The first light of dawn filtered through the smoke-stained air, revealing the battered remnants of the Nupe camp. Charred tents sagged under the weight of soot and ash, horses whinnied uneasily in their stalls, and the smell of burnt millet and singed hides clung to every corner. Men moved with weary purpose, dragging the wounded, salvaging what could be saved, eyes wary of every shadow.
Bubakar surveyed the scene from a low rise. His spear rested across his broad shoulders, mud streaking his worn boots, the sting of last night's wounds still raw across his back. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned every movement — every shuffle of feet, every glint of metal.
Umaru rode nearby, mounted on a small but sturdy horse. His expression was guarded, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward Bubakar with a mixture of lingering suspicion and reluctant acknowledgment. He no longer mocked, but he had not yet crossed the line into full trust. Around him, a small group of followers matched his careful distance — each movement wary, each glance cautious.
Bubakar's uncle emerged from the command tent, a map tucked under one arm, eyes sharp and measured. He motioned Bubakar forward. "You," he said, voice calm but firm, "will take a small unit along the western ridge. Patrols have been reported near the river bend. I want them stopped before they can reach camp again. You will lead them."
Bubakar froze for a heartbeat — the weight of command settling on him like a stone. Men glanced toward him, some curious, some skeptical, whispers brushing the morning air: "The palace boy thinks he can command?"
He swallowed hard, jaw setting, and nodded. "Yes, my uncle." His voice was low, steady, carrying the firmness of someone taking responsibility for lives — not just his own.
Some men acknowledged him with small nods, faces brightening at the memory of the night he had saved them from the burning camp. Others crossed their arms, doubt etched in every line. Bubakar's gaze swept over them, lips curling just enough to hint at resolve. "Watch me, and you'll know. Hesitate, and you'll learn the hard way."
The small unit moved through the forest, boots sinking into dew-soaked earth, eyes sharp for the slightest rustle of leaves. Every shadow seemed heavier than it should be, every sound magnified.
Ahead, the Hausa patrol appeared — five mounted men, their horses stepping carefully along the narrow river path. Bubakar crouched behind a fallen log, signaling his unit to halt. The men obeyed, muscles tense, breaths shallow.
The ambush unfolded with precision. Spears flew, men shouted, and the forest echoed with the chaos of controlled violence. Bubakar led from the front, every decision measured, every movement deliberate.
Victory came at a cost. Jauro, a lanky youth whose bright eyes had trusted him fully, misstepped and fell beneath a startled horse. Bubakar's spear found the nearest enemy, but he could not save his friend. Jauro's wide eyes met Bubakar's — a fleeting glance heavy with trust and accusation — before the life drained from him. Bubakar's jaw tightened, pain and fury warping his features, his fingers gripping his spear like a vice.
"MI LA TSUA NYA!" he roared — a cry of triumph, rage, and defiance.
One by one, the men echoed him. "MI LA TSUA NYA!" The chant rose like a tide, binding them together in a shared heartbeat of fear, grief, and newfound loyalty. Even the skeptical faces softened, eyes brightening with respect.
MI LA TSUA NYA!" they shouted again and again, the chant rising like smoke through the trees, following Bubakar's lead as they pressed toward camp, each step echoing with both grief and triumph.
Umaru, still mounted nearby, did not join in the chant, but his eyes lingered on Bubakar, a faint shift in his posture betraying acknowledgment. He remained cautious, neutral, yet not hostile — a fragile peace forming between half-brothers in the crucible of battle.
By the time they returned to camp, exhaustion clung to every man like a second skin. Mud streaked faces, scraped hands, and singed clothes testified to the night's toll. Horses whinnied and stamped, unsettled by the echoes of the ambush, while men whispered names of those lost and praises for those who had survived.
Bubakar dismounted near the command tent. His uncle stood waiting, the firelight catching the lines of his battle-worn face. Shadows hid much, but the glint in his eyes softened, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You are no longer just a cub," his uncle said, voice calm but deliberate. "You have teeth now. A mind to use them, and a heart to bear the cost. Remember — the forest is full of shadows, and the lion who knows them does not fear. Survival is earned in the quiet moments, in choices made between courage and wisdom."
Bubakar's lips curved into a subtle, private grin. He glanced over the camp, catching his men as they tended to the wounded, murmuring names, some still staring toward the retreating path of the Hausa patrol. Their faces, etched with exhaustion and grief, now held sparks of trust and loyalty.
The sun climbed higher, cutting through smoke and mist. Bubakar's back ached, his fingers burned from holding his spear, yet he felt something heavier — the weight of responsibility, the first true taste of leadership, and the knowledge that he had taken another step toward becoming the lion his bloodline demanded.