"A tree with strong roots laughs at storms." – African Proverb
The palace of Sundiata stood silent under the pale morning light, the cool breeze carrying the lingering scent of blood and smoke from the battle fought just days before. The city streets, once filled with the triumphant shouts of victory, were now quiet, a calm born not from peace, but from exhaustion. War had seeped into every corner of the kingdom, and though the Malakian forces had been crushed, the aftermath lingered like a shadow over Sundiata's heart.
Sundiata Keita, the Iron Lion, sat alone in his chambers, his massive frame slouched in a throne-like chair. His gaze was fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth, the light dancing against the cold stone walls. The fire, once so strong, now sputtered as the logs grew weak, a reflection of the emptiness settling inside him. Victory had come, as it always did—but with it, a deeper weight, one that gnawed at him from within.
The soft knock at the door broke the silence. Sundiata did not stir, his eyes still lost in the dim light of the flames. The door creaked open, and Bakari, his loyal advisor, entered the room. His face, lined with years of experience, was etched with concern. He approached the king carefully, his steps slow, respectful.
"My king," Bakari said, bowing low, "I come to speak wit you of de matters dat need your attention."
Sundiata's jaw clenched, his fingers gripping the armrest of the chair. "Not now, Bakari," he muttered, his voice rough, as if weighed down by the burden of the words. "Leave me."
But Bakari remained, his brow furrowed with worry. "My king, dere are decisions dat must be made. De people—dey look to you."
Sundiata's eyes flickered toward his advisor, a flicker of anger rising within him. His voice, dark and biting, cut through the air. "Decisions? Is dat all dey see me for? A king to make dere decisions? To clean up after dere messes?"
Bakari's head lowered further, his voice soft but unwavering. "You are more dan dat, my king. You are de Iron Lion. Dey see you as de protector of dis land."
Sundiata let out a bitter laugh, his lips curling with disdain. "Protector?" He shook his head slowly, the weight of the crown pressing harder. "All dey see is power. All dey want is strength. But dey don't feel de weight of it, Bakari. Dey don't carry de burden dat comes wit being king."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, the flickering fire casting long, uneven shadows across the room. Bakari stepped closer, his voice low, filled with empathy. "De weight is heavy, my king. But it is a burden only you can carry. Dat is de fate of kings."
Sundiata's gaze fell back to the fire, the flames now struggling to stay alive, much like the fire within him. He had fought for years, each victory hard-won. But with each triumph came more blood, more lives sacrificed, and more of his own spirit drained away.
Before the silence could swallow them whole, Bakari spoke again, his tone shifting. "My king, dere is another matter. One dat cannot wait."
Sundiata's eyes narrowed, his attention drawn back to the present. "Speak."
Bakari's hesitation was slight, but enough to show the gravity of what he was about to reveal. "Dere are whispers in de court. Some believe dat Malakia's defeat will only bring more trouble. Dey say dere are others watching from de shadows, waiting for weakness."
Sundiata's fists clenched, the muscles in his arms tightening as a surge of fury rolled through him. "Who speaks dis?"
Bakari's gaze shifted, his words careful and deliberate. "It is not de warriors, my king. It is de nobles. Dey grow restless. Dey see de cost of war, and dey begin to question."
Sundiata stood abruptly, the full force of his presence filling the room. His broad frame cast a long, dark shadow over Bakari as the anger simmered just beneath his surface. "Dey question me?"
"No, my king," Bakari said quickly, his voice calm but firm. "Not you. Dey question de future. De war has taken much from de land, and de people grow weary. Dey fear more bloodshed will come. And dey fear what dat will bring."
Sundiata's eyes blazed with anger, but beneath the fury, there was something else—something colder. Fear. Not of the nobles' whispers, but of what might happen if they were right.
"Let dem whisper," Sundiata growled, his voice low and dangerous. "If any dare to challenge me, dey will learn what it means to question de Iron Lion."
Bakari nodded, though his expression remained solemn. "Of course, my king. But it is not just whispers you must watch for. Dere are those who move in silence, waiting for weakness. De battle is not over, even now. It is not enough to crush de enemy on de battlefield. You must be vigilant in de court as well."
The fire in Sundiata's eyes dimmed slightly, though the tension in his body remained. He knew Bakari was right. War was fought on many fronts—not just with swords and shields, but with words and whispers. In the halls of power, alliances could shift as easily as the wind, and the slightest hint of weakness could bring ruin.
"I will handle it," Sundiata said finally, his voice steady. "Let dem see dere is no weakness in Sundiata. Not in de court. Not on de battlefield."
Bakari bowed low, his robes brushing the stone floor as he backed out of the room, leaving Sundiata once again alone with his thoughts. The door closed softly behind him, and the silence returned, thick and heavy.
Sundiata stood still, his gaze once again drawn to the fire. It had burned low now, the flames barely clinging to life, casting long shadows that danced across the room. The weight of Bakari's words hung in the air, pressing down on him like the crown that sat upon his head.
Victory had been won on the battlefield, but the war for his kingdom's future was far from over.
As Sundiata stood there, staring into the fading light, he felt the full weight of his reign, heavier than any sword he had ever carried.
The palace corridors were eerily quiet as Sundiata made his way toward the war room. Outside, the kingdom was alive with the sounds of daily life—merchants calling out to customers, children chasing each other through the streets, and soldiers standing vigilant at their posts—but within the palace walls, silence reigned. It was the kind of silence Sundiata had come to know well—the calm before a storm.
As he walked, Bakari's warning echoed in his mind. The nobles were whispering, their unrest spreading like rot in the heart of the kingdom. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the familiar weight a reminder of the battles he had won. But this battle was different. More insidious. It was a fight he could not win with brute strength alone.
The cold air brushed against him as he entered the war room, a draft slipping through the narrow cracks in the stone walls. The lamps flickered, casting long, restless shadows across the table where Nia stood. She was already there, her sharp eyes scanning the map spread before her. She did not look up as he entered, but her voice, calm yet weighted with purpose, greeted him.
"My king," she said softly, her tone respectful but pointed. "De map no changes, but de threats do."
Sundiata moved toward the table, his eyes following hers to the familiar lines of the kingdom etched on the map. "De Malakians lie broken," he replied, his voice gruff. "Yet de nobles fear de shadows."
Nia straightened, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the table as she turned to face him. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a fire in her eyes, one that spoke of understanding beyond the battlefield. She had always seen deeper than most.
"Dey no fear de shadows," she said, her words deliberate. "Dey fear what comes after. Every victory takes a piece of dis kingdom. A piece of you."
Sundiata's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. "I give de people strength. Dey need a king strong enough to protect dis land."
Nia stepped closer, her gaze steady, unflinching. "Strength alone no rules forever, Sundiata. Dey see your power now, but when all dey know is war, dey no believe peace can come from a king whose only weapon be fear."
His anger flared, hot and sharp. How could she question him? After everything he had done, after all he had sacrificed for this kingdom? He had led them through endless wars, held their borders firm, crushed every enemy that threatened their peace. And yet, she stood here, questioning his strength.
But even as the heat rose within him, Sundiata couldn't dismiss the truth woven into her words. Nia was not like the nobles, who whispered behind his back, plotting in the dark. She had stood beside him in battle, earned her place through blood and wisdom alike. Her words, no matter how they stung, came from a place of loyalty.
"What would you have me do?" he asked, his voice still tight, though the edge had softened.
Nia's gaze lingered on his, searching, before she spoke again. "De nobles grow restless because dey see a kingdom dat thrives on war. Dey fear peace because dey don't know how to live in it. But we must show dem dat peace no weakens us. Dat peace is de foundation upon which true power grows."
Sundiata crossed his arms over his chest, her words pressing down on him like the weight of his crown. He had built his reign on strength, on the battlefield, on the fear he inspired in his enemies and allies alike. But Nia was right—his people had only known war. What would happen when the battles stopped? Would they know how to live in peace, or would they seek the chaos they had grown accustomed to?
"Peace," he muttered, the word foreign on his tongue. "It is easy to speak of peace when war has made us strong."
Nia's expression softened, but her voice remained firm. "Peace must be fought for too, my king. Not wit swords, but wit wisdom. If we no give de people hope beyond de battlefield, dey will continue to seek de storm. And dat storm will tear dis kingdom apart."
Sundiata stared down at the map, the familiar rivers and mountains now seeming distant, strange. His hand tightened on the table's edge. He had always believed that power came from control—control over the land, over the people, over his enemies. But what if Nia was right? What if true power lay not in war, but in what followed?
Before he could respond, the door to the war room creaked open, and Bakari stepped inside. His eyes flicked between Sundiata and Nia, sensing the tension that hung in the air.
"My king," Bakari said, his voice low and urgent, "I bring news from de court. De nobles gather in secret. Dey plan to petition for a council to oversee de kingdom's affairs."
Sundiata's body tensed, his anger rising. "Dey seek to undermine me?"
Bakari hesitated, his eyes shifting as if weighing his next words carefully. "Not openly, my king. But de whispers grow louder. Dey believe a council of nobles could balance de power, ensure dat de kingdom no falls to ruin from too many wars."
Sundiata's fists clenched at his sides, the weight of Bakari's words settling over him like a heavy cloak. His chest tightened as fury simmered beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. The nobles had always whispered, but now, their whispers had teeth. Now, they dared to question his rule openly. But here, in the palace, power was not as straightforward as on the battlefield. A single misstep, a single show of weakness, and everything he had fought for could unravel.
"Dey fear war will break us," Nia said quietly, stepping forward, "but dey fear you more."
Sundiata stared at the map again, his mind racing. For the first time in years, he felt his grip on power shift, felt the delicate balance of control tip precariously. He could strike down his enemies on the battlefield with ease, but here, in the halls of power, the fight was different. Words and alliances carried more weight than steel.
He let the silence stretch, his jaw tight as the fire of doubt smoldered deep within him. How many more battles could he fight before the weight of this crown became too much?
But no one could see that doubt. Not now. Not ever.
"We go to de court," Sundiata said finally, his voice cold but laced with iron. His grip on the edge of the table tightened until his knuckles turned white. "If de nobles seek balance, den let dem see what balance truly means."
Bakari nodded, though the flicker of unease in his eyes did not go unnoticed. Nia, too, was silent, though her gaze remained steady, unyielding.
As Sundiata turned to leave the war room, the shadows from the flickering lamps stretched across the walls like dark claws, mirroring the storm brewing within him. The palace itself seemed to tremble with anticipation, the winds rattling the windows as if warning of the battles yet to come.
The grand hall of the palace was already full when Sundiata arrived, the low murmur of voices falling silent as soon as his presence filled the room. The nobles were gathered, their robes of silk and gold gleaming under the faint light streaming from the high, arched windows. Pillars lined the hall, their shadows stretching across the marble floor like dark fingers. What had once been the seat of power now felt more like a battleground—only this time, the weapons were words, not swords.
Sundiata's heavy steps echoed as he strode into the chamber, his gaze sweeping over the gathered nobles, each one standing straighter at the sight of him. They watched him with a mixture of caution and fear, their earlier whispers vanishing like smoke in the air. They had underestimated him, but he could feel their unease crackling in the atmosphere.
Behind him, Bakari and Nia walked in silence, their presence a quiet reassurance. But this was not their battle. This was Sundiata's war to wage, and he knew that the stakes were higher than they had ever been.
At the far end of the hall, Toma, the most influential of the nobles, stepped forward. His face was composed, his demeanor polite, but Sundiata could see the calculation behind his eyes. Toma wasn't a warrior—his power lay in influence, the kind wielded in quiet conversations and subtle threats made in the shadows of the court.
"My king," Toma began, his voice smooth as silk, "we are honored by your presence. It is not often dat de court must gather for such weighty matters, but we find ourselves wit questions dat must be answered—for de good of Sundiata."
Sundiata's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the faces of the nobles. "Questions?" His voice was like iron, booming through the hall and cutting through the tension like a blade. "It seems to me dat questions are being asked in shadows, not in de light where dey can be answered."
Toma's expression didn't falter, but Sundiata saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "We seek only balance, my king," Toma said, his tone even. "De people have suffered much war, much bloodshed. Dey look to you as dere protector, but dey also seek peace. A peace dat can only come wit a measured hand—one dat considers all of de kingdom's needs."
A murmur rippled through the court, but Sundiata's cold gaze silenced it. He stepped forward, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Toma and the other nobles. His eyes, dark and piercing, swept over them like a lion surveying its prey.
"You speak of balance," Sundiata said, his voice low, a quiet fury simmering beneath his words. "But what you truly speak of is fear. You fear war because you do not understand it. You fear de strength needed to keep dis kingdom safe. While you sit in comfort behind dese walls, it is my warriors and I who bleed to protect you."
Toma opened his mouth to respond, but Sundiata cut him off, his hand slicing through the air. "I hear your whispers. I see your plotting. You believe dat by forming a council, you can balance de power in dis land. But let me remind you—dere is no balance where dere is no strength."
The room fell into a tense silence, the nobles frozen under Sundiata's gaze. For a moment, no one dared to speak, the weight of his words settling over them like a storm cloud on the horizon. But then, slowly, Toma straightened, his voice calm but carrying an edge of defiance.
"No one questions your strength, my king. We have all seen it. But strength without wisdom can lead to ruin. You have led us through war, but now we must consider what follows. De people need more dan victory. Dey need stability."
Sundiata's eyes narrowed. Toma's words stung, not because they were disrespectful, but because they rang with truth. The nobles weren't just driven by ambition—they feared the future. They feared that the endless wars would consume the kingdom, leaving nothing but ruins behind.
Behind him, Sundiata could feel Nia's gaze on him, her earlier words echoing in his mind. Peace must be fought for too. The urge to crush these nobles, to silence their defiance with force, rose within him like a fire. How easy it would be to remind them that power was not debated—it was taken. But here, in the palace, brute strength was not enough. His grip on power was more fragile than ever, and every word, every decision, had consequences beyond the battlefield.
Sundiata let the silence stretch, his fists tightening as he fought the urge to act on his instincts. But no—this was not a war of swords. This was a war of words, of strategy. And in this war, he needed to be more than a warrior.
"You speak of balance," he said finally, his voice calm, though his chest burned with the effort of restraint. "You want balance. But understand dis—balance comes at a cost. Power must be earned, not given. If you seek balance, den you must be prepared to pay de price."
Toma hesitated, his calm facade wavering for a brief moment. "We seek only to serve de kingdom, my king. A council would not weaken your rule. It would ensure dat all voices are heard, dat de kingdom remains strong—even in peace."
Sundiata took a step forward, his towering presence looming over Toma. "And who will lead dis council?" he asked, his voice sharp. "You, Toma? Or one of de many who hide in de shadows, waiting for a chance to take what dey have not earned?"
Toma's composure slipped, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Around the hall, several nobles shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between Sundiata and Toma. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive, as if the very walls of the palace were waiting for the storm to break.
"You wish to guide dis kingdom into peace," Sundiata continued, his voice steady but laced with iron. "Den prove your loyalty. Dis council you speak of—it will exist, but it will exist under my rule. No decisions will be made without de approval of de king. Dere will be no power in dis court greater dan mine."
Toma bowed his head slightly, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort. "My king," he said carefully, "we do not seek to undermine your rule. Only to provide de support necessary to guide de kingdom through de challenges ahead."
Sundiata stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded the nobles. He had made his point—his strength was not to be questioned. But he also knew that if he dismissed the council entirely, the whispers would only grow louder. He had to maintain control, but he also had to show that he could lead in more than just war.
"Very well," Sundiata said finally, his voice measured. "Let dere be a council. But dere will be no misunderstanding—dis council exists because I allow it. I am still de king, and de final word rests wit me. Any who seek to challenge dat will face consequences far beyond dis court."
The nobles bowed their heads in agreement, though the tension in the air remained thick. The battle in the court was far from over, but for now, Sundiata had reasserted his control. The council would exist, but it would exist on his terms.
As the court began to disperse, Nia stepped forward, her eyes meeting his with a quiet intensity. "You gave dem what dey wanted, but you kept your rule intact. Dat was de right move, my king."
Sundiata nodded, though the weight of the decision pressed heavily on his chest. "Dis war no ends, Nia. It only changes its shape."
Nia's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she spoke again, her voice soft but filled with wisdom. "Dis new battle is not fought wit swords. It will require patience, cunning, and strength of a different kind."
Sundiata said nothing, but the truth of her words settled deep within him. The air in the grand hall felt thick, heavy with the weight of unsaid words. The walls, tall and adorned with ancient carvings, seemed to close in, casting long shadows that stretched like reaching hands. The silence, once a sign of respect, now felt like a noose tightening around them all.
Victory was fleeting. Power, fragile. And in the halls of the palace, the greatest battle had only just begun.