BINTA’S WAR

Binta did not run because she was afraid. Queens do not run from fear. They run when staying means death. The night air in Lagos was thick with smoke and blood. Behind her, the palace she had ruled for five years was burning. Her guards were dead. Her husband, the King, was dead. And the men who killed them were still hunting her through the dark streets. Her bare feet hit the wet road. Her white dress was torn and red with blood — not all of it hers. "Binta! Stop!" She did not stop. She turned into a narrow street, her heart beating so fast it hurt her chest. For the first time in her life, she felt it — the thing her mother had warned her about. The wolf inside her was waking up. It had slept for twenty-three years. Now, as the men got closer, as their guns fired into the night, it opened its eyes. Her skin burned. Her bones cracked. Her scream turned into a howl that shook every window on the street. When Binta stood up again, she was no longer just a queen. She was something older. Something stronger. Something they should never have hunted. She turned to face her killers, her golden eyes glowing in the dark. "You killed my king," she growled. "You burned my home." She took one step forward. "Now I will show you what a queen really is."