Chapter 1 : Yala

Five hundred years ago, the world was whole. The United States of America thrived, while peace was a fragile thing, it existed— until it didn't. Everything shattered the day the U.S. president was assassinated, triggering a global war. Alliances were drawn , and enemies retaliated.

What began as diplomatic incident escalated into nuclear devastation. Millions perished, then billions, until humanity was reduced to a fraction of its former self. The survivors rebuilt , carving out new nations from the ashes. Over time, fifteen nations became five, each claiming distinct territories shaped by the new environment.

Kenya, my home , is a lush, thriving kingdom of forests, rivers, and lakes. My father, King Ayubu, rules with wisdom and fairness, guiding our people as protectors of life and tradition.

To the north lies Algeria, its shores kissed by the waters of what was once the ocean. To the east Mawal, a realm of towering trees where homes rested high in the canopies. Then there are our enemies: Bescle, whose hardened themselves against the biting cold of the Arctic, and Fietere, a desert Kingdom of brutal warriors bred for war. The Fietere are our sworn enemies, and today, they come for blood.

"Gear up!" my father commanded, his voice cutting through the commotion. Soldiers darted past me, their faces steeled for battle. I held my ground, feeling his large, calloused hands cup my face. "Yala," he said softly, worry flickering in his dark eyes. "You don't have to fight. Stay with your mother." I straightened my back, squaring my shoulders. "Our people fight, so will I." His lips twitched into a small, proud smile. "Then gear up," he murmured.

I nodded and sprinted upstairs to my room. The familiar scent of cedar greeted me as I grabbed my sparring armor from the corner.

Tightening the straps of my vest and arm guards, I strapped my swords across my back.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced once more at the drawings etched into the walls— the memories of simpler time—and left.

As I descended the long staircase, I saw the worried faces of our guards disguised as maids. Then my mother appeared, her graceful form gliding toward me. "Honey," she whispered, wrapping me in a tight embrace. Her presence was calming, even as the chaos swirled around us. But when she pulled back to look at me, her gaze was heavy with sorrow. "You're frightening."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. She swallowed hard. "Please, Yala. Promise me you'll be careful. Don't— don't get hurt." "I promise, Mama." We hugged once more before she was ushered away to safety by her guards, along with the children and other women of the palace.

The gates loomed ahead, massive and imposing. My father stood tall at the front of our army, his weathered face a beacon of strength. When his gaze met mine, he gave me a single nod. "Are you ready?" I raised my sword high into the air. "FOR KENYA!" "FOR KENYA!" The rallying cry rippled through the ranks, and we surged forward.

The battle had already begun outside of our gates. Our first unit clashed with the Fietere soldiers, their weapons glinting under the sun. I sprinted into the fray , my blade slicing through the enemy like lightning. One soldier lunged at me, his blade narrowly missing my throat. I twisted away and drove my sword into his chest. Another came at me, and I ducked low, slashing at his legs before finishing him off. Through the chaos, I spotted my father. His movements were precise and fluid, cutting down enemy soldiers with ease of a seasoned warrior. I felt a swell of pride watching him—he was leader, a protector, everything I aspired to be.

But my admiration cost me. A heavy blow sent me sprawling to the ground. A muscular Fietere soldier loomed over me, his fist colliding with my jaw. Stars dancing in my vision, but I reach for the small blade hit in my boot. With the swift kick, I drove it into his back. He let out a guttural cry before collapsing beside me.

I pushed him off and struggled to my feet, my eyes locking on the battlefield's center. My father was locked in combat with a man I assumed was the Fietere commander. He was young, with dark, wavy hair, and a build that spoke of countless battles. But my father was winning. I was certain of it. I forced my way through the fighting, cutting down anyone who blocked my path. I was so close when I saw it—the commanders blade plunging into my father's chest.

"NO!" My screen tore through the chaos as I ran to him. His body slumped into my arms, blood staining his robes. His eyes, once so full of life, met mine. A weak smile touched his lips before they stilled forever. Tears blurred my vision as I looked up at the man who had taken everything from me. The Fietere commander stood frozen, his expression unreadable.

"RETREAT!" he roared suddenly, his voice echoing across the battlefield. I held my father's lifeless body as the Fietere soldiers fell back. The battle was over, but the war between us was far from finished.