Guests spilled through the castle gates in tides of gold, beautiful Bazin textiles, and heavy escorts. Golden banners floated gently in the Istan breeze, royal crests glittering on them like captured sunlight.
Waving at the escort was a bald, robust man—General Tora. He nonchalantly scanned the crowd, identifying most of the visitors with the practiced eye of someone who'd learned to read threat and opportunity in equal measure. The frail-looking handsome man could only be Prince Rachid, accompanied by his two sisters, Dariane and Sol. They sat elegantly in the royal carriage, curiously gazing around at Tora's domain.
At the head of the escort was a bare-chested giant with snake-like red braids. Tora had effortlessly identified him—impossible not to recognize King Bakar, even from a distance. The man's presence preceded him like thunder before lightning.
"Long time no see, Tora. Always nonchalant." Bakar dismounted his stunning horse, heading toward his general. "Are you not excited to meet an old friend?"
The two men embraced, though calling it a hug would be misleading. It was more a ritual acknowledgment of mutual respect between two apex predators who'd long ago decided not to kill each other.
"Nothing is exciting about meeting you," Tora said, cutting the embrace short with a slight smile that took the edge off the words.
Rachid and his sisters dismounted and bowed to Tora to express their respect. He looked at the children and felt time's passage like a weight.
"They've all grown so much. Time sure flies quickly." He'd last seen the king five years ago. In that span, they'd transformed from children into young nobles. "Let's head to the Main Hall. You must all be fatigued from the journey. I ordered the servants to prepare a banquet just for you."
They proceeded to the Main Hall together—Tora, the king, and his children. Members of the Royal escort followed directly behind them, a river of armed men flowing through Tora's fortress.
The powerful and uplifting sound of Djembe drums and Balafon rang through the hall. Vibing to the sound were youths painted blue from head to toe. Half their frames stayed hidden by panther silk robes, contrasting the stark azure. A beautiful motley of colors ensued, creating patterns that seemed to pulse with the rhythm.
At the sight of such elegance, Sol stayed rooted on the spot. She spent most of her time isolated in her garden, training the sword or learning history from dusty scrolls. She had never before experienced such a sight—the raw vitality of warriors celebrating life between battles. Hence the thrill and shock that kept her frozen.
Rachid stayed stoic, uninterested in what he saw. He'd been to these displays before, understood them for what they were: performance as much as culture, demonstration as much as celebration.
Dariane smiled mischievously, her pupils tracking the delicate movements of the painted men with interest that had nothing to do with cultural appreciation.
"Let us all take a seat and enjoy." The hall was uniformly decorated—square dinner tables made of bamboo spread across the lounge. Meat, sweet potatoes, cassava, fish, and palm oil topped the tables in abundance. The food was so plentiful it could feed a village of fifty people for three days.
Tora and the visitors each selected seats. The moment they all sat, the music stopped as if cut by an invisible blade.
Tora stood elegantly. "My house is your house. My food is your food. My life is in your hands. That is why you and your descendants are forever at home in Istan. Those were the words I swore in the past." He raised his muscled arm, a calabash of red wine in his hand. "To the King!"
He downed his calabash in one long swallow.
"To the King!" Everyone in the hall repeated as they downed their drinks.
Music! Music! The celebration resumed with even greater energy.
"Brother! Brother!" The cute voice of Sol sounded as she gently tugged Rachid's sleeve for attention. "Who is Tora? Is he Father's friend?" she whispered once she had his attention.
"He was once Father's enemy but is now the only person he acknowledges. Why did you ask? Do you want to marry him?" Rachid beamed a smile at her, gently holding her hand as he muttered back.
Sol puffed out her cheeks at Rachid's taunts. She proceeded to aggressively devour the food, abandoning all princess manners in protest. Rachid could only chuckle. This sister of his always lifted his mood. He doted on her more than anything in this world, even more than his own life.
At the tip of the main table, King Bakar and Tora engaged in a more serious conversation.
"Your Grace, surely you did not visit to spend time. What is it I need to know?" Tora cut straight to the point. He knew his king well enough, understood what drove him.
"You guessed correctly," Bakar smirked. "I previously received a letter that... concerned me. For the plan to advance smoothly, everything must be perfect." He paused and gazed at Tora with eyes that had seen a thousand battles. "You should've already guessed why I am here."
"To investigate our military forces?" Tora asked, though he already knew the answer.
"That is it." Bakar nodded. "I hope you prepared accordingly."
"I did. Combats were organized in the arena. They will commence after the banquet." Tora confirmed, then added with slight complaint: "Your Grace, I am no soothsayer. I can't read your mind. Why do you insist on testing me when I've already sworn loyalty to you?"
"I trust you. That is why you are in charge of the elite army." Bakar chewed his piece of meat thoughtfully. "I expect my general to be capable of understanding the big picture without being told anything." He quaffed a calabash of red wine. "Someone incapable of that is not fit as general."
The King appeared calm and detached. However, his words shook even the nonchalant Tora. If I hadn't guessed his goal, I wouldn't have been fit as a general. What would have happened to me?
"At the end of the banquet, let's go have some fun at the Arena." Bakar beamed an alluring smile at Tora—the smile of a predator anticipating blood.