Krima

Krima: Season 1: Episode 1: Chapter 2: The Summon.

Night had fallen over Alamumba, but the palace did not sleep.

The full moon bathed the ancient stones in silver, and from the High Tower, the banner of the royal sun fluttered softly in the wind. Yet within the stone corridors, footsteps moved swiftly — torches lit, scrolls opened, messengers dispatched.

In the inner chamber known as the Chamber of Ancestors, King Guma stood alone for a moment before the carved pillars bearing the names of his lineage. His reflection danced in the obsidian floor below.

He was a man not easily shaken — but he was not blind.

The doors opened with solemn creak and as summoned by king Guma came the Chief Guard Kamtu, General Duro, Warlord Senaba, Elder Barandu, and Chief Priestess Aluna entered, followed by the soft-footed scribes who bore sealed scrolls and iron-bound tomes.

King Guma turned to face them.

“What you saw today,” he said without preamble, “was not a trade offer. It was a warning dressed in silk.”

He looked to General Duro, a hulking man with scars across his throat and a voice like thunder.

“Double the watch at the gates. Begin moving archers into the ridge posts. Quietly. I want no panic in the city.”

To Chief Guard Kamtu:

“Restrict access to the palace corridors. Especially servants from foreign delegations. Vet them again. No one walks these halls who has not been tested and the safety of my daughter should be a top priority”

To Warlord Senaba:

“Have your scouts track their path as they leave. I want to know if they change course before crossing the border.”

Then he looked to Chief Priestess Aluna, her face painted with the moon sigils of her order.

“You felt it too,” he said.

She nodded slowly.

“There was a shadow behind his eyes. He carries death in his future.”

Guma’s voice grew low.

“Then it is time Alamumba listens to its bones. Prepare the old rites. Call on the hidden cities. If we are to bleed, let us be clothed in the armor of prophecy.”

The elders bowed.

But before they could speak again, a palace servant entered and whispered something quickly into Kamtu’s ear. He turned to the king.

“Your daughter has returned. She’s safe. But... she was not present at court today.”

The silver moonlight poured through the high arched windows of Princess Krima’s chamber, glinting softly on the water pooled in her marble bath. Scented steam curled into the air — a blend of moon petals, river mint, and goldroot — bathing the room in a tranquil haze.

Krima stepped out, wrapped in a soft robe embroidered with the royal sigil of Alamumba — a golden lion rising beneath the sun. Her dreaded long hair clung to her shoulders, her feet bare against the cool mosaic tiles. Yet, for all the luxury around her, her heart was not at ease.

She moved toward the open balcony, gazing up at the blazing full moon, its light seemingly drawn closer than ever. She wondered if the moon had always felt so... watchful.

“You always run toward the wind, even when it howls,”

came a soft voice from behind.

Krima turned, startled, only to see her mother — Queen Ramina — step gracefully into the chamber, her royal robes trailing like a whisper, her expression a mix of love and concern.

Krima bit her lower lip, sheepish.

“You heard.”

The Queen arched one brow delicately.

“Your maid covers for you well... but not from your mother.”

She crossed the room slowly, eyes scanning her daughter with the protective gaze only a mother could give.

“You missed court, Krima. And today of all days, you know how important it is to stay close to your father when making important decisions that concerns the kingdom.”

Krima turned her eyes away, guilt pulling at her chest.

“I didn’t mean to be gone long. The woods just... calm me.”

“And they worry your father,” Ramina said gently. “You know that. He has no son. No heir but you. Your safety is not just love. It is legacy.”

Krima closed the distance between them and held her mother’s hands.

“I don’t do it to defy him,” she said softly. “I just… feel like him when I hunt. Like the stories he told me, when he would fight off shadow wolves and hide in thorn trees. I feel brave. Alive. Like I belong to something wild and strong.”

Her voice trembled.

“I hate that I make him worry. I do. Please… if he decides to punish me — stop me from even walking the city walls — speak for me. Please, mama.”

Ramina’s stern look faltered into a tender smile.

“My daughter, you are the spark of his heart and the fire in mine. He may roar, but his anger comes from fear — the fear of losing you.”

Krima looked up hopefully.

“Then you’ll speak for me?”

“Of course,” Ramina said, brushing a lock of wet hair from Krima’s face. “But you must promise me something too.”

“Anything.”

“When the time comes, and the kingdom looks to you not just as daughter of Guma — but as Krima the Lion-Blooded — don’t run to the woods. Run toward the fire. Face it.”

Krima nodded slowly, taking the words into her soul.

“I promise.”

Ramina kissed her forehead, then turned toward the door.

“Now go dress. Your father waits for dinner. And he’s not the only one with questions.”

Krima watched her mother go, then turned back to the balcony. The moon was still watching. But now, she didn't feel small beneath it.

She felt ready.

The great Royal Dining Hall of Alamumba was aglow with candlelight. Massive golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their flames flickering in perfect rhythm. Lush tapestries of the kingdom’s victories lined the walls — wars won, lands defended, peace forged.

At the head of the long obsidian table sat King Guma, silent, cloaked in his dark ceremonial robe, its shoulders stitched with lion bones — a tradition passed down through Alamumba’s warrior kings. His sharp eyes watched the empty chair to his left, where Krima should have been.

Queen Ramina sat beside him, calm and composed, but her fingers gently tapped the polished wood — a silent code only her husband could hear.

Then, the great doors opened.

Krima entered, clad in a flowing indigo gown with gold threading, her royal crest pinned to her chest. Her long hair, now dry and brushed smooth, was tied in a warrior’s braid down her back — a deliberate choice.

She walked toward the table, every step echoing slightly in the hush, and bowed her head with grace.

“Forgive my absence today, Father. I came as swiftly as I could.”

Guma gestured for her to sit, neither smiling nor frowning.

“You came. That is what matters now.”

She took her place beside him. Servants appeared with trays — roasted wild fowl, sunroot stew, and honeyed dates. But few reached for food.

At the far end of the table sat General Duro, Chief Guard Kamtu, and Chief Priestess Aluna, their eyes respectfully lowered — but all ears were tuned to the tension.

King Guma spoke again, his voice steady.

“Today, Krima, we met with a snake who wore silk.”

Krima’s eyes met his.

“King Orana?”

“He came with peace in his mouth and conquest in his heart.”

He paused to sip his drink, then looked directly at her.

“What do you know of Blumra’s resource hunger?”

“That they mine until the land bleeds dry,” Krima replied. “They burn their own forests for trade. Their soil is poisoned. Their magic... unstable. They want what we have — not to preserve it, but to control it.”

Guma nodded slowly.

“Then you already understand why I said no.”

A beat of silence.

“But you missed your place at the table. And soon, this table may become a war table.”

Krima straightened, but her voice was quiet.

“I was hunting. Not because I defy you — but because I feel most alive where my hands grip the bow and my eyes read the wind.”

“And when the bow breaks? When war comes to the city walls and the wind turns red?” Guma asked.

Krima said nothing for a moment — then:

“Then I will fight for Alamumba. Not from the forest... but from the front.”

A long silence passed.

Then, for the first time that evening, Guma smiled.

It was not a wide smile — but a proud one. One that showed the fire he knew lived within her.

“You are your father’s daughter,” he said. “And one day... they will write songs of the lioness who stood in the storm.”

Queen Ramina touched Krima’s hand gently.

“You’ve made him worry less, tonight.”

Just then, a servant entered hastily and whispered into Kamtu’s ear. The guard’s face hardened, and he leaned toward the king.

“Your Majesty... scouts report Orana’s caravan changed route at the ridge. They’re not headed home directly.”

The hall fell still again.

Krima’s fingers curled into fists.

Guma rose from the table.

A hushed whisper traveled through the royal dining hall after Chief Guard Kamtu gave his report. All spoons and cups were laid down. The flicker of the chandeliers above seemed to dim — or perhaps it was the weight of the words just spoken.

King Guma stood tall, his robes catching the light like shadows dancing in gold.

“Two paths lead from Alamumba to Blumra,” he said, slowly. “One cuts through the whispering woods — short, direct, and open. The other weaves around the Red Hills... longer, narrow, shaded in fog. Dangerous. Why choose danger over ease?”

General Duro’s brow furrowed.

“Perhaps the king tires easily and wished to rest before dawn?”

Guma turned to him.

“Or perhaps he wishes to see the land... with different eyes.”

All turned quiet. Guma’s stare bore into the flickering flame of the nearest lamp as if seeing beyond.

“Has he taken the long path?”

Kamtu nodded.

“Yes, Your Majesty. He entered the ridge trail before sunset. No sign of continued movement.”

A short breath escaped Guma’s lips. It could have been a scoff — or a warning to himself.

“Then let him camp. But let him be watched. Every ember of his fire, every whisper of his guards. If they so much as measure the wind — I want to know its direction.”

Krima’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You think he’s scouting?”

Guma turned toward her, quiet pride in his eyes.

“I think no hunter follows the long path unless he seeks a better angle on his prey.”

Then, as if the weight of the air grew too thick to breathe, King Guma raised one hand.

“This table is dismissed.”

At once, servants stepped forward to clear the plates, and the court rose.

Guma didn’t linger.

He turned and walked the inner corridor of the palace, past torch-lit halls and guards who bowed in silence, until he reached a great wooden door carved with lion heads and ancestral symbols.