Royal Betrayal
Page 1 – The Crown in Shadows
Written by Tahir Yusuf
The harmattan wind swept through the golden gates of Zazzagun, carrying with it the fine red dust of the Sahel. The city glowed under the morning sun, its sandstone walls painted in hues of copper and amber, its domes and minarets rising proudly like sentinels against the clear blue sky. From the highest balcony of the Fadar Sarki, King Abdullah watched his kingdom awaken — merchants unrolling carpets in the central market, children running barefoot between the narrow alleyways, the scent of fresh masa and suya wafting from food stalls.
It was the kind of scene that would warm a ruler’s heart.
But Abdullah’s heart was heavy.
For weeks, the whispers in the palace had grown louder. Servants spoke of omens — a hawk circling the royal well, a crack that had split the royal spear in the armory, the moon appearing blood-red three nights ago. And the Oracle of Dala’s last visit still echoed in the king’s mind:
"A crown in shadows cannot shine. Beware the hand you trust most."
He had dismissed it at first. Or tried to. But the unease had settled in his bones like the evening chill.
A Kingdom of Splendor and Secrets
Zazzagun was a jewel among the Hausa kingdoms. Its walls had withstood three great wars, its markets overflowed with gold from the west, salt from the Sahara, and fabrics dyed in the deep indigo of Kano. The palace was a labyrinth of marble courtyards, carved wooden pillars, and lush gardens where peacocks wandered freely. But beauty, Abdullah knew, often masked decay.
His court was filled with powerful figures, each with ambitions of their own.
There was Waziri Bashir, his chief advisor, a man whose silver tongue could smooth any dispute in the council — and whose eyes never revealed what his heart plotted. There was Queen Zainab, his first wife, regal and graceful, but with a hunger for power sharper than any blade. His eldest son, Prince Umar, noble and brave, carried the people’s love but not yet the cunning needed to survive the court’s labyrinth. And his daughter, Princess Yalwa, as sharp as a desert thorn, navigated politics with a strategist’s mind.
And then there was Jamilu, the king’s bodyguard — loyal, silent, and deadly. The man was like a shadow, always present, always watching. But shadows could hide many things.
The Morning Council
The call to prayer had just faded when the palace drum signaled the gathering of the king’s council. Abdullah descended from his balcony into the Kofar Zinariya, the Golden Hall, where his chiefs, advisers, and generals assembled. The air was cool, scented faintly with frankincense.
“Assalamu alaikum, my king,” Waziri Bashir greeted, bowing low.
“Wa alaikumus salam, Waziri,” Abdullah replied, taking his seat upon the karaga — the royal throne carved from ebony, inlaid with gold.
Today’s matters were routine: disputes over farmland, reports from the northern borders, the treasury’s accounts. Yet Abdullah felt the undercurrent — the subtle glances exchanged between Bashir and Queen Zainab, the way Jamilu’s gaze lingered on certain guards, the slight tightening of Prince Umar’s jaw when his mother spoke.
When the session ended, Bashir lingered.
“My king,” he said softly, “there is a matter of…delicacy.”
Abdullah studied him. “Speak.”
“There are rumors,” Bashir began, “that Sarki Gidado of Kurmin Kogi is amassing soldiers near the border. And…” He hesitated, glancing toward the door. “…there is talk that someone in your court may be feeding him information.”
The words struck like a spear. Abdullah’s voice lowered. “And who dares betray me?”
Bashir’s eyes flickered, unreadable. “That, my king, is yet to be known.”
In the Queen’s Chamber
Elsewhere in the palace, Queen Zainab’s chamber was heavy with the scent of rose oil. She sat before a mirror, her hair being braided by two young maids. The queen’s beauty had not faded with age — her skin was smooth as polished mahogany, her eyes sharp and calculating.
“You look troubled, my queen,” one maid said carefully.
Zainab’s lips curved into a smile. “Troubled? No. I am merely…thinking.”
Thinking of how the old king had grown weak. Thinking of how Umar’s ascension would strip her of influence — unless she ensured that he ascended on her terms.
From a small chest, she drew out a sealed letter — its wax unbroken. It had arrived the night before, carried by a merchant from the borderlands. She broke the seal and read quickly, her smile deepening.
A Daughter’s Warning
In another wing of the palace, Princess Yalwa sat in her study, poring over maps and trade reports. She had inherited her father’s sharp mind and her mother’s beauty — but not her mother’s hunger for selfish power. Her loyalty was to Zazzagun above all.
When her personal servant, Fatima, slipped in with hushed urgency, Yalwa knew it was important.
“Your Highness, one of my cousins in the market overheard something…dangerous.”
“What is it?” Yalwa asked.
“A merchant from Kurmin Kogi was boasting in the tea house that soon Zazzagun would kneel to Sarki Gidado — because someone close to the king has already promised it.”
Yalwa’s blood ran cold. “Find out who this merchant speaks to. Quietly.”
The Oracle’s Shadow
That night, as the moon rose full and pale, Abdullah walked alone in the palace gardens. The rustle of palm fronds mingled with the soft trickle of the fountain. From the shadows, an old woman emerged — her eyes milky, her hair wrapped in indigo cloth.
It was the Oracle of Dala.
“My king,” she rasped, “the wheel turns. The jackal is among the lions.”
Abdullah’s pulse quickened. “You mean there is a traitor?”
She nodded slowly. “Blood will spill within these walls. The crown will tremble. And the one who saves you will be the one you least expect.”
“Who?” he demanded.
But she only smiled, a gap-toothed crescent, and melted back into the shadows.
A Whisper in the Dark
In the servants’ quarters, Jamilu moved silently. His duties as the king’s protector often brought him into contact with whispers others ignored. Tonight, he overheard two palace guards speaking in low tones.
“…it will happen during the Durbar. The king will not see it coming.”
“Are you mad speaking of such things here?” the other hissed.
Jamilu stepped into the light. The men froze.
“Repeat what you said,” Jamilu ordered, his voice low and dangerous.
The younger guard stammered, “I…we were speaking nonsense, my lord.”
Jamilu’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing — but in his mind, the pieces were shifting.
The Coming Storm
By dawn, tension hung over the palace like the dust-laden air before a storm. Prince Umar, restless from dreams of red moons and falling crowns, sought his father.
“Baba,” he said, bowing, “let me ride to the border and see the truth with my own eyes.”
Abdullah shook his head. “Your place is here. The enemy may be closer than the border.”
And as he said it, his gaze drifted — just for a moment — to the closed door of Queen Zainab’s chamber.
Somewhere beyond those walls, a letter waited to be sent.
A letter that could change the fate of Zazzagun forever.