The next evening, the palace courtyard transformed into a world of firelight and shadows. Clay lanterns shaped like leopards lined the stone path, their flickering flames making the carved beasts seem alive. Drummers played a steady, haunting rhythm that vibrated through Amara's chest like a second heartbeat.
She stood at the threshold, draped in ceremonial cloth dyed deep crimson, embroidered with golden leaves and symbols of the old spirits. Around her neck hung a single pendant carved from black stone — a token given to each Leopard Queen, whispered to hold the blessing and burden of the land.
Her hands trembled despite her resolve. Breathe, Amara, she told herself. Breathe.
Ahead, King Akinlabi waited, his dark robes blending into the evening shadows. The same carved mask hid his eyes, but the moonlight caught the gold thread at his collar, giving him an otherworldly glow. Servants, nobles, and warriors stood on either side, silent as statues.
The Oracle stepped forward, her ivory-beaded veil swaying. "Tonight, under the gaze of the blood moon, the spirits join what fate has decreed," her voice carried through the courtyard, low and melodic. "Two hearts bound, for the salvation of Nyoka."
The words echoed in Amara's mind, heavy as a stone sinking into water. Salvation — a promise she hadn't chosen, yet now it was woven into every beat of her heart.
She walked toward the dais, each step feeling longer than the last. When she stopped before the King, the drumming ceased, leaving only the sigh of wind through ancient stone.
"Speak your vow," the Oracle intoned.
Amara swallowed. Her voice felt trapped behind her ribs, but finally it rose, steady despite her fear.
"I, Amara Rivers, daughter of Miri, stand before spirits and men," she said. "I vow to honor this bond, to protect our people, and to walk beside you, even into darkness."
Silence pressed around them. The King's mask turned toward her; for a heartbeat, she imagined she glimpsed surprise — or was it sorrow?
Then he spoke, his tone deep and controlled. "I, Akinlabi, son of Nnenna, Leopard King of Nyoka, accept this bond. I vow to shield this land, to uphold my ancestors' promise, and to share my path with you."
The Oracle raised her hands, golden bracelets glinting in the torchlight. "By spirit and blood, the bond is sealed."
A servant approached with a shallow bowl carved from sacred ebony wood. Inside lay fresh palm leaves soaked in water drawn from the River Olumo, sacred since the first Leopard King was crowned.
The Oracle dipped a leaf and brushed it gently across Amara's forehead, then the King's. The cool water sent a shiver through her skin, and for an instant, it felt as if something unseen passed between them — a whisper of old magic, older than words.
Then, from the watching crowd, a cry rose: "Long live the Leopard Queen!" Others echoed it until the courtyard thundered with voices, drums rolling back to life in triumph.
But Amara barely heard them. Her gaze was fixed on Akinlabi. Though the mask still hid his eyes, she sensed the tension in his posture — the way his jaw tightened, how his breath seemed heavier.
Their hands brushed briefly as the Oracle stepped back. His skin felt warm against hers, but the contact was fleeting, like sunlight breaking through clouds before vanishing again.
The drumming rose, dancers spun in bright cloth, and torches threw shifting patterns across stone walls. Yet inside Amara, a different dance raged — hope tangled with fear, longing with doubt.
She was a bride now. A queen. Yet her new husband remained a mystery wrapped in wood and shadow. The words they'd spoken bound them before the spirits, but what of the hearts behind those words?
As the ceremony ended, servants led her away toward the royal quarters. Behind her, she felt the weight of the King's gaze, unseen yet heavy, as if he too wondered what future the spirits had forced them into.
Amara's footsteps echoed down the corridor, and for the first time, the palace no longer felt merely grand or ancient — it felt like a maze she might never find her way out of.
And somewhere deep within her chest, past the fear, a small ember of resolve burned: If fate has written this story, then let it also know I am no passive character.