The desert night came alive with fire.
The magicians of Uzazzu stood afar, chanting in low, guttural tones that made the air itself tremble. A veil of smoke spread from their hands, bending moonlight, cloaking thousands of warriors in a wavering haze. To any lookout in Kano's camp, the plain would seem empty—only shifting dust, only mirages. But then the mist changed, A black fog rolled in, unnatural and dense.
Then the first arrow cut through the night.
It landed in a soldier's chest, and he fell with a scream that shattered the silence. A dozen more arrows followed, then a hundred, falling like dark rain.
The camp of Kano exploded in panic.
From the smoke came the thunder of hooves. Uzazzu's cavalry surged forward,
horses foaming at the mouth, their riders spearing, slashing, and trampling men
under iron hooves. Archers kept firing from the shadows, each shot precise,cold, and merciless. The Hunters' Guild stalked in silence, their painted skins making them blend with the night as they cut throats and vanished again.
And at the heart of it all, the Masu Jirgin Karfe advanced—iron-clad, shields locked,
swords flashing. They were death itself in human form.
The Kano forces rallied with shouts, drawing their spears, but Uzazzu pressed hard, a tide of fury.
The surprise attack had killed a good number of men; over 3,000 lay dead
from the poisonous coatings of the arrows, and the deaths of their foot soldiers increased heavily as Uzazzu marched on.
A young warrior, Danjuma, rode in at the flank, his chest heaving. He caught sight of a warrior whose horse had just been brought down by the vicious Arrow of the Archers. When face-to-face with the injured man dressed in a red-dyed tunic, sword raised, he screamed and charged—but he froze. His weapon shook in his hand. The strike never came. His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Terror seized him, and he turned, stumbling backward.
Quickly, the Kano warrior took no chances and lunged towards him with his blade—only for the Madawaki to intercept. Steel rang on steel. The Madawaki shoved the dead soldier aside and grabbed Danjuma by the collar. He hissed; his words, although short, hammered on the poor soldier's pride.
"All bark, no bite"
Danjuma stammered, his lips quivering. The Madawaki spat at his feet and hurled him away. "Stay behind the line, boy, before you shame us all."
~~~
The battle raged on.
At the center, King of Uzazzu himself rode high, cutting through the bands of his enemies like they were nothing but weak branches on a tree, his sword a streak of light. His presence alone pulled men forward. But in the chaos, a shadow moved—slim, tall, with eyes like cold fire. A black-shafted spear gleamed in his hand.
He hurled it with precision.
The weapon cut through the din, heading straight for the king. Idris saw it in that instant. His heart wrenched with one thought in mind.
"He must not die."
With a roar, he kicked his horse forward, leaping into its path. The spear tore into his side with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from inside, and Idris fell, his cry echoing into the break of dawn.
The king wheeled his horse, eyes wide. He dismounted in a rush, kneeling beside his son.
"Baba," Idris gasped, clutching at the wound, his breath ragged. "Am I… am I
dying?"
The king pressed his forehead to his son's, voice low and steady. "No, Idris. Not you. It was my oath… my oath to Aumakhu. The price is mine to pay."
Idris tried to rise, but the king held him down. Soldiers lifted the boy carefully, dragging him away toward the rear. Idris struggled against their grip, but his father only gave him a final smile, sad and full of a weight
Idris could not yet understand.
"Rest now, my son."
The battle surged without pause. Uzazzu pressed their advantage, pushing Kano back across the plain. Dust clouds rose so thick it turned day into a choking fog. Steel clanged, men screamed, and horses reared and fell. Victory hovered just within reach.
Their mere 10,000 against the multitude of Kano. Yes, they had lost men; a good amount of them lay lifeless as horses trampled on their bodies, but… Their
deaths would not be in vain, as one by one the Kano warriors started to retreat.
The Madawaki let out a loud cry, a shout of victory, and the warriors responded in unison. Truly, the war, which was not in their favor, had turned tides.
But Idris could not rest.
Bloodied and staggering, he forced himself back onto the field. His body burned, but his heart pulled him onward. He searched through the chaos for one face—his father's.
And then he saw him.
The king had dismounted, standing alone in a clearing of corpses. His armor was spattered with blood, his chest heaving. Yet he smiled faintly, as though a great burden had finally been lifted. For one heartbeat, Idris felt relief.
Then everything changed.
The king's eyes rolled back, pupils dilating until the whites all but vanished. It was as though the dark and ancient gods had crawled into him, hollowing him from within. His breathing quickened, uneven, almost feral.
"No…" Idris whispered, stumbling closer.
With eerie calm, the king unsheathed his sword. His hands did not tremble. His gaze was fixed on nothing, as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
Without hesitation, he turned the blade inward.
The steel pierced his chest. The sound was brutal—metal grating against bone, flesh tearing. His body jolted, a choked breath escaping his lips as blood surged, hot and thick, staining his white markings crimson. His knees buckled.
Idris screamed, sprinting across the battlefield, his vision blurred with tears.
"Baba!"
The king's eyes flickered once toward his son, a fleeting glimmer of recognition. Then his body sagged, collapsing around the blade that still jutted from his heart.
Idris fell to his knees, cradling him, his cries breaking through the clash of war.
And in that moment, the war cry, which seemed victorious, turned into wails of sorrow for their beloved king.