Sat on the edge of his tidy bed, fingernails burrowing into the side of his feather stuffed mattress, Prince Zaki fought his mind. A couple of days had passed, but Luvuyo’s dying pain echoed in its recesses. Her agony faded from his body, yet there was no forgetting it. His stomach lurched, this time with the added stress of the elders’ imminent arrival. He thought he would share in Ma’s excitement, though it never came.

Zaki rose form his elevated bed, adjusting his thick wool shirt. Anxiety made him scrub his skin raw when he bathed during the early hours after an inconsistent slumber. The coarse fabric poked as his raw flesh with the strength of Ma’s sowing needles. He floated towards his cold food untouched on his table, and snatched a bun.

Mazin’s approach grew louder in the passageway, soon black ash trickled into his nose. Zaki swallowed his last morsel then snatched his khopesh from the rack and strapped it to his back. The topaz jewel pommel calmed him with its coolness.

“Ready?” Mazin asked upon arrival.

Zaki snatched two more raisin bread buns and tossed him one, then stuffed his mouth with a nod. He avoided his brother’s mismatched eyes.

They strode together in silence, both ignoring the passing grey ghosts and palace guards. Mazin fiddled with his gloved fingers with his head down as usual. Exuding the unease Zaki felt he did a better job of hiding, with his own head held high. The painted pharaohs of old gazed down on him from their glory, but he couldn’t bear to meet their gaze at the moment.

The tingle of nearby gardens of Sanctuary became an irritation when they descended. Zaki fought to keep his sourness off his face. He could have sworn a few of the lingering faces wanted to draw their attention – his attention. Their inquiring eyes were a nuisance, but they turned away quickly when he tightened his jaw.

It was bright in the great hall, bathed in fiery warmth of the midday sun reflecting off the shimmering marble. Zaki glanced at the elevated seven thrones while they crossed the width of the hall. His eyes drifted beyond them towards the shut doors of the war room.

“He’s not worth it,” Mazin said. Zaki didn’t realise he stopped walking. “Come on, the kumkani can take whatever rage you’re holding.”

The fighting rings were busy, but they kept the grand ring open for them as usual. Kumkani Lihle waited for them in sunny cloth. A stranger stood nearby, another handsome one, with organised black hair and a beard to match. His hazel eyes landed on them when they approached, unassuming but swift enough that Zaki questioned if the man noticed them at all.

“You’re late,” the kumkani said, flicking the thin cloth off his torso. He drew his billao blades and flexed his wrists. The handsome man stepped away and returned with sparring leathers. He bowed before placing them on a nearby bench.

“Sparring leathers?” Zaki asked.

The kumkani skipped the low, moss-covered stone wall.

“Not holding back anymore, are you?” Mazin asked, then fell silent when his humour wasn’t shared.

“Armour on boys. Hurry, this heat won’t get any better.”

Zaki shared a look with Mazin, who shrugged then they rushed to obey. He glanced at the handsome man for answers, but his eyes were fixed on the kumkani. The prince studied the leather, iron reinforced it, though there wasn’t any strengthening script. He forced on the matching bracers, thigh and shin guards with some trepidation. A bead of sweat trailed down his brow after he donned his helm.

Mazin joined him in the ring, his khopesh drawn and ready. Kumkani Lihle was on his haunches, flaunting his short swords. Plain weapons, save for their ivory hilts and pommels. Littered with strengthening script from blade to pommel. Lihle sprang back up and flexed his subtly scarred torso, which glistened with sweat.

“No holding back. Shall we count down or…”

Mazin didn’t let the kumkani finish. He charged with Zaki right behind him, clashing with the kumkani the same time Mazin’s khopesh clanged against one of the short swords.

The kumkani danced and parried, avoiding their hefty attacks with gritted teeth. Zaki took heart, feeling a grin stretch his lips, which became short-lived. Mazin grunted against a sudden counter. Zaki swayed away from at blade tip threatening his neck. Soon, both of them were kicking back dust as they fought to keep the kumkani out.

Zaki grunted as the added weight caught up to him. Sweat streamed down his face. The humidity tightened his chest, but his khopesh remained a flash of steel before him, keeping the kumkani’s billao away. He feigned a counter, but Mazin lost his balance. Zaki dove to cover him while Mazin recovered, then they switched sides.

Both of his hands were soaked with sweat as he fought for ground on the kumkani’s left. Each attack made him grunt. Mazin went low, Zaki hacked from above, but the kumkani defended both. The kumkani avoided Mazin’s slice, then drove both his billao into Zaki. He panicked and suffered a pair of flat blows, knocking him off his feet.

Prince Zaki wheezed on the ground while Mazin suffered a disarming battering. He braced his weight with his blade, while his limbs pleaded with him to stay down. Zaki snorted his rage and re-joined the fight, until a sudden ivory pommel flew towards him. It thumped into his unprotected shoulder instead of his face, but his arm went limp.

Mazin was on the ground, shovelling a mound of dirt with his khopesh just as Zaki repositioned to flank. The kumkani swatted away the blinding dirt, Zaki swallowed most of it before he could react. A blink later he found himself dazed and disarmed, head ringing after a hammer blow to the left side of his face. He heard a groan and a thump, after a whistle, then Zaki knew it was over.

Gentle applause and excited muttering from the ring followed, but the world was spinning. He gagged and spat out the clay and blood from his mouth until it dried. His arms trembled, his legs quivered, he dragged himself to the low wall. Zaki sat up against it and wiped his dusty face with sweaty palms, grimacing at his numb shoulder.

“Again.”

Kumkani Lihle stood over him, his billao recovered. Mazin was on one knee, rubbing his chest and gulping for air. Zaki winced when the kumkani placed a rough hand on his shoulder. A strange pull emanated from the kumkani’s palm. His shoulder tingled; blood rushed down it. He nearly moaned aloud.

“Up!”

Zaki surged to his feet and retrieved his khopesh. He spat out a final glob of blood and tested his shoulder. Much better than the recent lifelessness, but whatever the kumkani did, it wasn’t the full treatment. Mazin eyed him from over the kumkani’s shoulder, then nodded.

Mazin roared when Zaki charged. The kumkani glanced back, but Mazin remained rooted. It bought him time to force a double-bladed block from the kumkani when he turned back to meet his charge. Then Mazin charged from behind. Zaki hooked the short swords with the subtle curve of his khopesh, but the kumkani yanked him around instead. Mazin dove away before he buried his own khopesh into Zaki’s back.

Pain arced through Zaki’s left arm like a flash of lighting in a storm. He braced, anticipating the kumkani’s counter with his khopesh raised. One, two, three, crack! Zaki dropped to his knee after his parries, the iron plate reinforcing his leather above his chest was cloven in two. Mazin re-joined the fray hoping to buy time for his recovery. Stars littered his vision as humidity filled his bruised chest.

Zaki swung wildly, hacking and slashing the air around the kumkani. Mazin was parried, then dodged jabs until a crack filled his ears. Mazin stumbled backwards clutching his thigh, but Zaki took over before the kumkani finished his brother off.

The prince snatched at him with his left hand. A sacrifice, and the kumkani took the bait, shattering his bracer with the flat of his billao. Zaki stole the other billao from the kumkani, but it was the only victory earned. A barrage followed, a thigh shattering slap, an ivory pommel jab into his cracked armour, then a kick to curl him into a ball in the dirt.

Mazin charged, trading his own khopesh for the kumkani’s remaining short sword. It was a swift wrestle, Mazin managed a few gut punches, but Kumkani Lihle won control. Zaki watched him dismantle his brother, grappling his advantage then sealing his victory with a flurry of punches. He ruined Mazin’s reinforced leathers until his knuckles were raw and blood. A pair of knees, then a kick later, and Mazin joined Zaki on the dusty ground in a ball of his own.

Prince Zaki groaned through the scattered applause. Every breath was an agony while he dragged himself to sit against the stone wall again. Metallic blood was all he tasted. His breathing was short and frequent, anything deeper worsened the agony. The world continued to spin, onlooking Tamers were unrecognisable, Kumkani Lihle was a blur leaning over Mazin. Leathers tossed aside and his hands on his chest.

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“Lie still,” the kumkani said.

His gentle voice did little to ease the pain rushing through him. Zaki’s eyes welled with tears as the kumkani tried his best to remove his leathers from his battered body. He gasped when he was free from the weight, then his broken ribs punished him, thunder amongst his clouded sides.

“The pain will be sharp at first, then pass.”

The kumkani rested his bare hands on his chest. Warmth oozed from his soft palms, then the tingling arrived. Blood rushed through his chest, Zaki growled when his bones snapped back into place. It dulled eventually as promised, even in his left arm and hammered thigh and head. After the kumkani let him go, his body ached.

Zaki rose to his feet with the kumkani’s help, snatching his shoulder to save his balance. The kumkani was grey, sickly almost, if only for an instant. His dark eyes glossed over like an overcast sky. He almost doubled over, but caught himself and snatched at Zaki. Then he stood upright and appeared as healthy as normal, as if he imagined the kumkani’s sudden weakness.

“That was good, very good.”

Mazin approached after the kumkani spoke, testing his limbs. Zaki fingered his tender chest, ensuring his bones were restored. The handsome Tamer gathered their weapons and bowed as he returned them. Zaki threw off the rest of his armour and Mazin muttered his thanks.

“Sinalo, please fetch the refreshments.”

“Yes Kumkani.”

Zaki caught the knowing look they shared and narrowed his eyes. Kumkani Lihle shed his menace and faced them with his familiar warmth.

“What are your thoughts on this?”

“We regressed,” Zaki said while Mazin shrugged.

“Both of you didn’t give up, which is most important.”

“You once claimed we could challenge dual wielders on our own. Is that still the case?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.” Zaki didn’t know why his chest burned, the kumkani’s politeness worsened it.

“There’s no quantifiable means to measure skill, the circumstances surrounding a Vivada is what makes one a dual wielder or not. You might slit my throat while I sleep and earn the right to it, but does that mean you are better than me? What matters is chance, and whether you take it.”

“Zaki, Kumkani, I need to see Master Roole for my measurements,” Mazin interrupted.

“Wait for me there,” Zaki said before his brother rushed away.

“You would have me believe that a sixteen-year-old Lihle became a dual wielder and Kumkani by chance?” Zaki asked as he followed the kumkani out of the fighting ring.

“I gave few openings in this fight, but those you caught you snatched. A chance means death outside of training, don’t forget that.” Kumkani Lihle nursed his wrists while he spoke. “Us Leopards have no laws of succession, no ruling families, at least until myself. The opportunity was great, and I took it. The late Kumkani Phumlani thought being a dual wielder alone would keep the throne under him, but it made him weak.”

“That’s the thing, you gave us the openings, which still only led us to defeat. What about the challengers since you snatched the throne? How many more did you have to fight to keep it?”

Sinalo returned with grey ghosts before the kumkani replied. One bore a bucket of water and towels. The other a tray of clay goblets with jugs. Zaki sniffed beer and squeezed juice.

“You’re allowing this failure to soil your mind. In all fights there will be gifts given, perhaps they might not be deciding gifts, but the chance to wound is equally important. Who knows what would have followed if you wounded me, what mistakes would I have been forced into making?”

Zaki took a beer filled goblet with muted thanks.

“What about the wounds I took? All this boils down to is my own lack of skill, I just need to be better.”

The kumkani sighed and sipped his beer.

“Soon,” Zaki smirked at the kumkani and enjoyed the bitterness himself.

The distant hammering of metal called him, his wet hair turned the humid breeze into false coolness, but not for long. Prince Zaki left the kumkani behind after his quick splash, now he strode with his khopesh strapped to his back. Not as tight as before for his chest still ached. It irked him that even the kumkani was capable of healing hands, doubly annoyed by his fear to ask about it. Power is earned, no doubt he would have heard that. An annoying, but necessary reminder.

He walked around the palace instead of through it, sweating anew. It spared those within of his growing stink at least. Zaki eyed the pale stone exterior of the palace, with the occasional gold brick interrupting the whiteness. An oddly bland, overgrown building towering over the chaotic formation of the city to his left.

Bil’Faridh was abuzz. Even from the hundredth, Zaki suffered the hounding noises of industry below. Shouts from the bazaars of the lion district won his ear. An occasional stuffy breeze wafted in a whiff of coriander and fennel. Baked bread overpowered them all.

All the pleasurable scents withered against the mighty stink of furnace fire. He turned right and soot and black smoke filled his vision. The distant hammering ceased, though he still braced for its resumption as he neared the redbrick forge. Soot blackened the chimney and nearby tiles, black smoke puffed up into the clear blue sky.

“What’re ya looking at laddie?”

Master Roole’s question boomed louder than his hammer towards Mazin, with an eternal north-western tinge. The large blacksmith stomped out of his smithy and beamed at Zaki’s approach.

To say Roole was rotund was an understatement, and an insult. He was burly, a half giant with pale freckled logs for limbs rippling with muscles. Roole’s ginger beard was singed, along with his fiery ponytail. The man was unaffected by the southern sun, built like a mountain and as gentle as snow on its peak.

Prince Zaki darted into his arms, feeling like a child in his fiery embrace. He jumped away when the man threatened to squeeze his ribs. Master Roole’s laughter rumbled his chest and the stones of the palace.

“Yer brother’s been telling me about these attacks in the streets.”

Mazin looked sheepish.

“A grand conspiracy Roole. I hear you’re next.”

“Aye, and the Great Beast is the killer,” Roole snorted as he brought another stool out of his smithy. The blazing furnace mingled with Bil’Faridh’s humidity, Zaki was already drenched.

“What did the kumkani say?” Mazin asked.

“Nothing new, you know how he is. Listen, I’ve been thinking, we should start digging.”

“But you said Da…”

“I’m well aware of what he said, but we should do it ourselves. Without Ma, even if she’s eager to help.”

“How’re the blades I made, they working fine?” Master Roole asked from his anvil.

“They’re perfect, thank you,” Zaki rushed.

“Yer mother paid a leg for them. I’d ‘ave done it for a foot.”

“Should we speak to the inkosi?” Mazin asked, whispering.

“No, it’s too small to worry him, I think. I’ve heard he isn’t fond of pleasurers, so I fear his reaction. Perhaps…”

“No.”

How Mazin knew what he was going to say surprised him.

“I was thinking, seeing as you have a relation… friendship with her, you could,”

“No!”

“Mazin, Farah lies in the infirmary with an amputated arm. The least you could do is find out why.” His brother turned away, fighting the snarl curling his lips. Mazin was prone to guilt. Zaki didn’t enjoy nudging him towards it, but this was one of those necessary times. At least he didn’t suffer Farah’s last moments like he did with Luvuyo’s.

“Fine, but I doubt Nabila would know.”

“Surely the matriarch knows rumours at least?”

“What about you?”

“Jazmin Isis, she must have some idea with her father.”

“Why not go to Lord Isis directly?”

“If he has a hand in it, which is likely, I don’t want to alert him.”

“But why wouldn’t…”

Mazin didn’t seem convinced, but he turned away and abandoned his words. Zaki watched Master Roole hammer away with the tool that looked dainty in his hand. The kumkani’s words returned, mingling with Luvuyo’s wailing.