The hidden courtyard was nothing like the grand training grounds of the warriors. It was smaller, enclosed by thick stone walls covered in ivy, lit only by torches that flickered in the night breeze. But to Zaria, it was more beautiful than the golden halls of the palace—because here, she could become something more than just a caged princess.
Queen Nyasha stood before her, a wooden staff in hand. "Before you can wield a sword, you must learn balance. Before you can strike, you must learn patience."
Zaria's heart pounded. She had dreamed of this moment, of holding a weapon, of proving she was worthy of the strength that burned inside her.
The queen tossed her the staff. "Strike me."
Zaria hesitated. "Mother, I—"
"Strike me."
She gripped the staff and lunged forward, swinging with all her strength. But before the blow could land, her mother sidestepped effortlessly, tapping Zaria's back with her own staff, sending her stumbling forward.
"Too slow," the queen said. "Again."
Frustration flared in Zaria's chest, but she swallowed it down. She attacked again—faster, harder. Again, her mother dodged.
Hours passed, and Zaria's arms ached, her breath coming in sharp gasps. But she refused to stop. She swung, dodged, countered, and learned. The queen did not go easy on her, nor did she offer comfort. But in the fire of each failure, Zaria felt something awaken inside her.
Determination.
"This is only the beginning," her mother said at last, lowering her staff. "You are not just fighting for yourself. One day, you will fight for a kingdom."
Zaria wiped sweat from her brow, her eyes burning with newfound purpose. "Then teach me everything."
A slow smile spread across Queen Nyasha's lips. "So be it."
And so, under the cover of night, the queen trained her daughter in secret. Not as a delicate princess, but as a warrior of Zambura.
One day, the world would know her name.
But first, she had to become strong enough to claim it.