Thorns & Thrones

Escapades I

His father, King Gidado, had ruled long and hard, iron-handed even in old age. When he slept one night and never rose, the kingdom mourned—but his children had already been forged in fire.

Their childhood was a knife-edge.

Yusuf had survived three assassination attempts before the age of fifteen. Once, poisoned stew. Another time, an ambush on his hunting trail. Danladi too had his near-deaths—an arrow that missed by an inch, a snake slipped into his bedding.

And Ameera… sweet Ameera, taken twice. Once by palace enemies posing as tutors, another time from a merchant caravan. Each time, Yusuf led the search himself. Each time, they brought her back.

Their mother, Queen Karima, had been beauty and temper in equal measure. When she fell ill, King Gidado, in the heat of a quarrel, dismissed it as playacting. By the time he sent for the royal physicians, it was too late. She died with a name on her lips, and it wasn’t his. That regret followed Gidado till he joined her in death.

For Yusuf, that pain carved out all softness. He learned early that emotion was weakness, that silence had weight, and that only those who mastered restraint could master power.

By nineteen, he had led his first campaign—against the rogue Muntaka clans who raided near the desert line—and returned with victory, two scars, and the loyalty of men twice his age.

Now, older, unshakable, and king, he carried every scar within.

He turned now to the open arch, where the scent of rose oil and cool air drifted from the women’s wing.

But there was no trace of Ameera. Not yet.

Ameera’s veil had slipped hours ago, the silk now bunched at her elbow as she sat beneath the baobab grove beyond the palace walls, her back pressed to the warm bark, her fingers tangled with his.

Tajudeen.

It was the only name that made her pulse hum and her limbs forget grace. He was not a prince. Not even noble. But he knew how to hold silence like royalty—and how to kiss like the rules of the world didn’t matter.

His callused fingers brushed her cheek. “You shouldn’t have come today.”

“And yet I did,” she whispered.

He frowned, glancing toward the thorn-covered path. “It’s riskier now. Word has it your brother grows suspicious.”

“My brother always grows suspicious,” she said. “But he sees too much and says too little.”

Tajudeen grunted softly. “He’s right to worry.”

Ameera pulled away slightly, brows drawn. “Is that your way of saying we should stop?”

He looked at her then—long, quiet, steady. “No. It’s my way of saying I’d rather have one stolen hour with you than a lifetime of silence.”

She smiled, then. That kind of smile that made men kneel and kings give up wars. But behind it, something ached. She knew this could not last. Not because of tribe or name or title. But because Tajudeen had secrets, the kind soaked in blood and old grudges. And she knew someday those secrets would call him away… or worse, bring danger to the gates of Kawuri itself.

Still, for now, under the shade of the trees and the scent of wild jasmines, she leaned into him. Let herself believe.

Just for now.

Back in the palace, the King stood in the courtyard, one hand behind his back, the other clenched loosely at his side.

The sun had begun its descent when the riders spotted movement in the grove beyond the southern orchard. A glint of silk, a figure cloaked in shadows—then two. Guards circled in silence, blades sheathed but fingers twitching.

Tajudeen had seen them first.

“Go,” he whispered.

But Ameera did not. She stood, chin high, dignity wrapped around her like a second veil. When the guards approached, she didn’t flinch.

“Princess,” the lead guard bowed slightly, though his tone held the stiffness of duty. “His Majesty awaits you.”

Her eyes flicked to Tajudeen once more—one last look, one last heartbeat. Then she turned and walked forward without another word.

The ride back was silent. No one dared speak. The wind carried the scent of earth and hibiscus. And shame.

At the palace gates, the guards dismounted first, forming a respectful line as she stepped down. Her gown was creased, her feet dusted, but her posture—still royal.

They led her straight to the Baobab Court.

King Yusuf turned, the dying light catching the edge of his jaw, sharp and unreadable.

He said nothing as she approached.

And Ameera… Ameera lowered her gaze—not out of fear, but because this, above all, was the one person in the world she could not lie to.

The marble beneath her feet felt colder than usual. As the guards stepped back, the vast hall emptied until only silence and bloodline remained.

Ameera raised her eyes slowly.

Yusuf stood still, arms folded behind his back, framed by the fading light. His jaw was set, expression carved from stone.

“You left the palace,” he said, voice low but heavy.

“I did.”

“With no guard. No word.”

“I didn’t think you’d miss me.”

Something flickered in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or worse, disappointment.

“You risked everything,” he said. “Again.”

Ameera’s voice softened. “I needed to breathe, Yusuf. I needed to feel something that wasn’t dictated. He—”

“Don’t say his name.”

The silence pressed in between them.

She stepped forward, slowly. “You’ve built walls, Yusuf. Around yourself. Around me. Around this place. But I am not a bird in your cage.”

“No,” he said. “You are a princess of Arewa. And every move you make echoes in corridors you do not see.”

Ameera’s voice trembled then, not from fear, but fury contained. “Do you see me, Yusuf? Or just a title to protect?”

His eyes didn’t move from hers. “You are my sister. That means I will protect you—even from yourself.”

Ameera’s breath hitched. She turned, blinking quickly.

“I miss her too, you know,” she whispered. “Mama.”

Yusuf didn’t answer. Not with words. But when he looked away, she saw it—just for a second—the softness behind the steel.

“Don’t change the subject,” Yusuf said, his voice dropping lower. “Why do you do this?”

Ameera turned to face him again, defiant but wounded. “Do what?”

“This recklessness,” he snapped. “This constant push against the walls meant to keep you safe. Is this purely rebellion, or is there more?”

She didn’t answer right away. The defiance in her eyes flickered, then steadied. “I want to live, Yusuf. I want to feel. To love. To choose. Even if it burns.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until there was barely breath between them. “You are not a girl in a poem, Ameera. You are a royal. Your choices do not belong to you alone. Every time you vanish, every whisper of scandal—do you know what that does to the throne?”

She flinched, but held his gaze. “Then marry me off, lock me away, parade me like livestock at court. Would that suit your crown better?”