The palace courtyard shimmered under a pale dawn, the mud-brick walls still holding shadows from the night fires at the frontier. Courtiers murmured anxiously as a messenger, dust-streaked and breathless, knelt before the Etsu.
"My Etsu," he gasped, "the western frontier was struck last night. The Nupe camps suffered heavy attacks by Hausa raiders. Many wounded. Supplies lost. Commander Nuhu requests reinforcements — food, weapons, men. He fears a larger push."
The Etsu's gaze lingered on the messenger, The older man's eyes narrowed, wary. The Etsu's fingers drummed lightly against the carved ebony throne.
"This little brother of mine is too cautious," he murmured to himself, voice heavy with sighs that carried across the hall. "He thinks too much… unnecessarily. The enemy's must surely have suffered injuries and some losses — why the rush?"
He drew in a slow breath and straightened. "Send a small group," he commanded finally. "Men, weapons, and supplies — enough to stabilize, not to win the battle for them. We cannot spare more." His tone was firm but measured, the calm authority of the throne masking concern.
Outside, the wind carried the distant cries of the frontier — smoke drifting over the river plains where the Nupe were already bracing for the next attack.
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Western Frontier — Afternoon
The sun burned low in a sky veined with smoke from the night's destruction. Bubakar received the orders after the Hausa first raid had thrown the Nupe into chaos. Alongside him, Umaru and other promising young warriors — each handpicked from the survivors — were assigned positions at the narrow passes that channeled the enemy advance.
Bubakar's lips pressed together as he studied the ridge before him, spears at hand. Men shuffled uneasily behind him; some he had saved during the burning of the camps, others still skeptical of the palace boy thrust into command.
"Hold the pass," the commander said, voice clipped. "Expect losses. Live if you can. Protect the ridge."
Umaru's eyes flicked to Bubakar, unreadable. His jaw was tight, horse tense beneath him. The half-brother's followers mirrored his caution, hands hovering near weapons, glances darting between the ridge and the young prince.
Bubakar exhaled slowly, vision narrowing. He began pacing small arcs, pointing to choke points, hidden dips, and flanking shadows. He debated internally: which positions would lure the enemy into traps, which would expose them. Strategy, not brute strength, would determine survival. His pulse raced — a young commander thinking faster than a fighter ever could.
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The Narrow Pass — Late Afternoon
The first wave of Hausa emerged like a living storm: horses pounding, spears glinting, warriors shouting war cries that echoed against the cliffs. Bubakar crouched behind a fallen boulder, signaling his unit to halt. Men's eyes were wide, faces pale with the mix of fear and adrenaline.
He caught Umaru's glance — still cautious, still skeptical, but trust flickered faintly there. Bubakar inclined his head subtly. No words were necessary; they would hold the line together, or die trying.
The battle erupted in a surge of sound and motion. Spears clashed, men cried out, horses screamed, and the narrow pass became a funnel of chaos. Bubakar led from the front, decisions instantaneous: shift a shield wall, reposition a wounded warrior, send a runner to flank the enemy.
Then it came — the fatal moment.
A Hausa rider lunged, cutting through the line with brute strength. Bubakar deflected with a raised spear, but his uncle — the Commander — stood in the center of the melee, rallying the young warriors, shouting guidance, holding the line with legendary courage.
The surviving warriors fought desperately, their cries mingling with Bubakar's own:
"MI LA TSUA NYA!"
Through mud, blood, and smoke, Bubakar guided the remaining fighters, deflecting attacks, holding the pass as best as humanly possible. Umaru fought near him, silent but steady, eyes scanning constantly for threats, hands white on the reins and weapons.
Then, from the chaos, Bubakar's uncle — the Commander — caught sight of a towering figure among the invaders, moving with precision, issuing commands with sharp gestures. His eyes narrowed.
"Men!" he roared, voice carrying above the clash, "focus! Follow the line, but watch him — their general is here. Take your cue from me, hold steady. Today, we are the wall that bends but does not break!"
His words were fire in their veins, a surge of courage that stiffened shoulders and lifted hearts. The Nupe warriors, inspired by his gaze and command, pushed back with renewed fury, throwing the invaders into temporary disarray.
The Commander planted himself firmly atop the ridge, shoulders squared, spear angled just so, eyes scanning the battlefield like a hawk surveying prey. Dust clung to his armor, sweat streaked his brow, yet he radiated calm authority. Every line of his body spoke of experience and unshakable courage — a man who had faced countless battles and never wavered. The young warriors around him straightened involuntarily, inspired by the sheer presence of the man who embodied the heart of the Nupe army
A sudden clash drew Bubakar's attention — his uncle engaged in single combat with the enemy commander. Spears and swords met with deadly precision. The enemy struck unfairly: an archer loosed an arrow just as the commanders' blades clashed, grazing Nuhu's shoulder. Pain flared, blood staining his tunic, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to yield. Then a slash from the enemy
Bubakar lunged forward without thought, shoving aside two attacking soldiers, shielding his uncle, and driving him back behind a small ridge. "Hold on!" he shouted, muscles coiled like springs. He planted himself between the commander and the enemy, parrying a blow meant for the comander, his spear flashing in the dying light.
The commander's chest heaved, eyes blazing, and he whispered hoarsely through gritted teeth, "Well done… Bubakar… the line… the people… survive…"
The enemy general, caught between the fury of the Nupe and the sudden intervention of the young prince, faltered. The Nupe rallied, screaming once more:
The surviving warriors fought desperately, their cries mingling with Bubakar's own:
"MI LA TSUA NYA!"
The men, despite exhaustion and fear, answered, voices ragged but unbroken. "MI LA TSUA NYA! MI LA TSUA NYA!"
Through mud, blood, and smoke, Bubakar guided the remaining fighters, deflecting attacks, holding the pass as best as humanly possible. Umaru fought near him, silent but steady, eyes scanning constantly for threats, hands white on the reins and weapons.
Finally, as the last of the Hausa riders were pushed back, a small group of reinforcements arrived — too late to save the comander, too few to claim victory outright. They shouted and charged, helping to stabilize the survivors and tend to the wounded.
Bubakar stood among the battered remnants of the ridge line, chest heaving, spear dripping with blood. Around him, men muttered the comanders name, some weeping quietly. Umaru's gaze met his again — a subtle nod, silent acknowledgment of leadership earned in fire, loss, and survival.
The battlefield was quieting, but the cost was clear: many lives lost, including the commander's legendary death, yet the Nupe had held the pass. The young warriors, bruised and bloodied, would carry the memory forward, the echo of their leader's last words shaping them into true soldiers of the bloodline.
Bubakar wiped his hands on his tunic, eyes scanning the horizon, the weight of command settling heavier than ever. Glory was no longer about personal triumph. It was about survival, strategy, and bearing the cost — the first true taste of what it meant to be the lion of Manko's blood.