The ZIA courtyard was a theater of status. Usually, the stone benches were occupied by the various "cliques"—the athletes by the fountain, the tech-kids under the jacarandas, and the socialites on the steps. But today, the center of the square was empty, saved for a single wooden table and two chairs.
Leya sat there, her cello case leaning against the table. True to Zazu's word, she had tied a thin black silk ribbon around the neck of the instrument. It fluttered in the light breeze, a small banner of mourning and defiance.
"Ten minutes in, and the Heritage Society looks like a funeral for one," a voice drawled.
Musi approached, flanked by a group of seniors. He wasn't carrying a notebook; he was carrying a smartphone, the camera lens pointed directly at Leya's face. Behind him, a man in a rumpled suit and a fedora—a stringer for *The Lusaka Ledger*—scribbled in a pad.
"Tell me, Chairperson Kapiri," Musi said, leaning over the table. "Is the first order of business teaching us how to siphon offshore accounts? Or is that a specialized workshop for the 'Elite' members?"
The crowd that had been hovering at the edges of the courtyard began to close in, drawn by the scent of blood.
Leya didn't look up from her registration sheet. "The first order of business, Musi, is an audit of the school's land grants. The Heritage Society exists to preserve the history of this ground. I thought you'd be interested, seeing as your father's 'consultancy' built the new wing on a plot that hasn't had a title deed cleared since 1992."
The reporter's head snapped up. Musi's smirk flickered. "You're reaching, Kapiri. My father doesn't do business with ghosts."
"Then he shouldn't mind when the Society publishes the original survey maps tomorrow," Leya said, her voice cool and perfectly modulated. She finally looked up, her eyes locking onto the reporter's camera. "We aren't here to talk about my mother's past. We're here to talk about the school's present. Who's signing up?"
The silence was stifling. No one moved. In the social ecosystem of ZIA, joining Leya's club was a suicide mission.
Then, the heavy oak doors of the Administration Block opened.
Zazu didn't walk; he marched. He was in full prefect regalia—braid, badge, and polished shoes. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He didn't look at Musi. He didn't look at the reporter. He walked straight to the table, picked up the pen, and signed his name at the very top of the list.
"Zazu, what are you doing?" Musi hissed, dropping the phone. "Your mother will have your head for this."
"My mother values leadership, Musi," Zazu said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "And the Heritage Society is a sanctioned pillar of this Academy. As Head Prefect, it is my duty to ensure our history is handled with... transparency."
He looked at Leya. For a fleeting second, the "Chairperson" and the "Secretary" shared a look that had nothing to do with clubs or ledgers. It was the look of two people standing on the edge of a cliff, holding hands.
"I'm in," a voice called out from the back. It was Sarah, a quiet scholarship student from the debate team. She walked up, eyes darting nervously, and signed.
Then another. And another.
It wasn't a flood, but it was a leak. The students who were tired of the "New Money" bullying, the ones who had been pushed aside by Musi's crowd, saw a gap in the armor.
Musi looked at the growing list, then at the reporter. "This is a joke. You're letting a thief lead you."
"A thief?" Zazu stepped closer to Musi, his height advantage suddenly very apparent. "Be careful, Musi. If we're going to talk about family history, we might have to discuss why your father's name appears on the 2012 sub-contracts. Do you really want that in the *Ledger*?"
Musi went pale. He signaled his group to retreat, muttering something about a "waste of time," but the damage was done. The Heritage Society wasn't just a club; it was a fortress.
As the lunch bell rang and the crowd dispersed, only Leya and Zazu remained at the table.
"You shouldn't have done that publicly," Leya whispered, her hands finally shaking as she packed up her pens. "The reporter... that's going to be on the front page by tomorrow morning. 'Prince Joins Forces with the Exiled Queen.'
"Let them print it," Zazu said. He reached down, helping her close her cello case. His hand lingered on hers for a second too long. "My mother wants to see you, Leya. Not at the school. At the house. Tonight."
Leya froze. "The safety deposit key? Or the 'Family Trap'?"
"I don't know," Zazu said, his expression darkening. "But she didn't ask. She commanded. And she told me to tell you one thing: *'Bring the cello.'*"