Mwanza P.O.V
Mwanza Hachibambo tightened his grip on the wooden practice sword as his opponent circled him, each step measured. Then, a sudden burst of jabs and slashes aimed to find an opening. Mwanza met the assault with practiced parries and swift counter-strikes. His opponent was skilled, forcing Mwanza to rely on nimble footwork to disrupt his timing, allowing him to land a few glancing blows against the shoulder and chest.
A grin of satisfaction touched Mwanza's lips he switched a pary from a shot aimed at his legs into a counter strike that grazed his opponents right shoulder. His opponents face contorted in pain and with renewed speed he swung his sword. Both weapons met with a shockwave that displaced the sand at their feet and yet the two fighters remained rooted.
"So we are not playing, exactly how I like it." Mwanza quipped as the thrill of anticipation sparked within him.
Each sword strike traded now sounded like thunder and they moved as swift as lightning. Between parries and thrusts, Mwanza peppered his opponent with sharp leg kicks aimed for the thigh, to cripple his mobility. He felt a surge of dominance, the pace and the aggression, it was his to command. His opponent's movements were becoming labored, each step accompanied by a visible wince.
Victory was within his grasp. But then, the insidious whisper of pride, that familiar Mizihimo in the heart of all men planted its roots. A simple victory? Where is the glory in that? Assert your dominance. Disarm him.
Mwanza grinned as he parried another thrust directing the blade upwards leaving his opponent exposed with arms still in the air, if he was aiming for it, he could have hit the head, neck and any vital part of the midsection, instead he closed the distance to clinch and disarm.
A maneuver that he had practiced so many times that he could smoothly perform it in his sleep. But a practice dummy and a live resising opponent was a different world altogether. He managed to manipulate the wrist of his opponent and what followed was the satisfying clatter of objects striking sand as both their swords slipped from their grasps at the grappling exchange.
A wave of regret immediately washed over him as the strength grinding hell of grappling commenced. He tried leg trips, even a hip tosses to get his opponent to the ground and nothing worked against his stubbornly balanced opponent. He couldn't break free, each attempt only bringing them closer to the sandy ground and Mwanza would never let himself be forced into a ground exchange.
They wrestled like two determined buffalos, a shifting mass of sweat and strained muscle. Then, a misstep, Mwanza's back slammed against the wooden guardrails of the ring. They remained locked in a stalemate, each hoping for the other's mistake.
His mind raced. This couldn't last. Exhaustion was a cold specter creeping into his limbs. But there was another path, a power that thrummed beneath the surface of every son and daughter of Jord.
He felt the familiar burn of Mwari, the invisible threads brushing against his awareness. With a tug of his hand, he drew forth a single strand, thick and shimmering, an ethereal braid of burning blue energy that materialized in his outstretched hand.
The temperature around him instantly dropped and from the air erupted into
a mad torrent of arctic winds and ice that reduced the guardrails to splinters and launched both combatants meters into the air.
"Enough!" a voice cut through the air almost seeming to instantly banish the miniature blizzard that had been summoned by Mwanza.
The young man in question's lungs burned with each breath. A dull throb pulsed in his hands, a familiar ache that followed the raw channeling of Mwari. Were it not for the open air nature of the training rings almost built in the style of cattle kraal, Mwanza would have been gasping for air.
"Good match." Mwanza wheezed out to his opponent who now lay not too far from.
"You too, you've gotten better." the young man responded.
"Same to you, I was surprised by how you kept him off balance." Mwanza replied through gritted teeth as the pain in his hands seemed to increase much more.
The sound of crunching sand drew their attention to a figure who stepped into the ring. The man's brown skin contrasted his bushy snow white beard. He wore Intricate gold and scarlet armor, emblazoned on each shoulder with the symbols of Valons military orders, the golden dragon of the Mushirikari and the eagle of the Asikari, marked him as a Vortiguard, one of the Mwami's most trusted personal guard.
"Pride and arrogance." Justinian stated in that half growl which he always spoke in.
"You are being melodramatic." Mwanza said through his pained winces as he stumbled onto his feet.
"You were winning and then you took a pointless risk that would end with your death on the battlefield." Justinian paused a hint of mockery in his tone as he added. "Your grace."
The young prince felt a stab at his heart. "I held him off and managed to break our stalemate. I personally think that deserves some points, dont you agree Erik?"
His opponent suddenly found the sand to be an interesting thing. He didn't even bother to meet Mwanza's gaze.
"You willingly put yourself in a position of danger and had to resort to injuring yourself to escape it. It is stupid and will get you killed if not crippled. Mwari is not a simple tool, especially for someone with your condition." Justinian emphasis on the last word was like a physical blow. Mwanza's hands tightened, the residual ache of Mwari flaring, barely suppressing the surge of anger.
"My condition ended two years ago, I am physically healthy. If I wasn't I would not be here training with you."
"The sickness of the body you may have conquered, but that of the spirit is different. " Justinian countered and Mwanza fought the temptation to weave his Mwari in the Vortiguard's face.
Justinian's words had struck a raw nerve. Mwanza's childhood had been a litany of illments, his body had betrayed him at every turn. After so long of it the Mizihimo of illness finally retreated and Mwanza could now enjoy the simple pleasures of life like walking for a kilometre without his lungs collapsing, muscles tearing and his bones fracturing. Yet another illness clang onto to him, not one of the physical, this was a cancer of the metaphysical.
It stopped him from using that gift inalienable to all Jordians. The power to use Mwari to weave an element inherit to them, be it fire, water, air or the earth itself in expressions of power. Mwanza's Mwari on the other hand was like electric cable, exposed and degraded. He could not weave his element of water, instead the power erupted from his body like a volcano, launching ice and strong arctic winds that left his body bruised.
Mwanza's anger against the Vortiguard waned away as a feeling of melancholic loathing washed upon him. He knew that this, his illness could not be cured.
An abrupt warm sense of heat washed over his body, it meant that his father had just arrived and Mwanza held back as someone new stepped in. This man looked like an older and slightly taller version of Mwanza with a beard and the well known gold and black regalia of the Mwami of Valon.
But he was not alone, alongside him was a woman with blue flesh and snow white braided hair. Golden pigmentation lines ran down her cheeks from her golden orbs for eyes, all clear signs that she was not human but a Fainzi, that second of three sapien races who held dominion upon Jrod. This was his mother Natasha Hachibambo.
Mwami and Queen walked with a confidence in each one of their steps, like nothing in the world could threaten them. As soon as the sovereigns reached them, everyone in the ring and those who had been observing on the outside fell upon one knee as was custom, a quick nod acknowledgement from the Mwami's head allowed them to rise.
"That was an interesting performance." the Mwami spoke with a voice that was as deep and resonant as distant thunder.
"Y... you watched.... watched... I mean..." Mwanza stuttered, his carefully constructed composure crumbling as a torrent of self-critical thoughts flooded his mind.
"I did..." the Mwami cracked a wide grin. "Impressive attempts at throws, though I do seem to recognise them from somewhere."
"You should not have weaved your Mwari." like clockwork his mother spoke with a flustered annoyance. "You could blast your fingers off, don't you realise that. Here, let me have a look."
Mwanza tried to argue and resist, but the Queen's strength was greater and she held him in place. Soft ethereal threads of Mwari left her hands and began brushing against his aching fingers, manipulating the water in his body to smother the pain.
"You are teaching him well." his father turned to Justinian.
"He is eager to learn, and yet he does it with recklessness, he will get himself killed." the Vortiguard responded whilst shaking his head in disappointment.
"Never one to mince words are you Justinian. " Mwami Undi said with a long worn sigh.
"Better he know the truth and learn from it than he join the parade of the dead to the Far Land."
"Why are you so obsessed with me dying?!" Mwanza snapped.
"It is the usual fate of foolish boys."
"I am nineteen years old, I am not a damn child." Mwanza countered.
"Really?" Justinian rubbed his eyes in mocking innocence. "Not with that height you are not. "
Mwanza felt like he had just been kicked in the balls, he was average height, taller than most with the exception of his father and yet Justinian's words got to him somehow. "I am taller than average you old bald bastard!"
"Mwanza. " his father intervened and the brash of something cold against his fingers alerted him to what had almost happened.
Dancing around his hands were shimmering, interlocking threads of raw Mwari, their form flickering violently, hinting at the untamed power they could unleash. The only thing keeping them suppressed were his mother's hands and Mwari.
"I am sorry." he mumbled.
No responded to his words, instead his parents and Justinian fixed him with unnerving glances. His mother's golden eyes bore into his own as if she was looking for something on his face. She quickly let go of his hands and placed her hand upon his chest.
"Are you cold?" she asked.
"What..." Mwanza could not understand, he looked from his father to Justinian and they all seemed to expecting the same thing as his mother, the only confused person who wasn't him was Erik.
"Answer the question." his mother demanded. "In your chest, how do you feel?"
"Warm, I feel warm." Mwanza responded and the metaphoric shoe dropped. The world returned to normal and his mother let him go, relief washing across her face. "What was that?"
Before any response could come a smell of ozone and the sparking sound of electrons filled the air. A burst of electricity erupted at the entrance of the training ring. The buzzing electrons took the shape of a man dressed in the uniform of a Vortiguard with a lower face mask.
"Chilufya." his father acknowledged the kneeling Vortiguard. "Back already from the east already."
"My Mwami, an hour ago there was a battle between Unar Empire and Ocean Lord forces, their battleships passed our coastal water boarder, some have even landed on our shores seeking asylum." Chilufya stated. "During my search of them we found correspondence with one of our own. I came as fast as I could to inform you."
Few people had attained the skill to become one with their element like Chilufya. His Mwari element in lightning mixed with said mastery made him a literal bolt of lightning, the fastest man in the whole of Valon.
"This is the fourth time this month." Mwami Undi said with a dark look on his face. "This is her doing, it's her clear textbook."
"Who is her?" Mwanza asked and yet his voice was like a fly in a hurricane, unnoticed and unheard.
"Do you think that she might be planning something?" Justinian asked.
"Planning? no." his mother responded. "She is pulling her pieces into place, this was to brazen to be a simple mistake."
"Hello, can any of you hear me?" Mwanza waved his arms around hoping to get any attention. "Who is she or her and what is happening?"
This time he got his mother's attention. She looked at him with that same unnerving gaze before turning to his father. "The capital will be crawling with her agents, they have already began began building up. Mwanza can't be here."
"Excuse me?!"
"Where should we take him?" his father asked.
"I am right here!"
"The summer palace. But it shouldn't be obvious. Maybe we can smuggle him out without anyone realising it." his mother and Mwanza wanted to rip out his hair. She turned to him and as if she was saying the most normal thing she said. "Prepare your clothes, tomorrow Erik shall escort you to the train stain and to the Summer Palace."
"Do I even get a say in this?"
"Its for your own good. I have to go and start prepare our people. " Natasha said that but it didn't even sound like she believed him. She gave his father a quick kiss on the lips before she just left.
Mwanza looked to his father expecting him to tell him to disregard his mother's words. Instead what he got was a specter of a sad smile as the Mwami of Valon said. "I am sorry, I understand that you are upset..."
"I am not upset!" Mwanza snapped back, his chest tightening and his breath heavy.
"Now that's a bold faced lie." the Mwami snorted and Mwanza's face burned, not from embarrassment but rising anger. "I understand your reasons to be upset, and I am sorry. Your mother was.... let's say harsher in her explanation, but I hope you understand that we just want what is best for you."
"Then explain to me what is happening?"
"We cant, just trust us."
Mwanza scoffed, it was always like this, what will did he have. Even with his illness long gone he was a prisoner in his own life, his own skin and his own home.
XXXXOOOOXXXXX
The structured training with the Vortiguard remained the sole bright spot in Mwanza's otherwise monotonous days within the palace's gilded cage. Freedom was a precious commodity here. Ironically, he'd found the enforced confinement more bearable during his crippling illness, when near constant long sleep offered a welcome escape. Now, the endless hours stretched before him, filled only with the dusty silence of the royal library or the suffocating sweetness of the palace gardens he loathed.
But Mwanza was young, often the case, that breeds rebellion. His started long before he was approaching manhood, a quiet defiance born from years trapped within a failing body. He'd learned the palace's hidden paths and forgotten corners, navigating the staff's attempts to curtail his movements. The orders, his parents hadn't bothered to hide, that originated from them.
The staff might have been strict, but Mwanza had grasped a truth often learned later in life, coin and words oiled the hinges of many doors.
He began subtly, befriending the staff, learning their names, sharing jokes, discovering their lives. Among them, he found those whose morals were…flexible. To these, he offered small "gifts," tokens of appreciation that secured their goodwill and now, as he moved through the palace hallways towards the more common levels, guards barely registered his presence.
The rest of his clandestine journey led him to the western wing of the palace. This bustling hub of activity, home to the kitchens and servants' quarters, was his favorite part of the palace.
It was a paradox, blending into the near fifteen hundred staff members who lived and worked here should have been easy, yet Mwanza always felt like he stood out. He'd been caught sneaking into this wing countless times by a Vortiguard or his mother, each incident a lesson learned.
He'd discovered a network of neglected passageways within the palace, largely ignored by the staff. Their dark, grimy nature, coupled with the knee-deep stagnant water in sections, likely contributed to their abandonment.
Mwanza avoided the water by carefully traversing the sides of the walls, utilizing the cracks and crevices in the ancient stone as handholds and footholds. He'd made this journey so many times that his movements were fluid, his weight shifting instinctively without prior thought.
Ten minutes later, he reached his destination, slipping silently out of the narrow passage and following the enticing aroma of roasting meat and baking bread to the back entrance of the kitchens. Just as he reached the door, muffled voices drifted through.
"…understand that the Veterans Association feels that. I just think maybe…" a familiar voice began, before being cut off by a sharper, unfamiliar tone.
"…Enough, Edger. Times are too tense for that. The Ocean Lords and the Unar Empire pose too great a threat for Valon to appear weak now."
That's Thia Kamwanga, Mwanza realized, pressing his ear gently against the door, catching the sound of a defeated sigh.
"I understand. I apologize for wasting your time, the Vortiguard…"
"Stop." the Vortiguard, interrupted again. "I am your friend, Edgar. Do not mistake my admonishment for hatred. I wish things could be different, but these times…they feel like before. Never forget who our Mwami is. The Conquering Sun has suffered no one."
Mwanza's jaw tightened. Thia, a Vortiguard he'd known his entire life, sounded afraid, it felt... wrong. He wished someone could explain what was happening, what had the Unar Empire and Ocean Lords done that was sending people into a panic.
Click.
The doorknob began to turn. Panic flared, a cold knot in Mwanza's stomach. What would Thia do if she found him eavesdropping? He scrambled, sliding, leaping, and finally diving behind a large stack of discarded carpets piled up for cleaning. The musty smell and fine dust immediately assaulted his senses.
Despite the growing itch in his throat and nose, he clamped his mouth shut, stifling the sneeze that threatened to erupt. Through a narrow gap in the carpet folds, he saw the door swing open. A Vortiguard, tall and imposing, with brown skin, scarlet hair, obsidian eyes each containing a single burning ember, two black horns curving from her forehead, and blade-shaped ears that marked her as an elf, stepped into the hallway.
Thia's narrowed gaze scanned the corridor, her grip tight on an axe. Mwanza held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. She remained there for what felt like an eternity, three long minutes, before turning back into the room.
"Be careful, Edger. The two spiders are playing their games. Of the two, Asthor is the one I least trust."With that, Thia turned and strode away, disappearing around the corner.
Mwanza waited several minutes, ensuring she was truly gone, before crawling out from under the dusty carpets, coughing and brushing the clinging fibers from his clothes.
"I hate this." he muttered to himself, his throat still scratchy. He approached the door and knocked three times.
The door was pulled open, revealing a round, cherubic man with a thick black beard and beady, intelligent eyes. He wore the standard palace staff uniform of red and blue, with a flour-dusted apron tied around his ample waist. His usual expression was somewhat sullen, but it instantly brightened when he saw Mwanza.
"Prince Mwanza, once again you managed to get here. How in Leza-Mulungu's name do you even manage that?" Edger said with a chuckle. "I am going to going to assume that you were the spy our lady Thia saw?"
Mwanza felt his tongue in his throat as he stammered out a stream of random words. "I... well... I... no.... yes.... I... it was... ought to...."
Edger burst into laughter, his massive belly swaying as he did. Mwanza felt his face heat up from embarrassment, he just wished that he could reverse time and never have put himself In this position ever again.
"Please, come in," Edger said, stepping aside with a flourish. Mwanza gratefully slipped into the familiar comfort of the office room.
Edger was the head of the palace kitchens, Mwanza had managed to convince the older man to let him unofficially occupy a job during his clandestine visits. The sole condition, of course, was absolute secrecy, especially from his ever-vigilant mother. Over time, the young prince had become intimately familiar with every detail of Edger's office, with the sole exception of a particular picture pinned to the wall behind his cluttered desk.
He immediately recognized the older of the two men in the faded portrait. The formal black and gold ceremonial military uniform, coupled with his neatly trimmed graying beard and piercing gaze, exuded an undeniable aura of authority. He had only ever seen this man's face in formal paintings photographs that rarely if ever saw the light of day.
The younger man standing proudly next to him was clad in the distinctive red, gold, and blue uniform of the Mushirikari. Mwanza didn't immediately recognize the face, but as he studied it more closely, the sands of time seemed to shift in his mind, revealing a forgotten memory…
"...Edger, is that… you?"
The older man turned away from his task of preparing tea to look at Mwanza, then back at the portrait. He offered a sad smile, but the usual twinkle was absent from his eyes.
"Uncanny resemblance, isn't it?" he replied, his voice a little rougher than usual. "That's… that was my boy, Chisanga. That was taken just after he graduated from the Mushirikari training program with full honors, top of his class. He was so incredibly proud to have met the Mwami that day."
Mwanza had long known of Edger's son's death, but unexpectedly unearthing what was undoubtedly a painful memory left him feeling like a complete fool. He quickly averted his gaze from the poignant portrait, focusing his attention on anything else in the room.
"How… how was your day?" He instantly regretted the awkward phrasing and mentally chastised himself. "How was your day? This morning! What the hell is wrong with me?"
Edger's laughter rumbled again, less boisterous this time, as he handed Mwanza a steaming cup of tea. "My day has been…stressful. A fresh batch of Earthers arrived to join the kitchen staff. We're all working to help them catch up."
"Earthers?" Mwanza had barely seen any of the refugees from the planet Earth since their arrival on Jrod. "What are they like?"
"Confused and, understandably, ignorant of our world. They've been kept somewhat isolated in their designated Earth district for far too long." Edger said, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. "Though I'm quite certain they would all be utterly shocked to discover that the prince of the realm himself is diligently shoveling away the discarded remnants of their cooking."
Mwanza shrugged. "Can't blame a man for having a hobby. "
"Most people you in your position would have other hobbies worthy of their rank." Edger countered with a knowing glint in his eyes."Riding. Obsessively collecting expensive trinkets. Maintaining a harem that would make legends blush."
Mwanza had a mirthless chuckle at the shere absurdity of the statement. "You know as well as I do that our glorious Mwami and Queen would never allow it. I am in a cage at their benevolent whims."
"And yet the cage is dipped in gold, but the bird inside it would rather swim in dirt." Edger fixed Mwanza with a certain gaze that the young prince didn't like. "But is the bird truly willing to fully abandon the cage forever?"
Mwanza considered the question, the privileges of his rank weighed against his yearning for freedom. The honest answer, the one he wouldn't voice aloud, was no. "Who knows? The bird might be a hypocrite. Or it might surprise you."
"Maybe." Edger's face softened as he took another sip of tea. "Let me go get your shovel."