The markets of Songhai were alight with the clamor of life: the jingling of silver bangles, the layered hum of traders bargaining in Zarma, Hausa, and Arabic, and the resonant beats of a djembé drum in the distance. Under the pale gold of the afternoon sun, Safiya stood silently near the edge of the trading square. She was cloaked in deep indigo robes that matched the color of the sky just before nightfall, the fabric dyed until it stained her skin an almost imperceptible blue. Her face, crowned by a headscarf threaded loosely with copper beads, carried an expression of quiet intensity—an alertness that belied someone with secrets to guard. Her almond-shaped eyes cut through the crowd like a knife through a ripe melon, searching for someone—or something.
Safiya tightened her grip on the leather satchel slung across her shoulder, a flicker of unease crossing her face. She stood taller than many of the men circulating the trading space—not overtly imposing, but enough to garner occasional looks of curiosity. Her physique was lean but hardened from years of navigating the labyrinthine politics and brutal plains of the Empire. She turned slightly, her sandals kicking dust in soft clouds, and took a step toward a shadowy stall selling objects curious and dangerous: knives of spiraling silver, vials filled with swirls of liquid the color of lava, and—most innocuously—copper-coiled trinkets. But Safiya knew better. Nothing in this empire was as innocuous as it seemed.
“Looking for something, Sister?” a voice rasped. The merchant, an older man wearing the embroidered cap of the Tuareg, fixed her with sharp, steady eyes. Her lips tightened, and her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger beneath her robes.
“Only passing through,” she replied, her voice low and firm. Her accent betrayed no particular allegiance—a trick she had learned in the courts of Gao and Timbuktu.
“Passing through? Yet your eyes linger.” The merchant chuckled, showing a set of teeth that had seen better decades. Safiya suppressed the irritation rising within her. Patience, she told herself, patience is a weapon as sharp as any blade.
Before she could retort, a boy ran toward the merchant’s stall, stumbling over his feet. His tunic billowed—bright as the saffron flowers that grew along the Niger River. “She is coming! The Lady of the Sands is upon us!” His voice cracked with both excitement and fear.
The merchant muttered an oath under his breath and moved quickly to retrieve something from the stall—a small ornament engraved with ancient markings that shimmered faintly even in the shade. He wrapped it quickly in a strip of hide before tucking it out of sight. Safiya didn’t miss the gesture, and suddenly, she understood where her quarry might be heading.
The Lady of the Sands was a name spoken carefully and with reverence in the markets of Songhai. A warlord? A mystic? A myth? The truth shifted depending on who told the story. But if there was one constant, it was that where the Lady went, chaos followed.
Safiya left the stall without another word, weaving swiftly through the thickening crowd. The murmur of panic had begun spreading like wildfire through the square. She moved like a shadow, quick and soundless, her satchel swinging lightly at her side. She used her height to scan the horizon, her keen eyes narrowing as she spotted movement in the distance. The shimmering waves of heat rising off the desert obscured the figures at first, but seconds later, the image became clear: a band of riders on horseback, their robes the color of blood.
She paused to steady herself, her heart pounding against her ribs like war drums. Adjusting the straps of her satchel, she stepped into the mouth of an alleyway, leaning momentarily against the cool clay of a wall. The satchel carried something she wished she could discard, something sought by those who served the Lady of the Sands—something they would kill to reclaim.
The object inside weighed heavier than its physical mass. It was a crystal, smooth as river-worn stone but humming with an unsettling energy. Safiya had taken it from the archives of Gao on the instructions of a once-honored scholar who had whispered his final wish as he lay bleeding: “Take it west. It cannot fall into her hands.” Unbeknownst to Safiya, the scholar had sold her name to the Lady’s spies just before his death to save his skin. Her life had not been her own since.
She adjusted her headscarf, stepping back into the light with resolve hardening her features. If the Lady was here, Safiya would not run. She had danced on the edge of betrayal enough times to know that running often made the dagger fall sooner. No. If the Lady wanted her—wanted the crystal—she would have to face her directly in the streets of Songhai.
Safiya’s hand moved to her dagger once more, resting there like a wolf ready to bare its teeth. She stood in the center of the market square, the crowd parting to keep their distance from the imposing lone figure who radiated quiet defiance. The riders grew nearer now, the thunder of hooves resonating against the ancient walls of the city. The once-roaring market had turned into a sheet of sundered silence, save for the sound of wind and approaching danger.
The first rider broke away from the group—a tall woman atop a black mare, her war band following closely behind as they entered the square. Her face was veiled with fabric thin as a whisper, her eyes kohl-lined and piercing. Though she bore the veiled modesty of tradition, her presence was anything but understated; she radiated a power that bent the air itself around her like the ripple of heat over sun-baked dunes.
Safiya met her gaze and allowed a faint smirk to touch her lips. This would be the fight of her life. And she intended to make it count.
Genre: Historical Fiction (Songhai Empire with speculative mysticism)
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