THE LION'S BATTLE

CHAPTER 4_ shadows over Dahuda

The sun rose over Dahuda like a molten crown, spilling gold over the walls of the palace and turning the black stones of the courtyard into dark mirrors reflecting the heat of power. Inside the throne room, the air was thick with incense and tension, the scent curling into the high ceilings, clinging to every column, every shadow. Courtiers and warriors whispered in the corners, careful not to disturb the presence that filled the hall with silent authority.

At the center of the room, on a throne carved from black iron and decorated with the faces of past kings and legendary warriors, sat King Zakar’Onwu. They called him The Iron Storm, a title earned not through words but through the sharp, relentless fear he inspired. His eyes were narrow, calculating, and heavy with the kind of intelligence that could unravel armies before they even drew swords. Around him, his council of generals and commanders waited, their heads bowed, fingers clenched, lips pressed in lines that spoke of loyalty, and perhaps, fear.

A messenger stepped forward, trembling, bowing so low that his forehead nearly brushed the stone floor. “Your Majesty… the Oromians… they have taken the captives. Only women remain.”

A long silence followed, so thick that even the murmurs of the courtiers seemed to vanish. Zakar’Onwu’s lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile, one that could make even the bravest soldier shiver.

“Women,” he said, almost tasting the word. “Little women. And they dare to cross into Dahuda? To touch what belongs to us?” His voice was low, but every syllable cut like a blade.

The generals shuffled uneasily, but no one spoke. One brave—or foolish—warrior dared to clear his throat.

“Their leader, Your Majesty… is said to be skilled, but—”

“I know their leader,” the king interrupted, his voice cutting through the room. “The Oromo believe that courage can shield them. That bravery alone is enough. But courage without strength is nothing but noise. Numbers without discipline are nothing but chaos. They are biting more than they can chew.”

He rose from his throne, each step echoing across the chamber, commanding it like a drumbeat of fear. His presence alone seemed to compress the air, and the generals instinctively straightened, as if the very walls of the hall demanded respect.

“It is time,” Zakar’Onwu continued, voice low and deliberate, “to remind them why Dahuda’s name is feared across these lands. Why mothers whisper it to frighten their children. Why warriors tremble before it. And why no one ever crosses the king of Dahuda and walks away unscathed.”

He leaned forward, letting his fingers drum on the armrest of the throne. “Prepare the armies. Sharpen every spear. Ready the horses. Send the scouts across every border. Let it be known — Dahuda rises, and nothing can stand in our way.”

The generals bowed, deeper than before. Some in awe, some in fear, but all in obedience. The Iron Storm had spoken.

Outside, the drums began to beat in the palace courtyard, low, rhythmic, a pulse that carried across the city and into the villages, signaling preparation, signaling war.

---

Meanwhile, the sun spilled over the Oromo village, painting the clay roofs with gold and brushing the tall trees with light. The air smelled of dew, smoke from last night’s fire, and the faint tang of the river nearby. For a moment, the village seemed calm, peaceful even, but underneath, tension thrummed like a living thing.

In the clearing near the training grounds, Rie, Selma, Zenzi, Nari, and the other girls sat in a loose circle, their bodies sore, muscles stiff from yesterday’s relentless drills. Each movement was a reminder of yesterday’s failures, of arms burning with exertion, of sticks heavier than any sword they had ever imagined.

“Do you ever get used to it?” Nari asked, cracking her knuckles with a grimace.

Zenzi snorted. “Used to what? Being beaten until you feel like your bones are going to break? Or carrying water as if the mountain itself is on your shoulders?”

Rie laughed lightly, but it had an edge of exhaustion. “Some days I think my arms might just fall off,” she admitted. “But… I survived yesterday, didn’t I? That counts for something.”

Thelma stayed quiet, staring at her hands. Her mind replayed the nightmare from the night before—the fire, the screaming, the shapes of her family fading in smoke and shadows. Her chest ached, her stomach twisted, and yet she clutched the memory of survival like a talisman.

I have to be strong. I have no choice but to be strong.

Their quiet chatter was interrupted by a shadow falling across them. Tayira, a young warrior trained in the village, stood before the group. She was tall, her movements precise, and her eyes sharp enough to make even the bravest flinch. She looked down at the captives with a mixture of disdain and suspicion.

“That is not a place for captives,” Tayira said flatly. “You do not belong here. Sit where you were told.”

The younger girls shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other. Thelma’s hands clenched into fists, her knuckles whitening. Anger surged inside her, but she stayed silent, unsure if she could speak.

Before Tayira could continue, a commanding voice cut through the air, like steel against stone.

“You talk as if you own this ground,” said Kosi, stepping forward. Her presence alone made Tayira pause. The warrior’s back straightened instinctively, and even the other captives held their breath.

“You…” Tayira began, voice sharp. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Kosi’s eyes were cold, unyielding. “You were once like them. A girl with nothing. No power. No claim. No one to speak for you. And yet you act as though every inch of this village belongs to you.”

Tayira’s face flushed. Her pride bristled, but Kosi continued, unfazed.

“Humility is earned, Tayira. Not demanded. Today, you will learn that lesson. You will see that these girls, these captives, are learning. They are growing. And strength… real strength… does not shout at the small. It protects them.”

The group watched silently. Zenzi tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Some of the younger girls whispered, their voices tiny with relief.

Tayira opened her mouth, then closed it, unable to respond. She spun sharply and stormed away, fists clenched, cheeks red with both anger and humiliation.

Kosi turned to the captives and the girls, her voice softer now. “Sit where you like. You are here now. As long as you remain, this place is yours. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Thelma let out a long breath, feeling the tightness in her chest loosen slightly. For the first time, she didn’t feel entirely like a stranger. Maybe… just maybe… she could belong here.

Rie whispered to her, “You heard that? You don’t have to be afraid here.”

Thelma nodded, letting herself relax, a small smile tugging at her lips. Zenzi leaned close. “Kosi doesn’t hand out praise often,” she said. “Remember what she just told you. You are seen here. That counts for more than you realize.”

Thelma’s eyes scanned the group, catching the faces of the other girls, some still murmuring quietly, some stretching sore muscles. She allowed herself another small thought:

Maybe I can survive this. Maybe I can grow strong. Maybe one day… I’ll protect others the way they are protecting me.

The village seemed almost peaceful in that moment. The sun shone warmly on her face, the wind rustled gently through the trees, and even the distant sound of the river seemed calm. But deep inside, Thelma knew it was only a temporary calm. The whispers of Dahuda’s army, the tales of Zakar’Onwu’s strength, and the fate of her homeland hung over her like a shadow, dark and unyielding.

And yet… for the first time, she felt hope.