The sun hung low over the plains, turning the tall grass to gold as Queen Nyasha stood atop the earthen rampart of her capital, Mataka. The drums of the returning warband echoed through the valley—victorious again, but bloodied. Below her, prisoners knelt in the dust. Smoke from the evening fires curled into the warm air, carrying the scent of iron and rain.

She stepped down the steps, her lion-fang pendant swaying against her chest. The warriors parted as she approached the captives.