I hate predictable monsters

Author's Note:Hey! I just saw that the book is now in 5 collections — thank you so much! 😊I really hope you're enjoying it, and thanks a lot for reading.Please feel free to leave a comment if you can — I'd love to hear your feedback!

POV: General Idowu Kamaza

General Idowu Kamaza was not a man shaped by kindness, diplomacy, or law. He was carved from blood and fire, molded by betrayal, conquest, and a bottomless hunger for control. His past was a catalog of brutality, and every inch of his domain bore the scars of that reality. Rising from the chaos of a militia warlord to the uncontested ruler of vast swaths of Kambara, Kamaza's ascent had left a trail of graves, terror, and scorched earth. His name alone could silence opposition, freeze negotiations, and reduce resistance to whimpers.

His palace was a monstrous marvel of brutalist architecture—gray stone, imported glass, cold iron, and decorative ivory—an edifice that dominated the capital like a tombstone over a mass grave. The structure, a fusion of war spoils and twisted aesthetics, was surrounded by electrified fences, concrete bunkers, and minefields hidden among flowerbeds. The halls were patrolled by heavily armed guards with dead eyes and quick tempers. Every room reeked of power, sweat, and barely-contained violence. Slaves and indentured servants toiled endlessly to keep the place spotless, lest they vanish in the night like so many before them, leaving only silence and rumors behind.

Kamaza himself was a towering figure, both physically and politically. He wore mirrored sunglasses at all hours and dressed in tailored military uniforms lined with gold thread and soaked in symbolism—each badge, medal, and insignia a memory of blood spilled. His fingers bore rings crafted from the teeth of enemies and his voice—deep, gravelly, hypnotic—carried like thunder through marble corridors. In his presence, even silence seemed fearful.

His cruelty was legendary. He'd ordered entire villages razed for minor slights. Children sold for infractions committed by their parents. Women, especially young and beautiful ones, were his favored form of tribute. Many were gifted. Some were stolen. Few were ever seen again. Some whispered that Kamaza believed possessing beauty allowed him to steal a piece of the divine. Others said he simply liked to destroy what the world cherished.

He ruled through fear, through myth, through the kind of violence that rewrote entire communities. His enemies didn't simply lose—they vanished. And yet, to some, he was necessary. In a nation plagued by instability, Kamaza was a constant—an apex predator at the top of a crumbling ecosystem. Foreign diplomats called him a 'reliable power broker.' The locals called him 'The Mountain.' Unmovable. Unclimbable. Inescapable.

The morning unfolded like most. A tray of freshly-cut fruit, roasted goat, and thick, spiced tea was brought to him at dawn by a servant girl whose name he had not learned and did not care to. She kept her head bowed low, her steps silent. Her hands trembled only slightly—better than most.

Outside on the palace's western terrace, Kamaza reclined in an ornate chair made from zebra bone and crocodile hide. A thick cigar smoldered in one hand. Two young women lounged nearby, adorned in fine silk, their silence rehearsed and absolute. They were recent acquisitions—gifts from a northern gold mining cartel seeking tax leniency. Their presence was ornamental and strategic, a visual reminder of Kamaza's unassailable position.

Kamaza's tablet buzzed gently. He flipped through its contents with mild interest. Profits from diamond exports remained stable. Timber sales were up. A shipment of ivory had been seized at a border checkpoint, but the smugglers had already been "made examples." He paused at a video clip: villagers being evicted from disputed land to make way for an illegal cobalt mine. His smile widened, revealing gold-tipped teeth.

The breeze shifted. A soldier approached, his boots clicking against the stone like a metronome for the heartbeat of tyranny.

"Excellency," the adjutant said, bowing. "A wire has arrived. A significant one. From the Halcyon Point district."

Kamaza didn't look up. "The foreigner again?"

"Yes. The woman—Maxine Wintershade."

"Ah. The ghost-girl."

He finally set his tablet down and took the offered document. The transfer was sizable. Camouflaged as a donation to infrastructure development. It stank of influence and quiet defiance.

"This one thinks she can buy silence," Kamaza growled. "How many times have I requested an audience with her?"

"Three formal invitations. And one informal overture."

"And her response?"

"None, Excellency."

Kamaza rose slowly, towering over the adjutant. "I do not recall allowing anyone to build cities within my borders without my blessing."

He stepped to the edge of the terrace, gazing out across the jungle-cloaked hills. Somewhere beyond the trees and ridges lay Halcyon Point—his Halcyon Point, whether the ghost-girl acknowledged it or not. He had long watched the growing infrastructure.

"Draft another letter," he ordered. "No more diplomacy. This one includes a deadline. Two months. She comes to me, or I come to her."

The adjutant hesitated. "And if she ignores this one as well?"

Kamaza's jaw tightened. "Then she will be brought. The way I bring all defiant women into the fold."

He turned toward the lounging girls, who instantly dropped their gaze. "This Wintershade thinks herself powerful. Mysterious. But I have ways of breaking mysteries."

He paced slowly into the palace, past columns etched with scenes of conquest. Murals showed him as a warrior-god above kneeling civilians. The floor beneath his feet had once belonged to a university library—its stones repurposed after a purge of intellectual dissent. Chandeliers above were made from bones, shaped and lacquered to sparkle like glass.

Within his inner sanctum, he removed his sunglasses and stared at his own reflection in a mirrored wall. Beneath the polished façade, he saw only dominance staring back.

"They say she is beautiful," he muttered to himself. "So was Amina. So was Kesira. Beauty fades. Walls crumble. But obedience? That can be eternal."

He gestured for one of the women to follow and disappeared behind a curtain of beads and silk. The clink of metal and the rustle of fabric followed.

Moments later, the adjutant outside received a verbal order: "Send the letter. But mark it differently. No embassy seal. Hand-delivered. By someone she'll remember."

As the sun climbed higher over Kambara, the shadow cast by Halcyon Point continued to stretch—and General Idowu Kamaza began to plan how to claim it for his own, one piece at a time. Not through negotiation. Not through trade. But through dominion, the only language he had ever truly mastered.