The drums of Uzazzu did not sound that morning.
Silence marched with them instead—a silence so thick it smothered the wind. The
sun rose like a red coin behind veils of heat, bleeding over the savannah.
Thousands of men moved as one—bare feet pounding the earth, banners swaying
like tongues of fire above their heads.
Dust climbed the air, clinging to the sweat and oil on their bodies. The Uzazzu host stretched far across the plains, a living serpent of iron and leather.
At the front rode the king, bare-chested beneath the lion-hide skin he wore,his eyes hard as the bronze spear in his grip. Beside him, Idris,the Sarkin sojo-jin who rode with fierceness. Then the Madawaki, marched with the elite Masu Jirgin Karfe—men encased in iron plates that shimmered like molten dusk. Their breaths came in grunts, their shields etched with charms of blood and ash.
Behind them thundered the cavalry: horsemen draped in scarlet and gold,
their mares stamping, nostrils flaring clouds of steam. The Archers of Karaye walked in silence, bows strung tight, quivers heavy. The Hunter Guild stalked along the edges—lean men painted in streaks of charcoal
and crimson, their eyes glinting like feral cats. Men who trained their bodies
day and night to fend off beasts of the wild.
Above them, the magicians of Uzazzu moved like wraiths, whispering to the air. Fingers carved sigils in smoke as gourds dripped dark oils into the dust. Slowly, a shroud began to crawl over the army—a living haze that bent the light, twisting shapes, cloaking banners in an illusion. To a
distant eye, they were no more than heat rising from the earth.
They passed borders where villages once stood, huts hollowed by fire, clay walls clawed by steel. Spears poked from the earth like teeth, bones tangled in the grass. The king looked and said nothing. His jaw
was granite; his eyes did not blink.
By dusk, the wind carried a scent—wild, sharp, hungry. Hyenas.
Dozens of them, their laughter rolling through the plains like broken drums.
Eyes glowed in the thorn scrub as shadows moved low and quick. The Hunter Guild
crouched, their spears ready, knives flashing like tongues of silver. Two beasts lunged; three fell before they touched flesh. The hyenas retreated, snarling into the dark, dragging carcasses of their own dead. The men spat on the earth and marched on.
Night came like ink poured over the land. While the camp settled for the night, Inside the largest tent, the council gathered.
A map of scorched hide lay between them, pinned with daggers.
"We strike the gates of Kano," growled Madawaki, the battle scarred warrior, his voice like sandpaper. "Cut off their heart."
"No," said another, thumping his fist. "The border walls. Bleed them till they crawl."
Idris folded his arms, silent as the storm in his chest.
The king stood over the map, the fire painting scars across his face. When
he spoke, his voice was low, iron-heavy
"The Oracle showed me the shadow of the desert scorpion."
Silence reigned. Even the flames seemed to hold their breath.
"The Scorpion's Shadow," the Madawaki whispered. "A dead land. No one treads there."
The king's gaze hardened. "Kano treads there now. Their blood is waiting for our steel."
All Arguments died. The map shifted and The plan was sealed.
When the council broke, Idris lingered. He stared at the king, his chest tight with words unspoken. The king looked at him and said
"Walk with me."
They stepped beyond the tent. Night hummed with drums far away, the smell of
roasted meat filled the air as well as murmurs of warriors sharpening their blades, exchanging tales of their battle scars and the victories they had claimed.
The King leaned close, his beard brushing Idris's ear. His whisper was soft as a snake sliding through grass—soft, but it struck like a spear.
Idris froze. His teeth tightened
"Baba… no." His voice cracked like dry wood. "I cannot do that. She—she will
never forgive me."
The king's hand clamped his shoulder, hard as carved stone. His eyes burned, twin embers in the dark.
"You will," he said, his tone a verdict, not a plea. "For Uzazzu."
Idris trembled. His breath came short and sharp. "Please… there must be another way."
The king looked away, toward the north where the Scorpion's Shadow waited.
His voice dropped to a whisper of steel
"If I fall, protect Amira. She is the breath of Uzazzu."
"I will not let you die," Idris swore, fierce as a mother lion
The king turned, a smile ghosting his lips—thin, bitter, knowing. "Then guard her well."
And he walked into the dark, leaving Idris with the weight of a secret that burned like iron in his chest.
Above them, the stars opened their eyes, cold and countless. The march to shadows had begun.