The night settled over the camp with a quiet heaviness. The fire pits scattered around the barracks crackled, their orange light painting restless shadows on the recruits' faces.
The day's sparring had left everyone raw and aching, but strangely alive. Bruises were compared like badges of honor. Laughter rolled across the gathering spots, sharp and relieved, the kind that only came after surviving something harsh.
Nala and I found a small hollow near one of the larger fires and sat close so our bodies could share heat. The fire's warmth soaked into our sore muscles; the smoky air pricked at my nose, but there was a comfort in it. Around us, the camp looked different now—less like a place of machines learning to kill, more like a cluster of boys and girls stripped down to tired bones trying to be human again.
Danladi had already planted himself in the center of a circle of boys, voice booming, replaying his victory again and again. "You should have seen his face when I hooked him! His eyes rolled like goat's eyes before slaughter."
The others roared with laughter, slapping his back, demanding he show the move again. Danladi leapt up, miming the sweep with exaggerated flourish until one of the boys toppled backward into the dust.
Nala winced beside me. "That girl nearly broke my ribs," she said, rubbing the place where a rib still protested. Danladi grinned at us as he sauntered over, as if we were his only audience now. I would have thought he'd drift further into his new rank of friends, but he came back to our small corner.
A fire cracked. Shadows swayed across their faces. Someone began humming a tune, soft and low, and others joined, the sound carrying into the night.
Then the talk turned, as it always did when recruits gathered—the talk of legends, of those who led them.
Nala nudged Danladi with a grin. "So this is when the real training starts," she whispered.
Danladi smirked, lowering his voice. "Not with the sword. With the tongue. If you can survive camp gossip, you can survive anything."
The recruits nearby burst into laughter. A tall, wiry boy leaned forward, his face half-hidden by smoke "You've heard, haven't you? About Madawaki."
Several heads turned. The boy's tone already promised mischief.
"What about him?" I asked.
The boy grinned wide. "They say he carries no fear of death. That once, in a raid, an arrow struck through his chest—and he pulled it out and kept fighting."
Gasps circled the fire. Someone muttered, "A tale for children."
"No," another cut in quickly, eyes bright. "I heard worse. They say he cannot be touched by iron at all. That's why he leads the Masu Jirkin Karfe."
Danladi raised his brows, half amused. "It is true. I have been in battle with him. That man fights like a demon"
Gasps erupted from their mouths, then someone questioned
"That is a lie. Why should we believe you have been to battle before? Even if you did, you would have been a water boy"
Laughter rippled through the fire. Even my own mouth was about to betray me before I regained composure. Danladi's pride did not have to be stung like that.
"Call me whatever you want. When next there is war, we will see who is the more experienced warrior" he muttered.
The wiry boy leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically. "Demon or not, he has a weakness. Women."
The group erupted into chuckles. One girl wagged her finger. "Lie! I heard he avoids women more than poison. That's why he keeps Iman by his side, not some concubine."
The mention of Iman quieted the group for a moment.
Another recruit, broad-shouldered with a scar under his lip, whispered, "Iman is worse. They say he's a holy man who fears no woman's touch. Even if you walk naked in front of him, he will not blink. He's all discipline, no blood. Once, a woman touched his arm and he washed himself in the river for three days."
The recruits erupted, half mocking, half impressed. "Three days?!"
"Ah, leave him," another said. "If he keeps himself apart, maybe that's why he fights like a demon also. No woman to distract him."
Laughter rippled again, though uneasily. The idea of men like Madawaki and Iman seemed larger than life, casting shadows far beyond the fire.
Then, slyly, one girl's eyes flicked toward Hamza's corner. "But not Hamza. That one's blood runs hot. They say she was caught once sneaking into a commander's tent in the middle of night."
A scandalized gasp rolled around the fire, followed by loud laughter.
Danladi choked on his grain. "Loose woman?" he muttered. "No wonder she
looks at us like prey."
A small smile covered my mouth. The fire's warmth, the laughter, the closeness—it felt like the first taste of belonging since I set foot in camp.
Across the fire, Zainabu lounged with her little cluster of followers, her scar catching the light whenever she turned her head. She had her own audience, boys and girls leaning in, drinking her words like honey.
Her voice cut suddenly across the chatter, sharp enough to carry. "Rauni"
My head lifted.
Her mouth curved in a cruel smile. "The beating I gave you today, it wasn't enough, eh? Your face still looks too pretty. Maybe I should finish it tonight."
Her friends laughed, low and eager.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. The day had been long, my patience thin, This girl didn't know who she was playing with.
"Try it," I said, my voice quiet but edged like a blade. I did not want a spectacle, but I was not afraid to meet her.
The laughter rose louder. Zainabu's eyes glinted. She shifted to rise. "I'll be glad to."
A ripple went through the recruits excitement, hunger for more blood. Before
I knew it, she was taking long strides towards us and I proceeded to rise to
the occasion when Danladi caught hold of my arm
"You both know the rule. No fighting outside the training circle. Anyone who does is out of this camp, no second chance. Recruits or not, the law is the same."
My hand curled into a fist without thinking. The anger hadn't cooled; it coiled. If anyone witnessed a fight, the story would be clear who provoked whom. What was the worst that could befall me? Five days in the pit? I could bear that. Better my pride mended by pain than my pride stitched by silence.
We met at the edge of the firelight, faces close now, the smells of smoke and dust thick between us. Her scar looked cruel in the orange glow. Her lips curled.
Around us a ring formed—shadows pushing in, bodies leaning to see the spark.
Finally, she would see that this Gimbiya is already made of Iron.