The camp smelled of smoke and sweat and dust.
We followed the Madawaki through the wide opening between two carved totems— tall wooden pillars etched with the faces of past war chiefs, their eyes painted a deep, dried-blood red. Their grim mouths seemed to frown at us as we passed, a warning carved into wood.
Beyond the entrance, the camp stretched out like a living beast. It was perfectly circular, its symmetry unsettling, as though even the ground obeyed its own law. Low huts of mud and thatch formed a ring around a vast, empty training ground. The earth was stamped flat and hard, glinting faintly with
crushed quartz from years of trampling feet. To the right, racks of spears and shields stood gleaming in the dawn light. To the left, a great blackened pit still smoldered from the night's fire, breathing out smoke that stung the eyes.
Veteran warriors stood in a loose half-circle, waiting. Their bodies were stripped to the waist, lean and carved with muscle, skin marked with ochre symbols. Their eyes were sharp, the kind that saw through flesh and bone. They did not speak as we approached — only watched.
I felt every inch of their gaze.
Danladi walked just ahead of me, his shoulders squared, jaw set. The boy
beside him stumbled to keep up, his steps clumsy, his wide eyes darting from spear racks to the painted warriors. The scarred woman trailed just behind me, close enough that I could hear her slow, deliberate breathing.
The Madawaki stopped at the very center of the circle and turned. The early sun caught his face, throwing it into sharp relief — high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and the shadow of a man carved by war. Here, in the middle of the Circle,he looked larger than he had at the palace, as though this was where he drew his strength.
"This is the Circle," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "From today until the day you leave — whether on your feet or on your back — this is your home."
No one spoke.
"You were not brought here to rest," he continued, his gaze sweeping over us
one by one. "You were brought here to be broken and rebuilt. What you were before this moment no longer matters. The Masu Jirkin Karfe are not men or women, neither princes nor slaves — only iron. Those who cannot become iron will be sent away. Or buried."
A faint wind stirred the dust at our feet. My throat felt dry.
Then his eyes found me.
And lingered.
For a long breath, the camp was utterly still. There was no anger in his gaze — no kindness either — only a weight, as though he were measuring me, weighing something deep in his mind. My chest tightened, but I did not look away.
At last, he spoke.
"Tonight, you will eat. At dawn, your trials begin."
He signaled, and one of the veterans stepped forward to guide us.
She was a mountain of a woman, her frame broad and her dark skin gleaming with sweat. Her arms were thick with muscle, her grip on the spear so casual it looked like a reed in her hand. She wore her hair shaved close on one side and braided on the other, beads clicking softly as she walked. Her breasts strained against the leather strap that held her chest-plate, and her hips swayed with unbothered confidence, her steps heavy enough to make the ground crunch beneath her.
As she passed me, she gave me a slow, deliberate once-over, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a challenge. I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my face unreadable.
"This way," she said, her voice low and rough as gravel.
We followed her around the circle, past training dummies scarred with sword
marks and wooden racks stacked with shields. The camp smelled of iron, dust,
and men who had not washed in days. Somewhere in the distance, a war drum
thudded in slow, even rhythm.
When we reached the sleeping hut, she pushed the reed mat aside with one
hand and gestured. "In. Eat when the horn sounds. Sleep if you can. You will need it."
As we entered, her eyes caught mine once more, glinting with something that might have been amusement. Then she was gone, her heavy steps fading into the night.
Inside, the hut was dim, the air thick with the scent of sweat and herbs. Mats had been laid out on the ground in a neat row. I sat down on mine, my satchel clutched against my chest, and listened. Outside, the sounds of the camp swelled — the clash of steel on steel, the barked commands of trainers,
the thud of fists against wooden posts.
Danladi lay down beside me with a sigh, rolling onto his back.
"They'll eat us alive," he muttered.
I glanced at him. "Not if we bite first."
A soft laugh came from the other side — Nala, who had been silent until now. She slid closer on her mat, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"You saw the way that woman looked at you, ba? Like she already wants to throw you in the pit."
"She can try," I said, though my voice came out lower than I meant.
"Mm." Nala lay back, staring at the roof. "Just make sure you don't get yourself killed before you get what you came for. You still want to leave here in one piece right?"
I didn't answer right away. My fingers tightened around my satchel.
"Yes," I said finally.
Outside, the drumbeat continued — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat.
The camp was awake.
And tomorrow, I would know if I was made of Iron.