"The lion does not turn around when a small dog barks." – African Proverb

The battlefield stretched beneath Sundiata Keita's feet, a graveyard of blood and steel. His armor clung to him like lead, each step dragging him deeper into the earth as though the ground itself wanted to consume him. Thickening blood caked his hands, stiffening like shackles. Every motion sent a dull ache through his joints, and each breath tasted of iron and rot, decay settling within him as if he were already part of the dying field.

His war hammer, once an extension of his arm, now felt like a burden. The handle, slick with blood and sweat, slid slightly in his grasp, his fingers raw and trembling. The familiar burn of battle, usually exhilarating, felt traitorous—a betrayal from within. Distant sounds of steel and dying cries faded into hollow echoes, eclipsed by the relentless pounding in his head.

The lion does not turn when a small dog barks.

He had told himself those words countless times, clinging to them as his shield. But now, the barking felt closer, snapping at his heels, relentless. His body, once the vessel of his strength, was betraying him, every step a reminder of weakness he could no longer ignore.

The figures on the battlefield blurred at the edges. He wiped a hand across his brow, smearing grime across his face. His soldiers stood around him, faces taut, eyes lowered. Their gazes lingered on his trembling hands, darting away when he caught them looking. This wasn't loyalty born from respect anymore; it was fear, brittle and thin as glass.

One soldier shifted nervously, slipping on the blood-slicked ground. Another hesitated before sheathing his blade, as if waiting for Sundiata's next command. But no one spoke, and no one dared challenge him. Yet.

He could still see it clearly—the day Kankan Musa had knelt before him. The day his name had become legend. His war hammer had once felt light in his hand, every swing a declaration of his power. Musa's eyes had reflected both fear and awe, back when Sundiata had felt invincible.

They would speak of me for generations, he had thought then, certain of his legacy. The unshakable king, the lion who could not be felled.

But what would they say now? What legacy awaits a king too weak to wield his own hammer—too frail to claim his own legend?

He turned his gaze back to his soldiers. Their expressions were tight, and their fear was palpable but hollow. They followed him out of duty, not belief. The loyalty that had once been built on respect had crumbled, replaced by an anxious silence that felt like a betrayal. He could feel it slipping away, his grip on them loosening.

The lion does not turn when a small dog barks.

He had clung to that proverb for years, but now, the barking was louder, closer. Was he still the lion? Or had the dogs finally caught up with him?

A wounded soldier crawled at his feet, groaning softly. Sundiata raised his hammer to end the man's suffering, but his arm faltered. Pain shot through his shoulder, and his grip weakened, fingers twitching uncontrollably. The blow landed with a dull thud, the sound of bone cracking lost to the distance. The grim satisfaction that had once followed such acts was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.

What will they say of me when I am gone? The thought crept into his mind, unbidden. Will my name be whispered in fear, or will it fade like dust on the wind?

The streets of the capital buzzed with celebration, but to Sundiata, it was hollow, a sound without substance. His warhorse, Mfalme, moved slowly through the crowd. Flowers lay crushed beneath its hooves, ground into the dirt as the people chanted his name—"Sundiata! Sundiata!"—though their voices held only hollow fear, untethered from respect, brittle as the petals trampled beneath Mfalme's hooves.

Once, he had cherished that fear, tempered by the respect they'd once held. His people had gazed upon him as the lion, both protector and warrior, a beacon of strength. But now, that respect was gone, replaced by something fragile, almost fearful.

Dismounting from his horse, his knees buckled slightly, pain shooting through his legs. His armor, once a second skin, felt like an iron cage pressing down on his chest. Even the cold sweat clinging to his skin made each movement feel like a battle, a suffocating reminder of the weakness spreading within.

Inside the palace, his women awaited him. They bowed as he entered, heads low, movements careful, precise. But the room felt colder than it should, the air thick with something unspoken. The eldest among them stepped forward, her face calm, her gaze sharp as she looked at him.

"My lord," she said softly, her voice like a knife wrapped in silk. "Everything is prepared for your return."

He nodded, but even that small motion sent pain flaring through his neck. His muscles were stiff, unresponsive, a dull ache radiating from his shoulders. The eldest woman's gaze lingered, something unreadable in her expression that left him both irritated and uneasy.

"You fight like a lion," she said, stepping closer. "But even lions tire."

The words struck deeper than any blade. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but his muscles refused to yield. Did they see the tremor? Could they sense the weakness beneath the armor?

The other women moved in the background, their eyes lowered, but Sundiata could feel them glancing at him, exchanging whispers they thought he couldn't hear. The authority that had once commanded them was now a flickering ember, vulnerable to the faintest breath.

In his chambers, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine filled the air, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. His body, once his greatest weapon, now trembled with every movement. Even the smallest tasks felt insurmountable. A young woman approached with a goblet of wine, her hands trembling as she held it out to him. Sundiata took it, but his fingers shook as he grasped the cup, slick with sweat.

"You fear me," he said quietly, his voice rough, barely audible.

The girl nodded quickly, backing away, her eyes wide. But the hollow fear in her gaze felt meaningless. How could fear serve him when it was as fragile as the brittle loyalty of his soldiers? What happens when they stop fearing me?

A servant entered, a young man moving with the hesitance of prey. Sundiata's pulse quickened despite the exhaustion. The young man—barely more than a boy—held fear in his eyes, but something else as well, a flicker of uncertainty that sent a wave of panic through the king. Was this how it began? With a single act of doubt, a hesitation?

The young man knelt before his king, his hands trembling as they brushed Sundiata's waist. His fingers, hesitant and almost reluctant, reminded Sundiata of his own faltering grip on power, slipping with each passing day.

For a moment, he wanted to dismiss the servant, to send the boy from the room, to hold on to the last shreds of his dignity. But the need for reassurance—just one spark of loyalty, one glance of submission—held him still. He would not look away.

"This is how they will remember me," he thought, bitterness curling in his chest. "A lion caged by his own weakness."

"Look at me," Sundiata commanded, his voice hoarse, trembling despite himself. As if commanding the boy's gaze alone could rekindle loyalty slipping from his grasp.

The young man's eyes rose, wide, hesitant, and in that moment, Sundiata saw it: a flicker of defiance, a tiny spark of resistance. The boy's gaze did not falter, and for the first time, Sundiata felt it—not fear, but pity.

A cold shame spread through him as his authority—once absolute—slipped away like water through his fingers. His voice wavered, the words barely audible: "Do you see your king?"

The young man's silence was answer enough.

The lion does not turn...

But now, the barking was all he could hear.