death. May his end be a lesson to all who would raise their hand against the kingdom."
The official stepped back. The drumbeat quickened, becoming a frantic, pulsing rhythm that matched the frantic beating of Nawi's heart. The executioner raised the great sword, the muscles in his arms and back coiling like pythons.
The world seemed to slow down. Nawi saw the trapped man, Koffi, lift his head. His one good eye was not on the executioner, nor on the sky. It swept across the front row, across the faces of the young recruits. And for a fleeting, terrifying second, it locked with Nawi's.
In that single, suspended moment, she saw something that shattered the last of her fragile calm. She saw not a spy, not an enemy. She saw a reflection. She saw the same defiant hatred that had burned in her own eyes when she had glared at Nanika. She saw a spirit that refused to be broken, even at the end. He was not a monster. He was a man who loved his home, who fought for his people, who was now being destroyed by the machine she had joined. The mirror of his gaze was merciless.
The sword fell.
It was not a clean sound. It was a wet, chopping thud, followed by the gruesome crack of vertebrae. The head did not fall cleanly; it lolled to the side, connected by a grisly rope of tendon and flesh, before the body slumped forward. A fountain of blood, shockingly bright and copious, arced through the air, splattering the platform and the first few rows of the crowd. A few drops, warm and sticky, landed on Nawi's cheek.
The coppery, metallic smell of fresh blood exploded in the air, so thick she could taste it on her tongue. The crowd let out a collective, shuddering sigh—part horror, part gratification. The drum stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip-drip-drip of blood from the platform onto the dust.
Nawi stood frozen. The warm drop on her cheek felt like a brand. The image of the man's defiant eye, the sound of the sword, the smell of his life emptying onto the earth—it was imprinted on her soul. She did not vomit. She did not cry. She simply stood there, a part of her freezing solid, a delicate, human part she hadn't even known was there, turning to ice and shattering inside her chest.
Yaa's voice, when it came, was pitiless. "You have witnessed the ultimate argument of kings. There is no appeal. There is no negotiation. This is the finality we serve. This is the power we wield. Remember it."
They were marched back to the training compound in a deathly silence. The cheerful morning sun now felt like a mockery. The vibrant sounds of the city were an obscenity. The world had been stripped of its color, reduced to shades of blood and dust.
For two days, a pall hung over the recruits. They went through their drills like automatons, their movements precise but empty. The usual competitive fire between Zevi and Mosi was banked. Asu's kind eyes were shadowed with a new, profound sorrow. They ate their meals without tasting them. They slept without dreaming, or if they did, their dreams were filled with the sound of the falling sword.
On the third morning, the test came.
They were assembled in a smaller, walled courtyard, one usually used for storage. The air was close, smelling of old grain and dried mud. Yaa, Adesuwa, and Commander Nanika herself were present. Nanika's flinty eyes swept over them, her presence amplifying the tension in the enclosed space.
Before them, tied to a post identical to the one in the public square, was a man. He was younger than the first, barely more than a boy. He was a captive, likely from a recent skirmish on the border. His face was a mask of terror, his body trembling so violently the post shook. He had soiled himself, the sharp, foul smell cutting through the dusty air.
On a rough-hewn wooden table beside the post lay a row of knives. They were simple, functional tools, their blades about the length of a hand, honed to a sharp, dull gleam.
Nanika stepped forward. "You have witnessed the king's justice. To witness is to understand its theory. To enact it is to understand its nature." Her gaze was a physical weight on each of them. "A warrior must be indifferent to death. Not cruel. Not joyous. Indifferent. It must become a fact, like the sunrise or the rain. It is the landscape in which we operate. To hesitate in the face of death is to die. To flinch from dealing it is to betray your sisters."
She gestured to the knives. "This is your final test of spirit. You will each take a knife. You will each walk to the prisoner. And you will cut his throat."
A wave of pure, undiluted horror washed over the line of recruits. A choked sob escaped from one of the girls. The boy at the post began to weep openly, a low, hopeless sound.
"He is a prisoner of war, slated for execution regardless," Nanika continued, her tone chillingly pragmatic. "His death will serve a purpose today. It will forge you. It will separate the women from the weapons. The choice is the same as it has always been: become a weapon of Dahomey, or be discarded as worthless. Step forward."
Zevi was first. Her ambition, her desperate need to excel, overrode everything else. Her face was a pale, rigid mask. She walked to the table, her footsteps unnaturally loud in the silence. She picked up a knife, her knuckles white. She did not look at the prisoner's face. She walked to him, and in one swift, clinical motion, drew the blade across his throat.
It was not a clean kill. The boy gurgled, a horrible, wet sound, his eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Blood poured down his chest. Zevi stepped back, her hand trembling, the knife dripping. She had done it, but something in her eyes had fractured.
Mosi was next. A cruel light gleamed in her eyes. This was not a test for her; it was an opportunity. She took the knife almost eagerly. She looked the dying boy in the eye as she approached, and her cut was deeper, sharper, a slash of finality. She seemed to feed on his terror, her posture radiating a dark satisfaction.
One by one, the recruits were called forward. Some vomited afterward. Some stood frozen, unable to move, until a sharp command from Adesuwa propelled them forward. Some, like Asu, closed their eyes and did the deed with tears streaming down their face, her gentle spirit screaming in silent protest.
Then it was Nawi's turn.
Her feet felt rooted to the earth. The smell of blood and fear was a solid thing in her lungs. The memory of the first man's defiant gaze burned in her mind, superimposed over the terrified face of this boy. This was not a warrior. This was a frightened child, just like them. To do this was to murder a part of herself, to slaughter the last vestiges of the girl from Keti who believed in justice, in mercy.
"Nawi," Nanika's voice was low, a warning.
She forced one foot in front of the other. The distance to the table was a vast, impossible journey. The knives lay there, inert, yet radiating a malevolent energy. She picked one up. The handle was cool and smooth. The weight of it was insignificant, yet it felt heavier than any sandbag she had ever carried.
She turned and walked towards the post. The boy's eyes, wide with animal terror, locked onto hers. He was trying to speak, to beg, but only a wet, pleading rasp came out. His fear was a physical force, pushing against her.
She raised the knife. Her arm trembled violently. The world narrowed to the pale skin of his throat, the frantic pulse beating there. This was the ultimate obedience. This was the final cut that would sever her from her past, from her humanity. This was the price of staying close to Binta, the cost of her vow of revenge.
She hesitated.
The image of Iyabo's calm, amber eyes flashed in her mind. The body follows the spirit. If your spirit is a storm, your blade will be a leaf in the wind. Her spirit was a hurricane of conflict. She saw her mother's face. She saw Binta's smile. She saw the burning huts of Keti.
And then, she saw the first prisoner again. The defiant one. And in this boy's terrified eyes, she saw a flicker of that same defiance, a last, desperate spark of a spirit that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of certain, ignoble death.
It was that spark that decided her.
He would not be broken. Neither would she.
Her own defiance, the core of her that had chosen this path, hardened into a cold, diamond point. This was not about Dahomey. This was not about obedience. This was about survival. This was about crossing a line from which there was no return, and in doing so, becoming something that could not be stopped.
Her trembling stopped. Her breathing evened. The storm in her spirit coalesced into a single, frigid purpose.
She met the boy's gaze, and in that moment, a silent understanding passed between them. They were both victims of the same machine. But she had chosen to become a cog. He had not.
With a motion that was neither hurried nor slow, a motion of absolute, chilling focus, she drew the blade across his throat.
It was a clean cut. Efficient. The gurgling stopped. The light in his eyes went out. The body sagged against its bonds.
She felt the resistance of flesh and tendon, the final, shuddering exhalation against her hand. She felt the warm spray of blood on her wrist and forearm. The metallic smell filled her nostrils, but this time, it was a smell she had created.
She lowered the knife. She did not look at Nanika. She did not look at the other recruits. She looked only at the dead boy for a moment longer, imprinting the cost on her soul.
Then, she turned and walked back to her place in line. She placed the bloody knife back on the table with a soft, final click.
There was no sense of victory. No pride. No hot rush of power. There was only a vast, hollow silence inside her, as if a great bell had been struck and now only a cold, ringing emptiness remained. The piece of her that could be shocked, that could be horrified, that could cling to the innocence of her old life, was gone. It lay dead in the dust, alongside the boy.
Commander Nanika's gaze rested on her. There was no praise, but there was a flicker of acknowledgment. The cracked tool had been repaired, not with gentle hands, but with fire and blood. The jackal was gone. What stood in the line now was something else. Something that understood the nature of a warrior.
It was the nature of a killer. And Nawi had passed the test.