BETWEEN TWO WARS

​The early morning mist always hung thick over Town Sogala, clinging to the damp clay roofs and wrapping around the lower ridges of Mountain Soga like a shroud. For as long as Rashida could remember, the mountain had been both a guardian and a wall. Beyond its jagged, storm-crowned peaks lay the arid reaches of Gbantala—a realm of dust, steel, and a restless army that had cast a shadow over Sogala for generations.

​Standing in the courtyard of her father’s compound, Rashida smoothed the folds of her woven tunic. The cool air bit at her skin, but it was the silent ache in her chest that made her shiver. Today marked exactly sixty days since the dark heralds had first ridden into town, bearing the seal of the Council. Sixty days since the uneasy peace between Sogala and Gbantala had finally shattered into the threat of open war.

​And for two months, Rashida had lived in a quiet, agonizing blur, watching the only man who truly knew her heart prepare to march away.

​"You are standing in the damp again, sister," a smooth, melodic voice called out from the doorway.

​Rashida turned to see Hikma leaning against the wooden frame. Her older sister was dressed impeccably, her embroidered shawl draped artfully over her shoulders. While Rashida spent her mornings tending to the medicinal herbs or gathering firewood near the mountain slopes, Hikma spent hers refining her grace, carefully observing every merchant, elder, and soldier who passed through Sogala.

​"The sun is barely up, Hikma," Rashida replied softly, keeping her voice even. "I am only watching the fog clear."

​"You are watching the lower trail," Hikma corrected, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips. She stepped down into the courtyard, her slippers whispering against the packed earth. "You are waiting for Zafaro. Just as you have done every morning for the past eight weeks."

​Rashida’s fingers tightened against the fabric of her skirt, but she did not deny it.

​"He leaves today, Rashida," Hikma continued, her voice dipping into a tone that was almost gentle, yet edged with an unmistakable sharpness. "The draft is complete. Every young warrior in Sogala must march to the frontline at the base of Mountain Soga before noon. You ought to be preparing yourself for what comes after, rather than lingering on fleeting promises."

​"Zafaro is not a fleeting promise," Rashida said, turning her head to look her sister directly in the eye. "He is a warrior of Sogala. He does what honor demands of him."

​Hikma gave a small, light laugh—a sound that carried no real warmth. "Honor does not fill a grain bin, Rashida. Nor does it secure a family’s standing when the storm breaks. He is a brave man, yes, but he has no title, no wealth, and now, no guarantee of returning. You carry your heart on your sleeve for someone who holds nothing in his hands."

​Before Rashida could answer, the heavy wooden gate at the edge of the courtyard creaked open.

​Zafaro stepped through.

​He wore the dark leather arm guards and iron-fitted vest of the Sogala frontier guards. His broad shoulders were squared, but the fatigue of two relentless months of training showed in the slight tension around his jaw. Over the past eight weeks, Rashida had watched him transform. The quiet young man who used to help her carry heavy bundles of timber down from the lower forest had been hardened by daily drills, tactical briefings, and the ruthless reality of impending combat.

​Yet, as his dark eyes found Rashida across the courtyard, the harsh edge in his demeanor melted instantly.

Zafaro," Rashida breathed, taking an eager step forward, completely ignoring Hikma, who smoothed her shawl with a cool, watchful gaze.

​"Rashida," Zafaro said, his voice deep and gravelly from long nights spent awake at the perimeter posts. He offered a respectful nod toward Hikma. "Hikma."

​"Zafaro," Hikma replied smoothly, inspecting him with a long, calculated glance before taking a step back toward the porch. "I will leave you two to say your farewells. The horn for assembly will blow soon enough."

​With a graceful turn, Hikma retreated into the house, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet courtyard.

​For a long moment, neither spoke. The space between them seemed heavy with everything that had transpired over the last sixty days.

​Two months ago, when news of Gbantala’s border mobilization first reached Sogala, Zafaro had come to this very spot. They had talked until the stars filled the sky, hoping against hope that diplomacy would prevail. But day after day, the news had only grown grimmer. Skirmishes at the mountain passes. Raided supply lines. Burnt outposts. The peace had crumbled inch by inch, and with every passing week, the weight on Zafaro’s shoulders had grown heavier.

​Zafaro closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing against the side of her cheek. Rashida leaned into his touch, closing her eyes as tears prickled behind her eyelids.

​"I tried to come earlier," Zafaro murmured softly. "The commanders kept us at the armory through the night. Assigning squads. Checking spearheads and bowstrings."

​"It doesn't matter," Rashida whispered, opening her eyes to look into his. "You're here now."

​"I don't have long," he said, his expression tightening with a mixture of pain and fierce resolve. "The vanguard moves out toward the gorge within the hour. Gbantala’s forces have already gathered on the northern side of Mountain Soga. If we do not hold the pass, Sogala will fall within a fortnight."

​"Do not talk of falling," Rashida pleaded, grabbing his forearm, feeling the steady strength of his muscle beneath the leather guards. "You must come back, Zafaro. Promise me. No matter how fierce the fighting is, no matter how long the war drags on... you must fight your way back to me."

​Zafaro reached into the small pouch at his belt and pulled out a simple wooden charm. It was hand-carved from the heartwood of a Soga oak—hard as iron and deep red in color—strung on a thin leather cord. He had spent the long, quiet nights of the past month carving it by firelight.

​"Take this," Zafaro said, pressing the cool wooden pendant into her palm and wrapping her fingers tightly around it. "Every time you look at this, know that I am breathing, fighting, and pushing forward only to return to Town Sogala. To return to you."

​Rashida held the charm against her heart, the rough wood pressing into her skin. "I will wear it every day."

​"Rashida," Zafaro said, his voice dropping low, rich with a solemn promise that transcended the chaos of the coming war. "These past two months have been full of fear. Everyone in town is panicking, whispering about doom and destruction. But when I look at you, I don't feel fear. I feel purpose. When this war is over, when Gbantala is pushed back and peace returns to Mountain Soga, I will come back to your father's gate. I will bring everything I earn from my service, and I will ask for your hand properly."

​Fresh tears spilled down Rashida's cheeks, but a soft, breathtaking smile broke across her face. "I will be waiting right here at this gate, Zafaro. I don't care about wealth or titles. Just bring yourself back to me whole."

​In the distance, the low, deep roar of a horn echoed from the town center. Its mournful tone carried over the rooftops, rebounding off the stone cliffs of Mountain Soga.

​The First Call of Assembly.

​Zafaro’s body went rigid. He took a deep, steadying breath, his eyes lingering on Rashida's face as if trying to memorize every line, every curve, every detail to carry into the bloody days ahead.

​"It is time," he said softly.

​He stepped closer, leaning down to press his forehead gently against hers. For a few brief seconds, time seemed to freeze. The threat of war, the cold morning air, the dark intent of Gbantala, and the quiet schemes of Hikma all dissolved, leaving only the two of them bound together in the quiet sanctuary of the courtyard.

​Then, Zafaro pulled back. He gave her hand one final, firm squeeze, turned on his heel, and walked briskly out through the wooden gate.

​Rashida rushed to the edge of the threshold, watching his tall figure stride down the narrow dirt alley toward the main road. All across Town Sogala, doors were opening. Mothers were weeping on steps, fathers were grasping the shoulders of young men, and children stood in quiet awe as the town’s defenders assembled in their iron and leather.

​High above the settlement, Hikma stood on the second-story balcony of their home. Her hands rested lightly on the polished wooden railing as she watched the sea of soldiers marching toward the northern gate. Her eyes followed Zafaro’s retreating form until he disappeared into the ranks of the vanguard, but there was no sorrow in her face—only a cold, calculating intensity.

​Hikma turned her gaze downward toward her younger sister, who stood trembling at the main gate, clutching the oak charm against her chest.

​A simple warrior with a wooden token, Hikma thought to herself, her eyes narrowing slightly. Rashida thinks love is enough to survive the storm that is coming. But when the dust settles and the blood dries on Mountain Soga, love will not keep our family safe. Power will.

​The heavy iron gates of Town Sogala groaned on their massive hinges, opening wide to let the army pass through. Beyond the stone walls, the trail wound upward into the dark, mist-shrouded gorges of Mountain Soga—the treacherous borderland where two nations were about to collide.

​As the last soldier disappeared into the fog and the heavy gates slammed shut with a thunderous boom, Rashida stood alone in the dust of the road. She closed her eyes, her thumb tracing the carved edges of the oak pendant, whispering a silent prayer into the mountain wind.

​The march had begun. The war was no longer a distant rumor. And as the mist began to clear under the rising sun, Town Sogala settled into a tense, breathless silence, unaware of the betrayals that were already taking root within its very walls.