The drums of Kîgamba echoed into the night, their thunder rolling beneath the moon's watchful eye. Fires crackled along the village's edge, casting warm gold upon the faces of dancers and warriors. The sacred mountain, Kirimaara, stood tall in the distance, its snowy crown glinting under the stars.
Nyasha wa Kinywa moved at the heart of the circle, her feet light upon the earth of her ancestors. Beads clinked at her ankles, cowries caught the firelight at her throat. Her braided hair, touched with red ochre, shone as she spun.
She was the first daughter of Chief Kinywa wa Kobia, born of his beloved first wife. The people called her Gîtune kia Kînywa — the pride of Kinywa — for her beauty and her strength. When she danced, the spirits of the land seemed to join her.
Tonight was the festival of thanksgiving. The harvest had been rich; the rains had blessed their lands. The drums called thanks to Kiini Kiro, the center of all that lives, the source of the mountain's strength and the village's peace.
But beyond the fire's reach, envy watched with narrowed eyes.
Her stepmother, Wanja, stood among the shadows, her heart sour as a withered gourd. The woman's son, born of another union, would never know the honor that Nyasha's blood promised. And so, Wanja's bitterness grew, fed by the whispers of greedy men who sought coin above kinship.
> "Too loved," Wanja murmured, her voice like snake's hiss. "Too proud. Let her be gone before the sun wakes the mountain."
In the cover of darkness, she spoke with strangers — slavers from the coast, men who knew the trade of chains and sorrow.
> "Take her," she said. "Tell Kinywa she fled to the forest with a lover. Let her shame him, far from here."
---
The night deepened. The fires burned low. One by one, the drums fell silent.
Nyasha stepped away from the last of the dancers, breath warm in the cool night air. She gazed at Kirimaara, whispering her thanks to the spirits.
She did not see the shadows that crept close.
She did not hear the soft tread of betrayal.
A cloth smothered her cry. Ropes bit into her wrists. Strong hands dragged her from the place of her ancestors, from the mountain that had watched her first steps, from the land that had named her daughter.
She fought. Oh, she fought. The blood of Kinywa, of warriors and chiefs, roared in her veins. But the night was heavy, and her strength could not break the bonds of treachery.
The stars above bore silent witness as Nyasha wa Kinywa, the pride of her people, was taken from all she knew.
And so began the journey that would test her spirit, forge her into legend — and carry her beyond the sea, to a destiny even the mountain could not have foreseen.