MAMBA

The crash of the crown still echoed in my mind, but it was the roar of the crowd below that drowned everything else. The Zurahs didn't let up, their grips ironclad as they herded us down the jagged path. Every stumble, every misstep, was met with a tug or shove that left bruises in their wake.

"Hold your heads up," I hissed to Kael and Cynane, my voice cutting through the drumbeats still pounding faintly from the square. "Don't give them the satisfaction."

Kael's jaw tightened, but he didn't look down. Cynane, pale and trembling, clenched her fists against the Zurahs' hold, her face set with the quiet fury I knew all too well. They wouldn't break—not while I was still breathing.

The Zurahs forced us forward, their silence more oppressive than the chants and cries rising from the crowd. The firelight painted their ash-streaked forms in jagged shadows, their movements unrelenting. I caught the faint glimmer of their golden markings, now dulled by sweat and soot, and felt the weight of their purpose pressing against my chest. They weren't just bringing us to judgment; they were making an example of us.

As we neared the square, the sea of people parted, their faces a blur of anger, resignation, and something heavier—resentment. Their voices rose and fell in whispers that stung like thorns.

"Defiler."

"Why couldn't they just obey?"

"They've angered the gods."

Their words lanced through me, sharp and cutting, but I didn't falter. If they thought they could shame me into submission, they didn't know me at all.

Ahead, the platform loomed. The elders stood in a semicircle, their robes of deep gray and gold catching the flickering light like embers in the ash. At their center, Malrik's figure was unmistakable—tall, broad, and unyielding. The sharp angles of his face were set in stone, his scar catching the firelight as he stared down at us with the weight of judgment itself.

The Zurahs forced us to our knees at the foot of the dais, their grips digging into my shoulders as if daring me to resist. I didn't. Not because I couldn't, but because I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a struggle. My defiance wasn't in my actions—it was in my eyes.

Malrik stepped forward, his presence cutting through the charged air like a blade. His sharp eyes scanned the three of us, lingering just long enough to feel like judgment itself. When he spoke, his voice was low and deliberate, each word weighted with generations of belief. "Do you know what you've done?" he asked, his tone a quiet storm. "Do you grasp the depth of what you've risked?"

Kael shifted beside me, the tension in his shoulders palpable. But I didn't let him answer—I wouldn't let anyone speak for me. "I understand," I said, my voice steady. "Do you?"

The murmurs from the crowd behind us swelled, a tide of shock and indignation. Malrik's expression darkened, his jaw tightening like a bowstring pulled taut. His boots struck the stone with measured force as he descended the dais, each step deliberate, his shadow stretching toward us in the firelight.

"You think insolence is a weapon?" His voice cut through the murmurs like a sharpened edge. "That defiance can shield you from the consequences of your recklessness? Strength without purpose," he said, his words rolling out like thunder, "is destruction waiting to happen. And destruction will not save us."

I held his gaze, unyielding. "No, but submission hasn't saved us either," I replied, my tone hard enough to chip stone. "Maybe destruction is what we need."

A gasp rippled through the square, sharp as a drawn blade. Malrik's face, carved from years of duty and conviction, flickered with something cold—something final. He turned away from me, addressing the crowd now with the authority of one who bore the weight of a nation.

"We are here because of the sins of our ancestors," he said, his voice rising above the crackle of the flames. "Ashora endures not through rebellion, but through repentance. We kneel not out of weakness, but out of wisdom. These children—" his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a lash, "would tear apart the fragile peace we have fought to keep."

The crowd murmured in agreement, heads nodding as though they could anchor themselves to his words. I felt Cynane's breath hitch beside me, and Kael's fists clenched at his sides, but I stayed still, refusing to look away from Malrik's back.

Let him talk. Let him think his words could drown me.

"You disgrace your father," Malrik said, turning back to me. His voice was quieter now, colder, but its weight pressed heavier than any shout could. "Do you think his brilliance, his gifts to this community, will shield you forever?"

My chest tightened at the mention of Abba. Rashid. The man who had done more for Ashora than any elder's sermon ever could. The man who had pulled life from ashes—new tools, medicines, ways to stave off the decay Cyris had wrought. The man they revered. And because of him, they tolerated me.

For now.

"I acted alone," I said, my voice cutting through the thick silence. "Kael and Cynane had nothing to do with it."

Malrik's gaze bore into me, but before he could speak, the murmurs shifted, a ripple moving through the crowd like a stone breaking the surface of still water. The air seemed to change, carrying with it a weight I hadn't felt before.

A man stepped into the square, his presence commanding as if the very air shifted around him. He was tall, his stature unyielding and powerful, with broad shoulders that seemed to carry the weight of the mountain itself. His skin was a deep, rich hue that caught the firelight, reflecting its glow like polished obsidian. The lines etched into his face spoke not of age but of sacrifices endured, battles fought silently in the shadows. Gray streaked his close-cropped hair, a striking contrast against the dark, adding a sense of timeless wisdom to his appearance.

He paused at the edge of the crowd, his gaze sweeping the scene like a blade: Zurahs in their ash-streaked cloaks, the elders standing rigid with tension, the restless crowd, and finally, us. His presence alone was enough to hush the murmurs and stiffen backs. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

"Enough," he said, his voice low but cutting through the tension like a crack of thunder. The word rippled through the square, silencing every whisper, every rustle of fabric.

Abba? 

His gaze found mine, steady and sharp, cutting through the crowd and the chaos like a blade honed over years of quiet endurance. In that moment, I wasn't the rebel who had defied the gods or the leader who had dragged my friends through danger. I was just Aya, the child, staring up at my dad—the man who once seemed capable of holding the very heavens steady on his shoulders.

But the storm in his eyes wasn't anger. It wasn't even disappointment. It was something heavier, something that made my chest tighten: a quiet, unspoken question. Why?

I straightened, refusing to look away, my breath caught somewhere between guilt and resolve. His silence said more than any words could, and the square seemed to hold its collective breath, waiting for the storm to break.

And then, finally, he spoke.

"Aya." His voice was low and deliberate, each syllable weighted with a mix of exhaustion and something else I couldn't name. "What have you done?"

The question wasn't meant for the crowd or the elders. It wasn't even meant for the gods. It was meant for me. And as his words settled into the quiet, I knew this was just the beginning.