As we stepped out of the hut, the night unfolded before us, a vast sea of faces illuminated by the wavering glow of lanterns.

  Shadows stretched long and uncertain, flickering against the clay walls and wooden beams of the village.

  Above, the heavens were veiled in thick clouds, shrouding the stars and moons in oppressive darkness.

  I fixed my gaze on the two moons hanging in the sky, their pale light casting a glow over the land. A strange unease settled in my chest at the realization this wasn't Earth.

  Where was I?

  Then I felt my body rise. Strong hands lifted me high above the crowd, and suddenly, all eyes were on me. A hush rippled through the gathering, a stillness that sent a chill down my spine. They were waiting.

  The elder woman raised her voice to the night.

  “My people! The mother of this child is no more!”

  At first, there was silence, as if the weight of her words had not yet settled. A few cheers and jubilation died in their throats. The crowd swayed, a wave of grief passing through them, washing away whatever joy had momentarily taken hold.

  Women covered their mouths, men clenched their fists, and children buried their faces in their parents' robes. The atmosphere thickened with mourning, a suffocating heaviness pressing against my chest.

  Behind me, the three girls who had remained at my mother’s side stepped out of the hut, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. They followed in solemn procession as we moved through the crowd, parting them like water.

  Then, the first beat of a drum. A single, deep boom. Then another. A steady rhythm, slow and deliberate, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.

  I turned my head, scanning the crowd, but my thoughts were tangled, overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. Create a nation, that was the sentence that refused to leave my mind.

  It was ridiculous. What did I know about ruling a nation?

  Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  Reading about history and playing video games don’t translate to real life. Neither did my IT degree at this moment. I wasn’t a leader. I was just… me. And yet, they carried me forward as if I were something more.

  We passed through the village, the flickering lanterns revealing homes sculpted from clay, their surfaces carved with intricate designs. The wooden beams bore elaborate markings, I could only guess at their meaning, were they telling stories of ancestors, victories of battle or legacies to be remembered I did not know.

  The air smelled of earth and wood smoke, of sweat and incense. The people surrounding me were dressed differently from each other, some in simple cloth wraps, others adorned in fine beads and dyed fabrics. Every step took us higher, ascending the sloping paths of the village.

  I strained my eyes, noticing how the carvings on the walls changed as we moved. The art became grander. The symbols were more complex. I guessed the wealthier the household, the more elaborate the craftsmanship.

  The drumbeats grew louder. My pulse quickened with them.

  At last, we reached a great hut, larger than any we had passed. It stood like a fortress, a monument to authority, its central chamber connected to several smaller structures, woven together like a spider’s web. The crowd had gathered again, waiting at the entrance.

  The entrance was obscured by a heavy tarp, draped in what I could only guess was the fur of a lion, its deep, tawny hue shimmering faintly in the low light. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was supposed to happen.

  A procession of elder men and women slowly emerged from the crowd, they wore simple yet dignified garments. The men had tunics adorned with bead work, while the women wore long skirts with intricate patterns, cinched at the waist with braided ropes.

  Their feet were bare, their hands adorned with rings and bracelets made of bone or stone. Over their shoulders, they were draped with furs and shawls, and their heads were crowned with headdresses of woven grasses or feathers.

  Their movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic. They carried a large basin between them, its surface gleaming with water that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly quality.

  As they approached, I felt a pang of dread in my stomach, and my heart began to pound against my chest.

  The old woman who had been carrying me gently laid me down beside the basin, her weathered hands never leaving my body, their touch firm but kind.

  She stripped me of the cloth that clung to me, her actions quick and efficient, as though she had performed this task countless times before. The crowd held its breath.

  Another woman, older than the first, stepped forward. Her hands were surprisingly steady for someone so ancient, but there was an unsettling weight to her gaze. Without a word, she began to bathe me.

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  The water was warm, almost comforting at first, but it carried an unfamiliar scent—something pungent of a herb I couldn't remember.

  I couldn’t place it, but I knew the sharp sting of oil mixed with water as it soaked into my skin.

  The elders crowded around me, their eyes intense as they examined me. I felt their gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, but I was unable to bring myself to look away.

  Their whispers filled the air, hushed and urgent, like a secret being passed between them.

  “He doesn't react like the others,” one of them muttered, his voice low but laced with a strange kind of wonder.

  Nearby, an elder with deep-set eyes and silver hair whispered, “All children, they react in their own ways, but this one… he watches with eyes that see deeper than the others.”

  Another, her skin marked by years of the sun, leaned forward, her voice almost a whisper. “He does not fidget nor laugh like the rest. His gaze is quiet.”

  Their murmurs spread like ripples in the water, each elder noticing something in me that made them pause, what was different, did they have the same status menu as me?

  I was rendered mute and uncertain as we proceeded, watching the elders pass the fur-draped entrance and stepped into the grand hut.

  Flickering oil lamps cast shifting shadows on the carved wooden pillars, At the far end, seated upon a raised platform, the chief loomed with an aura of quiet power. He looked as old as the elders.

  His robe, a flowing mantle of deep red and black, was embroidered with fine beads and cowrie shells that glimmered in the lamplight.

  Across his chest lay a sash dyed in different red hues, while heavy copper bracelets clinked softly against his wrists.

  Upon his head, a grand headdress of eagle feathers and antelope hide crowned him, its height making him seem larger than life.

  Around him, the elders sat in a solemn arc, their weathered faces unreadable, while warriors stood like statues along the edges, spears in hand, their eyes keen and unwavering.

  The room was thick with silence, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. Every eye was fixed upon me, some filled with curiosity, others with caution. A few flickered back to the chief, awaiting his words.

  “Bring him forward,” he commanded, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion, as though burdened by an unseen weight.

  I was placed in the chief’s lap. Our gazes locked, neither of us daring to look away, as if searching for some unspoken truth in the other’s eyes.

  “What do the elders, the spirits, and the ancestors of our land say about this child?” the chief asked, his tone heavy with expectation.

  One elder, his face lined with age and wisdom, stepped forward. “He is watchful. Calm. He cried only once when struck and has since been silent, studying those around him.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathering, but it was quickly silenced as another elder, her presence commanding, spoke next. “The spirits are hesitant. They have offered no guidance. And our ancestors… they have not spoken to us in fourteen days and fourteen nights.”

  A hush fell over the room. The weight of her words pressed down on the assembly like a storm cloud ready to break.

  The chief's gaze shifted to the elder woman who carried me.

  “What do you say about this child, Na’kumbi?” he asked, his voice measured.

  The room turned toward her as she lifted her head, her eyes distant, as if she had glimpsed something beyond mortal sight.

  “My dreams have been unclear,” she admitted, her voice a slow, deliberate whisper. “But one thing is certain—he will walk a path of blood. And yet, he will bring great change.”

  A wave of hushed voices filled the space, whispers of uncertainty, fear, and awe spreading through the gathered crowd. My thoughts swirled in disbelief. Me? A leader? That seems impossible.

  A sharp knocking silenced the murmurs, the sound echoing through the chamber.

  The chief, unshaken, returned his gaze to me, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice that carried through the hall, he proclaimed, “He shall be named Shiyani—He Who Brings Change. The earth itself shall bear witness to what he will become.”

  He rose slowly, still holding me firmly in his grasp, his presence commanding the attention of all. As the murmurs of the crowd quieted, he turned to face them, his voice steady and resolute.

  “Prepare for the morning rites to lay Namakai to rest. Let the preparations be made, for we shall mourn her passing and celebrate her journey as she joins our ancestors in the spirit realm.”