The cobblestone streets of Aruoki gleamed like polished gemstones after the morning rains. The air was thick with the scents of hibiscus, clove basil, and the faint tang of river clay carried by the breeze. Above the chatter of traders and the soft murmur of goats, the caw of a parrot rang out from Wuraola’s stall—where the bird’s unsolicited fortune-telling often rivaled the wares she sold.

At the palace gates, two guardswomen—Labake and Akanbi—stood as straight as teak trees, their expressions caught between pride and thinly veiled boredom. Akanbi, the taller of the two, was infamous for her habit of carving small figurines into her spear during the quieter shifts. Today, her latest creation—a miniature crocodile with an exaggerated grin—rested on the cobblestone beside her boot. Labake, ever dutiful, pretended not to notice but couldn't help but smile.

Beyond the city walls, the kingdom unfolded like a storyteller’s scroll, with mangroves to the south and the Mijenda highlands looming in the north. The Kaondiri River, serene yet deceptive, whispered ancient secrets to its banks. Here, Uwaraye, the outlaw with a laugh like shattered glass, wove her legend among wary travelers. Meanwhile, in the border villages, young children chased each other through fields of millet and sorghum, their laughter undimmed by Fayowa’s sporadic raids.

Lawabo was a realm where the mundane and the magical intertwined, where every pebble and person had a story to tell—and often, they told it whether you wanted to hear it or not.