"Take care of the wounded," Azzuri commanded, his voice steady despite the fury swirling within him. His eyes scanned the clearing, where warriors lay battered and burned, many with their skin blistered by unnatural flames.
The attack had come swiftly and with unrelenting force; the enemy was growing more ruthless and desperate.
"My prince! My prince!" a voice rang out.
Azzuri turned to see Nehada, one of the Dora Milaje, striding toward him.
"What is it, Nehada?"
"We've received word from the capital. You are to return at once."
Azzuri's breath caught. "Is it… is it my father?"
Nehada hesitated. "I do not know, my prince."
Azzuri's jaw clenched. "Very well." He turned back to his men. "Hold this position. Keep striking from the shadows, none of them are to leave this forest alive."
His soldiers saluted before vanishing once more into the dense cover of Wakanda's woodlands. Azzuri followed Nehada swiftly through the brush, his heart pounding.
They arrived at the banks of the River Bashari, where a sleek reed boat waited. Azzuri stepped in, and the craft guided by a silent helmsman pushed off into the current. The rivers of Wakanda were ancient and vast, forming a web that connected every city and village like veins in a living body.
As the boat glided over the glassy surface, the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting amber and crimson reflections on the water. Azzuri sat quietly, watching the colors blur and shift. His hands tightened on his knees. He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer to Bast.
Please. Let my father be well. Let the Great Panther endure.
This war had begun nearly a year ago. It started when Rama‑Tut, pharaoh of the Eternal Dominion a nation that had appeared from nowhere to Wakanda's far north demanded tribute: Wakanda's greatest treasure, the sacred metal, and its submission.
The audacity still angered Azzuri, but his father, wise and unshakable, had refused. "The Panther bows to no one," he had said.
As soon as the pharaoh's envoy departed, his father began preparations, guided by both intuition and a warning from Bast. He was proved right when Rama‑Tut's armies descended, led by two generals who wielded the forces of fire and ice. They burned fields, froze rivers, and brought death to Wakanda's borders.
But Wakanda had met them with unyielding might.
For a year they had fought twelve long moons of bloodshed and loss.
In the first three months, the border tribes fell. Villages turned to ash beneath the fire‑wielding general's wrath, while frozen rivers made retreat impossible under the watch of her frost‑bound brother‑in‑arms.
But Wakanda did not break.
His father, the Black Panther, stood firm, striking blow after blow with the strength of Bast and the wisdom of a hundred generations. Yet the invaders pushed ever deeper, claiming a third of Wakanda despite their king's fury.
Their weapons were unlike anything Wakanda had ever seen: blades of light, siege engines powered by strange energies. If not for the sacred metal, the nation could not have held out this long. At the Battle of Orokar they unleashed their generals' full power; the screams of that day still haunted Azzuri's dreams. Dozens of Wakanda's greatest warriors perished in moments.
It was after Orokar that his father changed everything.
They abandoned the open field. Shadows became their allies. They struck at night and vanished by dawn. It worked, slowing the enemy, but at a cost.
Now, sitting in the reed boat speeding toward the heart of the realm, Azzuri asked the question that weighed on his soul.
"Are you sure? There's still been no word from Ukani?"
Nehada, her eyes downcast, answered without turning. "No, my prince. Nothing."
Azzuri looked away, jaw clenched.
Ukani, one of the three lesser mounts where the sacred metal could be mined, had fallen. The invaders had seized it. His father had led the elite to take it back himself.
No sacred metal leaves Wakanda. That was the oath, the law. If it did, it would be the greatest failure their people had ever known, a betrayal of Bast herself.
The capital rose on the horizon tall towers of stone and the sacred metal jutting above the jungle canopy, each a testament to millennia of strength and sovereignty.
But today they felt like tombstones.
The boat docked in silence: no fanfare, no horn to announce the prince's return—only the hushed shuffle of guards standing motionless, their expressions grim.
Azzuri stepped ashore.
Each footfall on the cobbled path to the royal palace grew heavier than the last. A knot twisted in his stomach; a weight pressed on his chest. Everyone he passed warriors, merchants, servants bowed low, but something had changed in their eyes.
He mounted the palace steps with dread. The great panther statues on either side loomed larger than ever. When the doors swung open before him, he already knew what awaited.
Queen Naresa stood at the center of the throne room, veiled in black, her hands trembling. When she lifted her gaze and met his, all strength left her.
She ran to him. "Azzuri," she sobbed, clutching him as her tears fell freely.
He held her tightly. "I'm here, Mother," he whispered, though the words felt hollow.
The truth wrapped around him like chains:
The king was dead.
His father was dead.
The Black Panther had fallen.
And where sorrow might have consumed him, Azzuri felt only fire rage, cold and white‑hot, burning behind his eyes and pounding in his heart.
=====
It all happened fast.
The mourning period was cut short, tradition set aside there was no time for celebration or ceremony. Wakanda was at war. Azzuri's coronation was swift; he barely felt present at all. His heart was numb, his mind a fog of grief and rage. But the people needed a king, Bast needed a champion, and so he stepped into his father's place unprepared yet unwilling to falter.
The ritual of the Black Panther began at dusk.
The Heart‑Shaped Herb was brought to him on a tray of sacred metal, its purple glow pulsing faintly. Priestesses circled him, chanting words older than the stones beneath their feet. He knelt before the sacred fire, inhaling the heavy scent of burning herbs.
"Drink, Azzuri, son of M'Tanda," the High Priestess commanded.
He placed the herb in his mouth and chewed. Its taste was bitter. As he swallowed, fire spread through his body—liquid flame that scorched his throat, seared his veins, and clawed at his lungs. His heart pounded like a war‑drum. Pain consumed him, stealing his breath and sight. His body convulsed, and he collapsed to the ground, trembling. The world went black.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the chamber.
The sky above swirled with color violets, greens, and silvers flowing like rivers of paint. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The air was warm, and an odd comfort filled him. He rose, his body whole and free of pain, and turned to see a great black panther padding toward him across the dreamlike plain.
Azzuri dropped to one knee, bowing deeply. "Lady Bast," he breathed.
"Rise, young one," came the voice low and commanding, yet soothing like wind over the savanna. He obeyed, meeting the panther's golden eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul.
"Wakanda is in peril," Bast said, "and you must now lead it."
"I… I seek your guidance, Great Bast. My father… he fell in battle. If even he could not stop them, how can I?"
"You are not your father," Bast replied. "You are yourself, and Wakanda's victory is at hand. But you must hold the realm together, young one."
"How?" Azzuri asked, desperation coloring his voice. "Tell me what I must do."
"There is one who will come," Bast said, "a visitor unlike any you have met, a man forged of emerald light. He will appear in your darkest hour, and you must use him to defeat the invaders."
"A man of emeralds?" Azzuri repeated, confused.
"Yes," Bast said. "He will have demands of his own, but you must be wise. Use your guile. Accept his help, but grant him nothing. Deny every demand he makes."
Azzuri frowned. "Why? Why would I deceive one who offers help?"
The panther's tail flicked; her gaze burned brighter. "Because this man will seek our secrets. He will covet the heart of Wakanda, our metal. He must not have it. No outsider may touch the gift I have given your people. No outsider must wield its power."
Azzuri lowered his head, still struggling to understand. "But if he helps us win—"
"Do what must be done, young Panther," Bast said firmly. "Lead your people. Protect what is sacred."
Azzuri drew a sharp breath and nodded. "Yes, Great Bast. I understand."
"Then rise, Azzuri, Black Panther. Rise, and be king."
The colors swirled around him again. The world folded in on itself, and suddenly he was gasping awake the taste of the Heart‑Shaped Herb still sharp on his tongue. The sacred chamber loomed around him, the priestesses watching in reverence.
He was the Black Panther now.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the man of emeralds awaited. Bast's will was clear: Wakanda's survival depended on him. Yet he would trust no outsider. He would use this stranger's power to win and when victory was secured, he would do as Bast commanded.
.
.
.
Max followed the Nile, gliding just beneath the cloud line, emerald light shimmering faintly around him as he flew. His eyes scanned the jungle landscape below, searching for Wakanda, the hidden kingdom, concealed even from the gods. Not even Khonsu had known its precise location. But Max was close now. He could feel it.
The first phase of his plan was complete. The north was burning with rebellion, Tut's grip loosening. The gods were active. En Sabah Nur had awakened literally and figuratively and once more led the nomadic clans. Together they'd lit the fire now consuming half of Tut's empire.
Phase two was next: bring Wakanda into the fight. If he could do that, all that remained was to head east and track down Gilgamesh and Thena. When that was done, he'd have the team.
The Revengers.
He smiled to himself. He could've called them the Avengers, sure, but without Odin it didn't feel right. Revengers was perfect in Max's opinion because, let's be honest, everyone in this mess wanted revenge.
He wanted revenge. Khenmet wanted revenge. En Sabah Nur? Definitely revenge. The gods? Their whole return was for revenge. And whoever currently bore the mantle of Black Panther would doubtless be itching for revenge too.
Okay, maybe Gilgamesh and Thena weren't personally involved, but Max was pretty confident Rama‑Tut had angered enough people to earn their ire as well.
It was a revenge cluster‑fuck. Hence: the Revengers.
"I'm detecting energy signatures similar to Rama‑Tut's tech."
Max straightened. "Finally," he muttered, narrowing his gaze as he descended through the humid air. Trees blurred beneath him, wildlife scattering at his sudden approach.
Through a gap in the dense canopy he spotted it: faint orange glows pulsing between the trees—fire.
"Well, that's something," Max said.
He adjusted his flight path, veering toward the flames. As he drew closer, he could see what was happening: a battle was underway in the jungle.
"Well, Jade, looks like we've found Wakanda."