Krima

The golden towers of Alamumba rose like proud fingers toward the heavens, wrapped in sunlight and birdsong. Its walls shimmered with embedded stones of kunzir — a gem said to glow under moonlight — and its gates were carved from the sacred Ironwood of Alara, a tree that only grew in their soil. Rivers as clear as crystal threaded through the kingdom, feeding vast farmlands and secret veins of silver, gold, and a rare ore known as Ezronite, whispered to fuel ancient magic. Alamumba was blessed — not by luck, but by legacy. And its people knew peace like a second skin. At the heart of this kingdom stood Princess Krima, barely eighteen summers old, eyes bright as polished amber, hair thick and coiled like the forest paths her feet loved to wander. She was not the kind to sit still in silks. While the court fawned and the servants bowed, Krima would slip out through the vine-wrapped stone corridors and run into the woods with Ero, her sworn guard and childhood friend, personally chosen by Krima herself as she admires his strength and bravery. It was Ero who taught her the bow — how to feel the wind before it spoke, how to respect the deer before she loosed her arrow. “Never hunt what you do not honor,” he’d whisper, pressing her hand against the still-warm flank of a fallen gazelle. “Everything answers to balance.” just as Ero's father who is a hunter had taught him before he joined the King's guard. Her father, King Guma, was a man of steel and honey — just and warm, but unbending where it mattered. A giant of a man in both body and spirit, he ruled not with fear, but with story and song. The people called him Guma the Unshaken, for even in famine and storm, he never bowed. Her mother, Queen Ramina, was light itself — kind, patient, and wise beyond her years. She wove enchantments into lullabies and stories into the hems of Krima’s robes. The royal family was not just loved — they were the very breath of Alamumba. But light, no matter how strong, casts shadow. It was the month of Dama's Bloom when the visitors arrived. Trumpets sounded, and black-plated guards of Blumra poured through the palace gates like a flood. Behind them came King Orana, veiled in deep brown, eyes like scorched coal, his voice smooth as poured oil. At his side, his son — Prince Vatu — a boy with a crooked smirk and eyes that seemed always half-lidded, as if bored with the world. King Orana came not as enemy, but as guest. His servants bore gifts: barrels of wine, sacks of gold dust, and scrolls wrapped in dragon hide. Yet behind the pleasantries, every smile was measured, every gesture rehearsed. In the Hall of the Ancients, beneath the high archways and silver chandeliers, the two kings sat — Guma with his council of truthspeakers, Orana with his hooded advisors. “We do not come for war as my late father is known for But for partnership. For opportunity because am different,The Ezronite that sings beneath your soil… I would mine it, refine it, and with it, I will shape the world and we both will benefit greatly.” King Orana said with a smile. But King Guma had seen the fire in Orana’s dreams. Weapons, not wisdom. Domination, not diplomacy. “And what of the lands that Ezronite will scorch?” Guma replied. “What of the kingdoms that will kneel to your machines, not your merit?” The room had grown still. Even the torches seemed to flicker in warning. “I will not sell my daughter’s future to feed your empire of ash.” The tension in the Hall of the Ancients could be sliced with a blade. Though words still wore the clothing of civility, the room itself had grown colder — as if the stone walls sensed a storm on the horizon. King Orana leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the polished wood of the royal table. “You speak with conviction that can change me from a visitor to an enemy, Guma,” he said, voice light, almost amused. “Perhaps... I asked too much, too soon.” He turned slightly, as if to casually regard one of his advisors — a hooded man with a single gold ring in his ear and eyes sharp as flint. The advisor leaned in and whispered quickly, his words too low to hear. But Guma’s truthspeakers watched with hawk-like silence. On Guma’s left, his own chief councilor — Elder Barandu, a man with a voice like cracked stone — raised a hand. “Your Majesty,” Barandu said to Guma, not even sparing Orana a glance, “Ezronite is no mere metal. In the wrong hands, it becomes death dressed as progress. And King Orana’s hands are never empty.” Orana chuckled, but it was a humorless sound. “Your truthspeaker wounds me,” he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock injury. “Truth is meant to wound when falsehood hides in the skin of friendship,” Barandu replied calmly. A subtle gasp moved through the room, but Guma raised a hand. All went still. “Let us speak plainly, Orana,” Guma said, voice steady. “You have come not only for trade — but for leverage. My answer stands. Alamumba will not sell its soul for gold or peace forged in chains.” Behind Orana, his council grew tense. One of them, a gaunt woman in robes of shadowed red, whispered fiercely: “We warned you, Your Majesty. No one threatens Guma in his own house and walks free. Leave now with dignity before you leave with blood.” Orana waved her off with a flick of his jeweled hand. But his eyes never left Guma. “Then let us forget Ezronite, yes, let us forget Ezronite” Orana said with that too-smooth smile. “You have many treasures, King of Peace. Spices, wood, ivory, wild silk. Let us begin with... something simpler.” Guma narrowed his eyes. “You seek to smooth stone with honey. But I know the taste of poison under sweet wine.” Orana stood then, slow and regal. He turned to Guma and bowed — low and graceful. “Then let us not drink today. I thank you for your hospitality, King Guma. And I pray that Alamumba’s light never fades.” But behind that bow, behind the words of peace, a dark promise had been made. That evening, as they rode back through the torch-lit roads of Alamumba, Orana said nothing. His son, Prince Vatu, broke the silence. “He shamed you.” “No,” Orana replied. “He warned me.” He looked to his council — his generals, his seers, his spies. “Prepare the riders. Ready the blacksmiths. Send word to the southern armies. Let the merchants smile and the singers play, but let the soldiers sharpen their blades.” He glanced back at the fading lights of Alamumba behind them. “We’ll take it all — when they least expect it. And I’ll burn the crown before I let it rise again.” The evening air on the road back to Blumra was cool, scented with wild lemons and pine smoke from distant farmlands. The royal convoy moved in silence, save for the rhythm of hooves on stone and the occasional rustle of the wind-tossed trees. Prince Vatu, still barely sixteen but already taller than most of Orana’s guards, rode close beside his father, his jaw set. He had remained silent long enough but still haunted by curiosity. “Father,” he said, his voice low but firm, “I know what you’re planning. But what if it backfires?” King Orana did not turn his head, but the flicker of interest in his dark eyes said he was listening. “We’ve read their histories. Alamumba does not fall easily. You saw the walls. You heard their truthspeakers. Their ancestors crushed armies twice their size. If we strike and fail” “We will not fail,” Orana said simply. “You assume too much.” Orana finally turned, fixing his son with a cold, calculating look. “No, Vatu. I understand one thing clearly: power lives in supply. Alamumba’s strength is not in their walls or their war songs — it’s in their resources. Ezronite. Ironwood. Stone that holds heat. Spices that preserve food for months. Water that never dries. They’ve survived every siege because they’ve never needed the outside world.” He paused, eyes glowing under the starlight. “So I came to buy what makes them strong. Strip them of their secrets, mine them with permission, then leave them weak before they even realized it.” Vatu frowned. “And now that they’ve refused?” Orana smiled. But it wasn’t the smile of a father. “Now we do it the old way. But smarter. We won’t knock on the gates. We’ll walk through them, wearing borrowed faces.” Vatu leaned closer, suspicious. “You mean spies?” “Spies. Merchants. Diplomats. Poisoners. Saboteurs. Men who’ll set fire to grain stores while smiling in Guma’s court. And when we strike, it won’t be an army at the gate — it will be a sickness inside the lungs.” replied Orana Vatu fell silent, a chill crawling under his cloak. He had always admired his father’s mind. But tonight, he feared the shape of it. “You admire Guma, don’t you?” Orana asked suddenly. Vatu didn’t respond. “That’s fine,” Orana continued. “Admire him. Respect him. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking he’ll spare you when it’s his kingdom on fire.” Meanwhile, in the garden corridor near the princess’ wing... Krima stepped quietly through the violet-scented hedges, her cloak dusted with leaves, a deer-hide bag slung over her shoulder, and her bow hidden beneath it. Her guard Ero walked beside her, glancing around cautiously. “We were lucky,” he said softly. “If Orana’s guards had seen us enter from the forest side” “They didn’t,” Krima cut in. “We’ve done this a hundred times.” She paused near the gate, eyes narrowing. “But what could Blumra soldiers be doing on that path. Why were they here?” Ero hesitated. “It could have a diplomatic visit my princess. Maybe we should confirm from your maid...” “That would be helpful,” Krima softened. “But... I’ve read about them, Ero. Blumra smiles with daggers in its teeth.” Just then, her maid Deni, the one who always covered for her outings, came rushing out from the garden corridor. “Princess!” she said breathlessly, arms open. Krima ran to her with relief, pretending for a moment that all was still as it was. But when she pulled away, her voice was quiet. “Why did Orana and his soldiers came?” Deni shrugged. “Trade, maybe. There weren’t many soldiers with him — just a few advisors, guards. Nothing like a war march. The queen summoned you my princess, your presence was needed at the court...” Krima didn’t look convinced. “He doesn’t need many. He carries war in his voice. I hope my father don't get angry at me for not being present.” She looked up at the towers, wondering if her father would call her — as he always did — before night’s rest. But this time, she feared the summons wouldn’t be for warmth or stories... but for judgment. She hadn’t been at court. And if her father knew she’d gone hunting during a royal negotiation... worse still, missed the meeting as next to the throne... “He’s going to call me soon,” she whispered, heart tightening. “And it won’t be just about where I was.”