By the time we reached the dining hall, the smell of roasted yam and millet porridge clung to the air like a spell. My stomach tightened — not from hunger alone but from the ache of running longer than the others. Sweat still stung my eyes, the ghost of dust scratching at my throat. While most recruits sat relaxed, bowls already half empty, we were just arriving, limping in like patient
dogs who never got the fattest bone.
The hall was nothing like the palace feasts of my past. No carved wood or polished trays, no servants weaving silently between tables. Here, food was dumped into clay bowls from a pot. Wooden spoons clattered against rims, and the air carried laughter sharp enough to bite. Warriors, veterans, and trainers ate in their own corners, voices booming. The recruits had been pushed into a smaller section near the wall — mats spread on the hard floor, bowls balanced
on knees.
We slipped into an empty space at the edge. Danladi dropped onto his mat with a groan, grabbing the nearest bowl without caring what was inside. Nala sat stiffly, her eyes scanning the room for threats. I lowered myself carefully, my limbs heavy from punishment.
But I could feel it — eyes. Watching. Measuring.
"You."
The voice sliced through the clatter like a blade.
I turned.
She stood a few paces away, leaning against a pillar as if she owned the hall. The scar cut across her cheek like a warning carved in flesh. Her eyes glittered with something sharp, too sharp for ordinary curiosity.
Already, she had gathered shadows. A few recruits lingered behind her, waiting for her next word like dogs waiting for scraps.
"Already your first day," she said, her smile cruel. "And you've made a name for yourself. Causing trouble."
A few nearby recruits chuckled, though none dared too loudly.
I tore off a piece of yam, chewing slowly. I would not give her the satisfaction of a response.
Nala's spine went rigid beside me. I could feel the fire rising in her, the way her lips parted as if to throw the words back at the girl. But under the mat, I caught her wrist and squeezed. A small shake of my head. Not yet.
The scar-faced girl's grin deepened, as though my silence amused her more than anger would have. "What's your name?" she asked. "Your family? Or maybe you think you're too fine to answer?"
Her words crawled over my skin like ants. I kept my gaze low, spooning porridge into my mouth.
Danladi cleared his throat, trying to break the tension. "Zainabu" he said,looking at her with a frown. "Enough. Leave her be."
The name rippled across the recruits' corner. Zainabu. So that was it. A name to match the scar.
But Zainabu only leaned forward, her gaze crawling back to me like a viper.
"You don't belong here," she said. Her voice was soft, almost gentle — which made the venom worse.
"Look at your face. Look at your hands. Untouched. Delicate. This one…" she gestured at me with her spoon, "…this one does not know hardship. Not like us."
Her lips curled. "Rauni."
The word hissed through the air, drawing a few gasps and chuckles. Weakling.
Fragile one. How dare she call ne that?
My jaw clenched. Something inside me cracked, like the gods and taken hold
of my calabash and given it a slight tug. The blood rushed to my face, and before I realized it, my hand was rising. I wanted to slap that smug smile clean off her face, to wipe away the mockery carved into her scar.
But my hand never landed.
A grip like iron caught my wrist midair. Strong. Unyielding.
Hamza.
She loomed behind me, her shadow falling across my mat. Her lips curved into a predator's smile. "If anyone is going to be a disciplinarian" she said, her voice carrying over the hall, "it will be me."
Silence spread like oil. The scrape of spoons stopped, the laughter died. Even Zainabu faltered, her smirk slipping as she lowered her eyes.
Hamza's voice rose, sharp enough to cut. "Who told you three you could sit here and eat?"
The silence deepened. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
"You were to meet me at the circle. Go. Now."
Danladi dropped his bowl so fast porridge splattered across the mat. He leapt to his feet, already half-running, his face pale with terror. Nala hesitated, her jaw tightening in defiance, but when Hamza's eyes narrowed, she stood quickly and hurried after him.
Hamza did not release me. She leaned closer, her breath hot against my ear.
Her whisper was low, for me alone: "This is not the palace. Stop acting like a noble."
The words hit harder than a slap. My chest tightened — she knew. She knew.
But I forced my face calm, pulled free from her grip, and stood. If she thought she could break me with words, she was mistaken.
We marched to the circle under the bite of the sun. The ground was dry and cracked, ringed by stones. Hamza stood before us like a queen of torment, spear in hand.
"Crawl," she barked.
We dropped to the dirt. Dust filled my mouth, stinging my eyes.
"Push!"
My arms trembled, my chest burning as the earth scraped my palms.
"Run!"
We staggered to our feet and obeyed, our legs dragging, lungs screaming.
And again.
And again.
Hours bled together. Each failure earned us more laps, each stumble another punishment. By midday my body felt carved from fire and stone. Danladi gasped
like a dying man, Nala's lips were bloodied from biting back cries, and I — I refused to fall. Not here. Not in front of Hamza. Not in front of the scar-faced girl watching from the shadows.
When at last the sun began to sink, Hamza ordered us to halt. My chest heaved, sweat dripping into the dust at my feet.
The recruits were filing back to the huts, laughing and gossiping as if they had survived a feast, not training. And at the center of them was Zainabu, her steps proud, her shadows trailing behind her like flies.
Our eyes locked across the circle.
Hamza followed my gaze and grinned. "Tomorrow," she said, slamming her spear
into the dirt with a crack. "The official training begins. And you three will be the first to spar."
Her eyes pinned me.
"With her."