Staring up at the night sky, I found it strange, almost unsettling to see so many stars. With no light pollution smothering the heavens, they blazed freely above me, raw and brilliant.

  Back home, that sort of clarity was rare. Only when driving across provinces to visit friends or family would I catch fleeting glimpses like this.

  Still, it was in moments like these, under starlight and silence, that I found some semblance of peace. Not that I was truly alone. Ma’khanda, my ever-watchful nanny, lingered nearby. She’d moved past her initial fear of me quickly—far quicker than most.

  Mostly she observed, quiet as a shadow, reporting everything back to my father. On rare occasions, she’d speak and ask me questions. She acted more calm and composed around me.

  When we wandered the village, I’d point out oddities testing her reactions out of boredom—a tool, a pattern in the dirt, a dead bird—and she would explain in that same neutral tone. I think she saw me more as a child in those moments.

  But tonight, while the stars danced and the world slept, my thoughts drifted toward something far greater: the future of this nation.

  For it to survive—no, to thrive—it would need change. Real change gunpowder and muskets were just the start of my plans, I’d have to forge them myself. But before I could build weapons, I had to reforge minds.

  A new class of people was needed: thinkers, listeners, visionaries. Administrators who would understand what I teach, who would carry the burden of reform with me. And perhaps, just perhaps, a bit of mysticism—maybe even a flicker of power—would help grease the wheels.

  If I played the part of the mysterious teacher, the divine guide, then perhaps they’d listen. Potentially fifty years from now I’d introduce video games for a laugh. That thought made me chuckle.

  My moment of levity was short-lived. I felt the forest pressing in, brushing against my thoughts with a thousand whispering voices. It poked and prodded, limiting the knowledge I knew.

  A quiet reminder that I couldn’t introduce technology freely, not without more of those damned coins.

  So much for that fantasy.

  The forest shifted then, its emotions turning smug. Mocking. I’d have a technological edge, sure, but a narrow one. Just enough to stay ahead, not dominate the world.

  I ignored the jab and returned to planning. Agriculture, health, infrastructure, and education. And above all, the military—my true instrument of power. I’d need engineers, labourers, researchers, bureaucrats. A machine of people.

  But it would have to be done carefully. No grand proclamations. No revolutions in a day. I required loyalty—unshakeable loyalty. People who would act in my absence and crush dissent before it ever reached my ears.

  Drastic reform, delivered slowly.

  Still, beneath the stars, I felt strangely calm. It was a good night to dream. Shame Bob wasn’t here. Murder mittens and all. Maybe I’d find a new pet, something equally homicidal but with more charm and less hunger for destruction.

  ———

  The next morning, I descended the palace steps with measured grace, flanked by Ma’khanda and the three girls my mother had bought as servants Tshilidzi, sharp-eyed and quiet, Lerato, who always looked like she was keeping a secret and Nomaswazi, the youngest, ever curious but too timid to meet my gaze for long.

  Two palace guards, Mosebetsi and Kwanele, walked in our shadow. Both were broad-shouldered, silent, and ever-watchful they were more loyal to the royal line than to me, but that would change. In time, as all things would.

  As we passed through the outer gates, down the hill toward the heart of the settlement, the path widened, but no one dared walk too close. People parted like reeds in a river.

  They averted their eyes not out of reverence, but out of unease. Whispers followed me, never loud enough to catch but sharp enough to cut.

  The market sprawled before me in a swirl of colour and dust, the smell of roasted sorghum and ground nuts was everywhere mixing under the morning sun.

  Stalls were stacked with woven baskets, leather goods, copper bracelets, salt, beads, and carved wooden icons that bore the marks of spiritual beings. I chuckled at some of they fertility idols.

  This was a barter economy. It was honest, chaotic, and inefficient. I’d change that. In time, these people would understand the power of a coin, of a ledger, of a fixed value.

  I passed rows of blackened pots, hand-forged iron tools with flared heads, sharpened blades, with intricate carvings sold by apprentices.

  This was pride made solid proof that my people already had the fire in their bones. They just needed the forge I would build.

  Copper, glinting under the sun. Iron, shaped by hand. I lingered near them, fingers trailing just above the surface.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Mahlathi land was generous. Rich in veins and gems, green emeralds, red copper and iron that could feed the fires of industry. We just lacked the machinery… and the order.

  Imported goods were few, but present. Polished beads, foreign salt in carved bowls, cowries from distant shores, and jewellery with designs not our own. Evidence that they could accept something unfamiliar if it benefited them.

  Yet, all the land here was communal. That would complicate matters. Agriculture was king, but kings grow fat and dull. I needed to feed minds now, not just bellies and that required fewer farmers and more thinkers, tinkerers, and builders of the future.

  And I would need to charm the landowners first, those who held sway with the elders and the people. I had to speak carefully when I eventually interacted with them.

  Even now, eyes follow me with fear or curiosity, some see me as a spirit-touched child, others as an ominous sign. A few, the boldest, called out greetings in forced cheer.

  My gaze locked on the edge of the settlement, past the market and homesteads to a ring of weather-beaten huts. The sound reached me first—clang… clang… in rhythmic patterns. The air shimmered with heat as I felt it before I saw it.

  This was the place where stone and fire birthed steel. Where tradition met heat.

  The forge stank of sweat and smoke. I stood at its edge, cloaked in heat, watching the dance of men and fire as if it were a ritual older than the sun.

  Bare-chested men, their dark skin glistened under the harsh light of the furnace. They worked in pairs or trios, one stoking the fire with a goatskin bellows, another turning chunks of ironstone with long wooden tongs, and the third waiting, hammer in hand, eyes fixed on the glowing ore.

  The smelter itself was a clay structure, cracked from use, breathing smoke like a wounded beast. The fire within was alive, white-hot, fed by a mix of charcoal and dried grass.

  I watched as they piled blackened ore into the furnace, the flames consuming it slowly, forcing impurities to the surface in bubbling slag.

  One of the smiths pulled out a glowing lump with a hooked rod, laying it across a flat anvil stone. Another brought the hammer down in sharp, timed strikes, shaping the metal while it sang.

  Sparks sprayed like fireflies as the blade took form. This was the soul of my people, shaped by calloused hands. As I watched them work, I felt a pang of respect. But also seeing what needed to expand for mass production.

  One of the younger smiths, a boy barely into his manhood with soot smeared across his face and a twisted band of copper around his arm, paused mid-strike.

  His eyes flicked up from the blade he was helping shape, narrowing slightly. He nudged the man next to him and pointed subtly with his chin.

  Within moments, the hammering ceased the rhythm breaking. A hush swept through the forge. The elder smith, a broad-shouldered man with a beard gone grey from age and ash, stepped forward. His hands were scarred from decades of labour, and his eyes held the cautious respect of someone who’d seen too many omens in his lifetime.

  “You honour us, spirit child,” the elder said, bowing slightly. “But it’s rare for someone of your standing to walk among the smoke and fire. Why are you here?”

  I gave a soft smile, letting my gaze sweep over the forge—the orange glow of half-shaped iron, the hiss of water cooling hot metal, the proud, wary faces watching me. “I’m here,” I said, “to see what it was like before.”

  The elder blinked, confusion lining his weathered face. “Before what?”

  “Before I flood this region with copper and iron,” I answered, turning from him slowly, my tone even, almost amused. “Before this place forgets how quiet it once was.”

  He said nothing. The others shifted uncomfortably, glancing between each other and me.

  I took a step toward the path, the heat of the forge behind me now. “Change is coming,” I called back, not looking over my shoulder. “Start preparing. You’ll either forge the future or be melted down with the past.”

  After leaving the forge, I spent the rest of the day touring the surrounding fields and farms, noting every rut in the roads, every patch of ground where water would clog the roads with mud.

  Dust clung to my ankles as I walked the narrow paths between homesteads, where goats wandered freely and barefoot children chased one another through patches of dry maize.

  The land was fertile. I would have to acquire large portions of it to expand the irrigation system, and most tools were still carved from wood or bone. I spotted several merchant wagons creaking under the weight of sacks, dragged by oxen along roads better suited for foot traffic than trade.