The early morning light cast long shadows across the Kanamayan Plains, painting the landscape in hues of gold and honey. From the abandoned watchtower's crumbling parapet, one could see for miles: the rolling grasslands dotted with ancient ruins of old temples, their broken columns jutting skyward like silent witnesses to forgotten ages. Beyond them, half-shrouded in soft mist, the Kanamay highlands rose in tranquil majesty.
Kaleb sat at a worn stone table just inside the tower's upper chamber, facing Vizier Wazan. The two men hunched over a board etched into the surface—a local variation of chess that replaced kings and queens with mythic beasts and warrior tokens. A gentle, steady breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying the scent of dew and distant blossoms.
Kaleb moved a piece—carved to resemble a lean stag—into a formation that threatened several of the Vizier's pieces at once. He paused, frowning. "I still don't see the logic," he said, his tone low and thoughtful. "How does making warriors fight each other in a gauntlet prove who can defeat Garida?"
Wazan's dark eyes shimmered with quiet amusement. He wore simple robes of deep indigo, faint runes embroidered at the hem glowing subtly as if tasting the dawn light. He tapped the board gently with a knuckle. "It is not about proving might to Garida," he said, selecting a carved hawk and moving it to block Kaleb's stag. "It is about showing might to our people. The gauntlet galvanizes the kingdom. It gives them a champion, a hero. In times of panic, people need a symbol they can rally behind."
Kaleb leaned back, arms folded over his chest. Beyond the tower's archway, the sun's first rays pierced the sky, illuminating the plains and the scattered ruins of temples whose names he had studied but never spoken aloud. "There have been rumors," he said softly. "Whole villages and kingdoms falling overnight. Migrants pouring into the plains, terrified. This panic... it spreads like wildfire."
Wazan nodded gravely. "A dry bush catches flame quick," he quoted an old proverb, one Kaleb had heard whispered among the elders. "The Afari Empire must respond before panic consumes us. The gauntlet—public and grand—gives direction to that fear. It channels it into hope and pride, giving the people something to cling to rather than chaos."
Kaleb's gaze drifted from the board to the horizon, where faint clouds drifted lazily. He thought of his own role in all this. He was no warrior like Ashona, no hero to swing a sword and fell beasts. His skills lay in trade negotiations, scholarship, and keeping the empire's records. Quiet and necessary work, but how did that help defeat a monstrous serpent or quell the terror gripping so many hearts?
As if sensing his unspoken doubts, Wazan's voice grew softer, more intimate. "There is an old saying," he said, sliding a piece—a panther with emerald eyes—into a corner that trapped Kaleb's stag. "One's role is uncovered in time. One need only be ready."
Kaleb's lip quirked, a half-smile. "Easy for you to say, Vizier. You have your magic, your position. I've never been a warrior, never accomplished anything of great physical prowess. How am I supposed to make a difference?"
Wazan inhaled slowly, the dawn wind playing with the fringes of his robe. "Your mother, the queen, is in tune with the stars and seasons," he said, "and she trusts in these traditions for a reason. You will have your part to play, Kaleb. Remember, you must host the princes at the Kenembu Peak Palace soon. Tradition demands it. They will look to you, not just as a scribe or administrator, but as a young leader within the empire's tapestry."
Kaleb sighed. He knew of the gathering—young monarchs convening, assessing one another, forging or fracturing alliances. He dreaded it. He wasn't cut from the same cloth as Ashona or the other warrior-princes. The memory stung. Yet he said nothing, and instead studied the board again, his mind refocused.
He moved a final piece—a lion carved with delicate swirls that resembled Orius's star—and forced Wazan's hawk into a corner. The Vizier raised an eyebrow and then chuckled softly. "Well played, young prince," he said. "You've beaten me this time. Score stands at one hundred to fifteen in my favor, I believe."
Kaleb scoffed quietly, but a hint of pride danced in his eyes. He stood, stretching his limbs as he left the board behind. Outside the archway, the sun had fully risen, piercing the morning sky with bright beams that unveiled a majestic panorama. The eastern plains shimmered under the new day's light, and the ruins of temples scattered across the land seemed less like relics of old tragedies and more like silent challenges waiting to be understood or conquered.
Wazan lit his pipe, the fragrant smoke curling upward. He leaned on a crumbling wall, enjoying the view with unspoken appreciation. Kaleb stepped beside him, silent for a few heartbeats. He felt something shift inside him—a pang of restlessness.
He was tired of standing on the sidelines. He wanted to be more than a scholar, more than a custodian of the empire's ledgers. He wanted to be a warrior, like his father and brother. He didn't know how he would achieve it, but as the sun bathed the watchtower in warmth and the distant ruins stood as silent witnesses, he knew he had to try.
As Wazan's pipe smoke drifted into the cool air, Kaleb inhaled deeply. Yes, he would find a way. The day had only begun, and so had his resolve.