The Tale of Datu Agham

As she stepped out of her hut, Vashti's bare feet touched the cool, uneven stone path. The scent of burning herbs and spiced wine lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and smoke. Her skin prickled not from the chill of the night, but from the weight of a thousand eyes already turned toward her. She was not alone. Flanked by her handmaidens—Rem, Tala, and Yuna—she moved with poise, each of them holding ornate torches that lit the way to the courthouse. Shadows danced on the walls of the tribal homes, casting flickering images of their passage like omens scrawled in light.

As they neared the courthouse, Vashti’s pace slowed, her breath catching in her throat. Before her stood a sea of faces—villagers, warriors, and nobles alike. There was fire everywhere: bonfires blazing in carved stone pits, their flames leaping wildly toward the sky as if to outshine the stars themselves. Drums pounded with primal rhythm, drawing bodies into wild, frenzied motion. The people were drinking, dancing, howling. The celebration was loud, unrestrained, almost carnivorous in its joy.

This spectacle stood in stark contrast to her first union—the sacred night she spent with Loki. That night had been bathed in solemnity, wrapped in the hush of whispered prayers and gentle hymns sung by old women under the moon’s watchful gaze. It had been a night steeped in reverence and quiet intimacy, a ritual meant to honor not only the gods but the union of two souls.

Tonight was different.

As Vashti reached the courthouse steps, the cacophony of the Novo people swelled into a roaring crescendo. It felt as though every beast in the jungle had crept out from the underbrush to join the chorus, howling their dreadful song of welcome. Goosebumps erupted all over her body, and her hands instinctively clutched at the thin cloth draped over her shoulders.

Inside the courthouse, the chaos was no less jarring. If the commoners outside had been wild, the nobles within were beasts in silk. They were laughing, yelling, raising their goblets in drunken cheer, the air thick with the acrid scent of fermented palm wine and incense. Their painted faces glistened with sweat, their jewelry clinking like chains of mockery. Vashti blinked in disbelief. These were the same nobles who had once sat with measured dignity during the council meeting, speaking in low tones, draped in robes of authority and pride. Now they resembled marauders in costume, their civility discarded like old skins.

At the far end of the court, upon an elevated throne carved from blackened wood and adorned with peacock feathers, sat Azah—Datu of the Novo tribe. He wore nothing but a vibrant loincloth, his dark skin shimmering under the torchlight. Vashti paused. Despite everything, she had to admit—he was beautiful. His body was lean and powerful, sculpted like the warriors of legend. His face bore a welcoming warmth, a charm that pulled her in despite the chaos around them.

He smiled at her.

It was not the leering smile of a man taking a prize but something gentler, more tender, and in that fleeting moment, Vashti held on to the hope that Azah might be kind. That perhaps, even within this strange and violent custom, she could find some semblance of respect. I pray, Vathala, she thought, that he will be as gentle with me as Loki once was.

With a subtle wave of Azah’s hand, the room fell into silence. The transformation was near-instantaneous, like the sudden hush before a storm. The people watched as Vashti’s handmaiden unrolled a thick ceremonial rug made from woven hemp and dyed in tribal colors. As Vashti stepped forward, her feet sinking slightly into the textured surface, her eyes caught the altar—the centerpiece of the ceremony.

It was elevated slightly above the court floor and draped in luxurious cloth, feather-filled and marked with symbols from the tribe of Seth. Vashti’s heart softened for a moment. That cloth—she recognized it. It had been a gift from her grandmother’s village. Somehow, it had found its way here. She smiled faintly, appreciating the honor it signified.

But the smile faded quickly. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. The room seemed to spin, the sounds muffled as though she were underwater. Yet she did not falter. Years of training in etiquette, of learning to walk with poise, to mask fear with grace, carried her forward. Like a queen, a true Hara, Vashti lifted her chin and moved toward the altar. The gasps that rippled through the crowd at her regal bearing reminded her that beauty was power—even in a world where she had none.

At nineteen, Vashti was a flower in full bloom, youthful yet mature, her body shaped by ritual dances and sacred diets meant to prepare her for motherhood. Her skin glowed with the oil of five different herbs, and her hair cascaded in waves down her back, adorned with gold and bone.

She felt the weight of Azah’s gaze long before she reached the altar. His eyes devoured her with reverence and desire. He was hungry, not just for her body, but for the ceremony itself, for the legacy it promised.

Azah had abstained all day, preparing his body and spirit. Though he had a harem at his disposal and was famed for his vigor, he touched none of them that day. Tonight, all his energy was reserved for her. For Vashti. For the night that would mark the start of a new dynasty. She had once belonged to another, but Azah was determined to claim her in a way that could never be forgotten.

With a firm nod, he summoned his second-in-command, Apo Nri, to begin the ancient ritual—the ceremony of Agham.

The legend of Agham was both revered and reviled. Centuries ago, Datu Agham had dragged his queen into the public square after she rejected him. His anger turned into madness, and in front of the tribe, he forced their union. Out of that violence came a child, a boy who grew into a mighty ruler. And so the Novo tribe twisted the shame of that story into something sacred. They believed that a child conceived in public, under the watchful eyes of the tribe, would be destined for greatness.

Now Vashti stood at that altar, alone. Her handmaidens had stepped back into the crowd, leaving her to face what was to come. The firelight cast shadows across her body, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

Her heart pounded wildly. Her thighs still ached from days of travel. Her spirit, too, was tired. And yet, she drew strength from somewhere deep within—perhaps from the ancestors, perhaps from Vathala. She whispered a quiet prayer: Let my womb be fertile tonight. Let me give the Novo tribe an heir worthy of legend. Let them see that returning me to Viscot was a mistake.

That thought gave her power.

With trembling but steady hands, Vashti untied the robe from her shoulders. It slipped from her body and fell silently onto the altar like a surrender. She stood there, bathed in firelight, utterly bare. The crowd inhaled sharply, their awe palpable. Never had the Novo seen a maiden quite like her—graceful, defiant, divine.

Only three people had seen her naked before: her handmaidens, who cared for her with sisterly affection, and Loki—the man who had once loved her, who had once touched her like she was the very breath of the gods.

And now, Azah would touch her too.

But this time, she vowed, it would not break her.

It would remake her.