The sun was barely high when Hamza drove us to the circle. The earth here was packed flat and ringed with smooth stones, as if generations of recruits had bled and sweated in this very place. By the time we arrived, my muscles were already screaming. Hamza had forced us through drills from dawn—running until the sky turned white with heat, crawling under spears, lifting stones until our arms shook.
My tunic clung to me with sweat. Dust coated my throat. I wanted nothing more than to sink into the earth and disappear.
But Hamza was tireless. She paced the circle with her spear across her shoulders, eyes sharp as a hawk's. When one recruit staggered, she struck the ground beside them hard enough to make the dirt jump. "On your feet! Weakness is a luxury the grave can afford, not you!"
None dared to answer.
By the time she ordered us to form pairs, the camp was silent but for the rasp of breath and the shuffle of tired feet.
"Today we spar," she said, her voice flat. "No one leaves this circle without bleeding or learning."
The first pair stepped in—two tall boys with scars already tracing their arms. They slammed into each other with such force I winced. Fists cracked against flesh. One went down, rolled, sprang up again. Around me, recruits muttered, cheering low.
Danladi was called next. His opponent was leaner but quick, darting in and out like a snake. At first Danladi looked clumsy, all swinging arms and heavy feet, but then—something shifted. His movements tightened. He blocked, countered, pressed forward. With one swift motion, he hooked the boy's leg and sent him sprawling into the dust.
A cheer rose from the recruits. Danladi stood over the boy, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his jaw. For the first time since I'd met him, he looked like a real soldier.
He glanced back at us, grinning as if to say, see? I told you I've fought before.
Nala's turn came after. My stomach clenched. She was smaller than her opponent, a broad-shouldered girl whose fists were like hammers. The first blow
staggered Nala, nearly sending her out of the ring. Gasps rippled.
But Nala didn't fall. She squared her shoulders and came back, jaw set, eyes
blazing. Each time she was struck, she absorbed it, returned, pressed in closer. Her movements weren't elegant, but they were stubborn, unyielding. By the end, though she was bruised and limping, she was still standing. The crowd gave her a grudging nod of respect.
Watching them, my chest tightened with both pride and dread. My arms feltlike lead, my legs unsteady. Every breath scraped my lungs raw. Maybe… maybe my fight won't happen today.
Because Hamza hadn't called me yet.
Instead, Zainabu stepped into the circle, paired with another recruit. Her scarred cheek gleamed with sweat as she moved, fluid and dangerous. She foughtith precision—no wasted effort, no hesitation. Her opponent barely touched her before she struck him down, pinning him with her knee until he gasped for mercy.
The recruits roared their approval. Zainabu rose, her eyes sweeping the circle, daring anyone to challenge her. When they landed on me, a flicker of contempt lit them.
I looked away quickly, my heart already hammering. I watched on, again and again a victor emerged as I observed each of their fighting techniques.
Hamza had not called my name. Perharps she would leave me for tomorrow. Perhaps, by some miracle, I would be spared.
But fate was not so kind.
"Amira," Hamza's voice cracked like a whip.
The world seemed to stop. Dust hung in the air. My sore body screamed in protest as I forced my legs to move.
"Against Zainabu," Hamza added, and the recruits erupted in whispers.
Of course, I thought bitterly. She saved me for last. She wanted this.
The real question was, would I be able to touch her? Can I win against an opponent like Zainabu? Would the gods help me this time around?
I dusted my tunic as I tried to remember the techniques I had been memorizing. I stepped into the circle, the earth hot under my bare feet. Across from me, Zainabu stood relaxed, her scar catching the fading sun, her mouth curled in a slow, mocking smile.
"So the rauni finally steps in," she said, voice pitched to carry. "Let's see what a weakling can do."
I clenched my fists, but they felt like stones. My muscles trembled before the fight even began.
"Begin!" Hamza barked.
Zainabu lunged first, fast as a striking hawk. I barely dodged, stumbling sideways. Laughter rippled through the recruits.
She pressed me hard, her blows sharp and sure. My arms ached blocking them,
each impact shuddering down to my bones. Dust filled my nose, my mouth.
"Too soft," she sneered, swinging again. "Too pampered."
Something snapped inside me. I struck back, wild but fueled by anger. My fist grazed her cheek. Gasps rose—the first time anyone had touched her all day.
Her eyes narrowed, deadly now.
She came at me like a storm. Blows rained down, faster, harder. My body screamed. Pain bloomed hot and cold across my flesh. My vision dimmed, edges darkening.
Still—I refused to fall. Each time she knocked me down, I dragged myself back up, chest burning, vision swimming. I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
By the end, I was on one knee, bleeding from my lip, my breath ragged. Zainabu stood over me, smirking, her scar twisting with triumph. I was soo sick of seeing that arrogant smile on her face I wanted badly to wipe the floor with her face.
"Enough," Hamza's voice cut through the noise.
My head snapped in her direction.
Even though I was exhausted and my body was screaming for rest, I wasn't done yet. This isn't how my first battle will be remembered, I won't lose to her!
Hamza must understand, I can still fight!
The crowd buzzed—half mocking, half
impressed.
She looked at me, not unkindly but with something colder—measuring. "Tomorrow, you will do it again. But stronger."
I kept my head bowed, swallowing the metallic taste of blood and dust.
I survived,
I thought, barely.
But this is just the beginning and Zainabu has just crossed the line.