Chapter 1
The drums began before sunrise.
By midday, the entire village of Sokoto trembled with their rhythm. Traders abandoned their stalls, mothers pulled their children close, and even the elders stood waiting beneath the scorching sun. No one wished to be absent on a day like this.
Today, the princess turned twelve.
Adobea stood at the entrance of the palace, wrapped in rich kente cloth, beads resting heavily against her neck and wrists. Gold glinted with every slight movement she made. Behind her, attendants fanned her gently, careful not to touch her skin.
A horn sounded.
"The princess approaches!" a guard announced.
At once, the villagers dropped to their knees.
"Welcome, Princess Adobea," they chorused.
She did not respond immediately.
Instead, she let the silence stretch, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd before her. Then, slowly, she stepped forward.
"Louder," she said.
The villagers stiffened.
"Welcome, Princess Adobea!" they cried again, their voices rising, trembling under the weight of her gaze.
Only then did she smile.
From the crowd, gifts were brought forward—ornate ornaments, carved ivory, rare stones that shimmered beneath the sun. Adobea watched with satisfaction as her maids hurried to collect them, carrying each item carefully toward the palace.
"Take them to my treasure room," she instructed. "And be careful. If anything is missing..." She did not finish the sentence.
She did not need to
The maids bowed quickly. "Yes, my princess."
The celebration grew louder as dancers filled the courtyard, their feet striking the earth in rhythm with the drums. Laughter rose, but it never rose above the awareness that she was watching.
Adobea moved among them slowly, her presence parting the crowd like water. Wherever she stepped, people lowered their heads. No one dared meet her eyes for long.
Near the edge of the gathering, a small boy hesitated before bowing. It was only for a moment—but Adobea noticed.
She stopped.
The music faltered
"You," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the air.
The boy froze as his mother forced him to his knees.
"Forgive him, Princess," the woman pleaded. "He meant no disrespect."
Adobea studied them, her expression unreadable.
Then, at last, she waved her hand dismissively.
"See that he learns," she said.
Relief flooded the woman's face as she bowed repeatedly. "Yes, my princess. Thank you, my princess."
Adobea turned away, already losing interest.
Above them all, from his carved throne, the chief watched his daughter with quiet satisfaction. After years of waiting, of whispers and doubt, he had been given a child—a daughter who carried herself not as one born into power, but as one destined to command it.
By noon, the palace was filled to its limits. Visitors from neighboring villages had arrived, dressed in their finest, their eyes filled with curiosity and calculation.
Rumors moved faster than the wind
The chief would soon choose a suitor.
And today, they would all be watching.
The chief rose slowly, lifting his staff as the crowd quieted.
He poured a stream of drink onto the earth.
"To our ancestors," he declared, his voice deep and steady. "And to the spirits who watch over Sokoto—"
A strange thunder cut him off.
It did not come from the ground.
It came from the sky.
The sound grew louder—unnatural, roaring, like a storm that refused to show itself. The villagers stirred uneasily, eyes searching the heavens.
Then they saw it.
A great flying machine tore through the clouds, spinning as it descended.
Screams broke out.
"Run!"
Mothers grabbed their children. Men scattered. The courtyard emptied in moments as people fled into huts, hiding behind doors, pressing themselves into corners as the noise swallowed the village whole.
Only a few remained.
The chief stood his ground.
Adobea did not move.
The wind from the machine whipped her cloth violently, but she refused to step back. Her eyes narrowed as it descended into the open field beyond the palace.
The thunder slowly died.
Dust settled.
And then the strangers emerged.
Their skin was pale like bleached bone. Their clothing strange. One was a man, tall and alert, his movements cautious. Beside him stood a younger boy, clutching his side, his wide eyes darting across the unfamiliar land.
Silence stretched between them and the few who remained.
Then, slowly, the villagers began to return.
They gathered at a distance, whispering, staring.
"Who are they?" someone murmured.
"Spirits?" another asked.
The chief stepped forward, raising a hand for calm. He spoke, his voice measured, but the strangers only stared back, confused.
They answered in a tongue no one understood.
Adobea watched closely, her curiosity sharpening.
The chief gestured.
"Come," he said, though they could not understand.
Still, they followed.
That night, the strangers were given food and drink within the palace walls. They ate cautiously at first, then with growing ease. The younger one—Jack—smiled often, though he spoke little. The older one—John—observed everything.
Nothing escaped his eyes.
By the next morning, the entire village buzzed with speculation.
The chief summoned the strangers again, determined to understand them. Words were exchanged, repeated, reshaped—but meaning slipped between them like water.
Names, however, survived the confusion.
"John."
"Jack."
Simple enough.
The chief turned to his daughter.
"Take them," he instructed. "Let them see Sokoto."
Adobea lifted her chin.
"As you wish."
That evening, she walked ahead of them through the village, her steps slow, deliberate, ensuring they followed.
"This," she said, gesturing broadly, "will all be mine one day."
John and Jack exchanged glances, nodding politely, though her words meant little to them.
But they listened.
They watched.
And they learned.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
The strangers began to understand.
Not everything—but enough.
Enough to ask questions.
Enough to notice.
Enough to realize.
The gold came first.
It lined the walls of homes, shaped into ornaments, woven into decorations as though it were nothing more than colored stone.
"Shiny stones," the villagers called it.
John did not correct them.
Then there was the land beyond the village.
"No one goes there," one villager warned.
"Why?"
"It burns."
They spoke of fire rising from the earth itself when the sun grew too strong. Of heat that swallowed anything that dared remain too long.
Jack listened with fear.
John listened with interest.
And for the first time since their arrival—
he smiled.
