The sun beat down mercilessly on the kingdom of Sundiata, its rays sharp and unforgiving as they baked the stones of the palace. Even inside the palace walls, the air was thick with the heat, clinging to the courtiers and servants as they moved about their duties. But the heat inside the grand throne room came from more than just the sun—it came from a tension that simmered, palpable and heavy, as thick as the incense that curled lazily in the air.
Sundiata Keita, the Iron Lion, sat upon his throne, his broad shoulders tense beneath his rich robes. His muscular frame filled the throne's seat, and though he was still, a sense of restrained power radiated from him. His eyes, dark and unyielding, were fixed on the great double doors at the far end of the hall, where his chief advisor, Bakari, would soon enter.
The throne room itself was grand and imposing, the walls lined with tapestries depicting scenes of victory and conquest from Sundiata's past. The vivid colors of the woven threads told stories of battles won and kingdoms brought to their knees, but today, even these triumphant images seemed to fade beneath the weight of the moment.
Sundiata's fingers drummed steadily on the armrests of his throne, the heavy gold rings on his fingers catching the light from the tall, arched windows. The sound was rhythmic, steady, but it carried with it a sense of impatience. The courtiers shifted uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. They could feel it—the tension that hung in the air, thick as the heat.
The great doors creaked open with a groan, and all eyes turned toward Bakari as he entered the room. His face was set in a grim line, his steps steady but burdened with the weight of the news he carried. In his hands was a scroll, sealed with wax, the mark of urgency unmistakable.
Sundiata's fingers stopped their rhythmic drumming as Bakari approached. His gaze, sharp and dangerous, remained fixed on his chief advisor. He did not speak—he did not need to. His silence alone was enough to demand Bakari's swift approach.
Bakari bowed deeply before Sundiata, his robes pooling around him as he knelt. "My king," he began, his voice low and respectful, "I bring word from de east. De lands near de river stir, and trouble brews at de borders."
Sundiata's expression did not change, but his body tensed. He rose slowly from his throne, his full height towering over the gathering. His presence alone was enough to make the room feel smaller, the air thicker with the weight of expectation.
"Speak, Bakari," Sundiata commanded, his voice deep and measured, though there was an unmistakable edge of impatience. "What threat dares challenge de might of Sundiata?"
Bakari stood and stepped closer, holding the scroll with both hands. "De Malakian empire gathers dere forces," he said, breaking the seal of the scroll with a quick, precise motion. "Dey amass dey warriors along de river, ready to strike at our lands. De drums of war sound in de distance."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, but Sundiata's cold stare silenced them instantly. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening as the familiar stirrings of battle ignited inside him.
"Malakia dares to think dey can test us?" Sundiata's voice was low, but the threat in his words was unmistakable. "Do dey believe dey have de strength to challenge Sundiata?"
Bakari's face remained grim, his eyes flicking down to the scroll. "Yah, my king. Dey come wit numbers and wit strength. If we no act swiftly, dey will breach our borders."
Sundiata's fists clenched tighter, the gold rings pressing into his skin. His muscles rippled beneath his robes, the fire of battle rising within him. But beneath that fire was something else—something darker, something heavier. War was inevitable, but this time, the stakes felt higher.
"Den we shall meet dem on de battlefield," Sundiata said, his voice steady but filled with a deadly promise. "Send word to de generals. We march to crush Malakia."
Bakari bowed again, his movements quick and respectful. "I will send word at once, my king."
Sundiata watched as Bakari exited the room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a thud. The courtiers remained silent, their eyes fixed on their king. They had seen him lead into battle before, seen him stand victorious time and time again. But today, there was something different in the air. The threat from Malakia was real, and even the Iron Lion's most loyal subjects could feel the gravity of what was to come.
Sundiata stood motionless for a moment longer, his mind racing with strategies, calculations, and the familiar hunger for battle. His heart burned with the desire to prove once again why he was king, why he was feared, why the land of Sundiata would never fall. But as he stared at the great double doors, his thoughts shifted, and the weight of the crown on his head felt heavier than usual.
He turned to his attendants, his voice calm but commanding. "Prepare de war room. We will discuss our strategy tonight."
The attendants bowed low before hurrying out of the throne room. As they left, Sundiata's women approached him, their movements silent and graceful. They followed him as he strode through the palace halls, his footsteps echoing off the cool stone floors. The air inside the palace was cooler than outside, but the heat that simmered within Sundiata was harder to escape.
Sundiata entered his private chambers, the doors closing behind him with a solid thud. The scent of oils and perfumes filled the room, heavy and sweet. The chamber was lavishly decorated, the walls lined with tapestries, the floors covered in plush rugs. It was a room that spoke of wealth and power, a room fit for a king.
Amina, the first of his women, stepped forward, carrying a basin of cool water and a soft cloth. She knelt before him, her eyes filled with the same quiet reverence she always held when in his presence.
"My king," she said softly, her voice gentle but firm, "let me tend to you."
Sundiata nodded, his body still tense, his mind restless with the news of war. Amina dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out before pressing it gently against his forehead. The coolness offered some relief, but it did little to calm the storm brewing within him.
"You are de lion of dis land," Amina whispered, her voice soft as she worked. "De people look to you for strength. But my king, do you see de strength within yourself?"
Her words, though soothing, struck deeper than Sundiata had expected. He turned his gaze to hers, a flicker of vulnerability passing through his eyes before he looked away.
"Strength is all dat matters," Sundiata said, his voice low and firm. "It is strength dat wins wars. It is strength dat keeps de crown on my head."
Amina continued her task in silence, her touch gentle, though her eyes still watched him, understanding the burdens he carried in ways that few could. She, like the others, had always known the weight that came with his title, the pressure that followed every decision, every victory.
When Amina finished, Nia stepped forward, her movements graceful as she offered Sundiata a goblet of wine. Her dark eyes met his, filled with a mixture of fear and admiration, a respect that ran deeper than words.
"For strength, my lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she handed him the cup.
Sundiata took the goblet from her, his large hand engulfing hers for a moment before he brought it to his lips. The wine was warm as it spread through him, but it brought no comfort, only a brief distraction from the storm in his mind.
Night fell over the kingdom of Sundiata, but the palace remained alive with the hum of preparation. Torches flickered in the dark corridors, casting long shadows on the stone walls as soldiers and servants moved swiftly, readying for the coming battle. Outside, the sounds of sharpening blades, tightening armor, and horses being saddled filled the cool night air. Inside, the tension in the palace was thick, lingering in every corner like a quiet storm waiting to break.
Sundiata strode into the war room, his mind sharp despite the weight of the day. The large chamber was dimly lit by oil lamps that cast a warm, flickering glow across the stone walls. A large map of the kingdom stretched across the table in the center of the room, the parchment edges curled from use, marking rivers, valleys, and strategic points along the borders.
Already gathered around the table were his most trusted generals—men and women who had stood by him in many battles, each of them hardened by war and loyalty. General Amadi, an older warrior with a scar that ran down the side of his face, stood nearest to the map, his eyes scanning the details with the practiced gaze of a man who had seen too many battles. Beside him was Nia, the only female general in Sundiata's command, her expression calm but focused, her sharp eyes absorbing every detail of the map.
Sundiata's presence was enough to silence the low murmurs in the room. His generals turned to him, their faces solemn, their postures stiff with respect. This was not the first time they had prepared for war, but the gravity of the Malakian threat hung over them like a dark cloud.
Without a word, Sundiata approached the table, his gaze dropping to the map. His fingers traced the thick line of the great river that divided his kingdom from the Malakian Empire. It was here, along the riverbanks, that the enemy would strike. His generals knew it, and he knew it too.
"De Malakians gather along de river," Sundiata said, his voice steady, though the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. "Dey prepare to cross, to strike at de heart of our lands."
General Amadi nodded, his brow furrowed as he pointed to the river on the map. "Dey no go meet us head-on. Dey smart. Dey go try to flank us here, by de crossing. If dey breach de river, dey go strike at de villages, cut off our supply lines."
Sundiata's gaze narrowed as he studied the map. The river crossing was indeed a vulnerable point, but it was also the key to their defense. He had fought along these lands before—he knew the terrain well, knew where the land gave way to hills and where the river narrowed. If the Malakians thought they could catch him off guard, they were mistaken.
"Den we no give dem de chance," Sundiata said, his voice low and firm. "We place archers along de ridges, here and here." His finger tapped two points along the high ground that flanked the river. "When dey try to cross, we rain arrows on dem. Before dey reach de other side, dey will be dead or retreating."
Amadi grunted in agreement, but Nia stepped forward, her expression thoughtful. "We must also think beyond de river, my king," she said, her voice clear but respectful. "If dey see de archers, dey will adjust. Dey could try to lure us into a trap by making us think we have de upper hand. Dey tried dis wit Gwana, and dey nearly succeeded."
Sundiata's jaw tightened at the mention of Gwana, a battle that had come too close for comfort. Nia had been the one to save them that day, her quick thinking and strategy turning the tide of the fight at the last moment. He had learned to trust her instincts.
"We fortify our rear," Sundiata said after a moment, nodding to her. "But we do not retreat. We meet dem head-on, wit our full force. No hesitation. No second chances."
The generals murmured in agreement, though there was a heaviness to their voices. They knew the risk of such an approach—Malakia was a formidable empire, and even with Sundiata's strength and strategic mind, victory was not guaranteed. War was a dangerous gamble, and every man and woman in that room understood the cost.
"Sundiata!" the soldiers chanted in unison, their voices rising like thunder. "Sundiata!"
Their voices echoed off the palace walls, filling the air with a sense of unity and power. But even as his name reverberated through the courtyard, Sundiata could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He was their king, their protector, the embodiment of strength. He could not afford to falter.
Riding to the front of his army, Sundiata raised his sword high, the blade catching the light of the rising sun. "Today, we ride to defend our land!" he shouted, his voice booming across the courtyard. "Malakia dares to challenge us, but dey will learn de strength of Sundiata!"
The soldiers roared in response, their fists raised in the air. The time for battle had come, and they would follow their king into the storm.
With a sharp command, Sundiata spurred Mfalme forward, leading his army out of the palace gates and onto the dusty roads that would take them to the battlefield. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth, the clink of armor, and the low murmur of soldiers speaking in hushed tones filled the air. The march was swift, and the tension was palpable. Each step brought them closer to the river where the Malakian forces awaited.
By dusk, the battle was over. The valley was littered with the bodies of Malakian soldiers, their armor shattered, their banners trampled into the blood-soaked earth. The few who had survived the onslaught fled, their retreat a sign of their defeat. Sundiata's forces stood victorious, their armor and weapons stained with the evidence of their triumph.
Sundiata sat atop Mfalme, his chest heaving with exertion, his sword heavy in his hand. Around him, his soldiers cheered, chanting his name once more, their voices filled with pride and relief.
"Sundiata! Sundiata!"
But as the cheers rose around him, Sundiata felt a hollowness settle deep in his chest. He had won. The Malakian threat had been crushed, and his kingdom was safe once more. But victory had come at a cost, as it always did.
He looked out over the battlefield, the bodies strewn across the ground, the blood that soaked the earth. His men had fought bravely, and they had won the day. But for every victory, there was a price to pay. For every life saved, another had been lost.
As the cheers of his soldiers echoed around him, Sundiata felt the weight of the crown press down harder on his brow. His heart burned with pride for his people, but there was no escaping the burden that came with the throne. Victory was not just about strength—it was about carrying the cost of every decision, every battle, every life lost in the name of power.
As dusk settled over the valley, Sundiata turned Mfalme toward the horizon. His soldiers followed him, their voices still ringing with the joy of triumph. But as they rode back toward the palace, Sundiata's mind was heavy with the knowledge that the battles were never truly over. The crown on his head weighed more with each victory, and the fire of war that burned within him was not easily quenched.
He was the Iron Lion, king of Sundiata. And though his strength was legendary, it was the weight of his legacy that would haunt him long after the battle was won.