Ten summers had passed since the great drought silenced the rivers of the South, yet the winds of Motswana still carried secrets—names whispered through the trees, over the red earth, and into the ears of those who dared to listen.
In the heart of the savannah, where acacia trees cast shadows like watchful spirits, a boy became a chief too young. His name was Kgosi Tau, and on the night of his father's burial, the fire spoke to him.
Not with words, but with names.
One name echoed louder than the rest—his own.
And with it, a power older than metal, older than blood: the ancient magic of Names.