The Other Queen by Damilola Awe
Synopsis
“Epic Fantasy Thriller done right…” – Ray Anyasi
“Solid five star… worthy of any praise it gets.” – Geek Digest
Aldor, the economic heart of the Six Kingdoms, is thrown into chaos when Abhunka rebels strike with ruthless precision. King Kuar of the House of Bruu is trapped outside his own walls, cut off from his family as the rebels tighten their siege around the capital. With no path home and no army at his back, he makes a perilous choice: seek refuge in the southern kingdom of Alamagu, ruled by the enigmatic and widowed Queen Kiduni—a woman whose past with Kuar is as dangerous as the war now consuming his lands.
Inside the besieged city, Queen Sarina must hold Aldor together alone. Pressured by the political might of Manhui and surrounded by enemies, she forges uneasy alliances and makes sacrifices that will reshape her kingdom—and herself. Every compromise strengthens her rule, but also draws her deeper into a web of power she never sought.
In Alamagu, Queen Kiduni sees opportunity in Kuar’s desperation. She offers him sanctuary, but her ambitions reach far beyond her borders. With Aldor vulnerable and Manhui’s dominance ripe for challenge, she intends to use Kuar as the spark that ignites a new order. Yet she underestimates the quiet steel of Queen Sarina, whose resolve under siege may prove the deadliest force of all.
As rival queens manoeuvre in the shadows and a displaced king fights to reclaim his throne, the balance of power across the Six Kingdoms tilts toward war. Loyalties will fracture, old wounds will reopen, and the fate of Aldor will be decided not only by armies—but by the cunning of those who dare to rule.
1
The sun hung heavy over the limestone walls of Aldor, baking the pale stone until it shimmered like a mirage. Behind the massive iron-studded gates, the city didn’t just breathe; it roared.
The air in the main thoroughfare was a thick soup of scents: the sharp tang of cedarwood incense, the salt of dried fish, and the pervasive, metallic musk of thousands of bodies pressed together in the heat. To a stranger, it was chaos. To an Aldorian, it was the rhythm of the House of Bruu.
“Make way! By the gods, clear the path for the spices of the East!”
A merchant, his face slick with sweat and dust, leaned over the yoke of his oxen, steering a cart piled high with amphorae and tightly bound silks. He cursed at a group of children darting between the wheels, but his voice was drowned out by the rhythmic clack-clack of a weaver’s loom nearby and the constant, high-pitched haggling of the stalls.
Every few dozen paces, the noise dipped, not out of peace, but out of a sudden, practiced caution.
Stationed at the intersections and the mouths of the alleyways were the City Watch. Clad in leather cuirasses and crested bronze helms that caught the midday sun, they stood like iron statues. Their hands rested perpetually on the pommels of their short swords, their eyes scanning the crowd with a predator’s stillness. They weren’t just looking for thieves; they were looking for dissent. Under the rule of King Kuar, the peace was maintained with a sharp edge.
In the shadows of the colonnades, where the wealthy draped in fine linen tunics sought shade, the atmosphere shifted. Here, the desperate and the talented performed a frantic dance of survival.
A trio of acrobats flipped over the dusty stones, their bones snapping into unnatural shapes to the beat of a hand drum. Nearby, a poet with a voice like honey tried to catch the eye of a passing magistrate.
“A verse for your lineage, Noble One?” the poet called out, bowing low while his eyes remained sharply focused on the magistrate’s heavy coin purse. “A song of the Bruu’s glory to grace your evening feast? Only three silver marks for a performance that would make the House of Getti weep with envy!”
The magistrate didn’t look back, but the poet didn’t stop. He simply turned his smile to the next person with a clean tunic. In Aldor, the walls kept the enemies out, but the streets reminded everyone that inside, you either provided a service or you were stepped on.
Above it all, looming on the highest hill of the city, the palace of the House of Bruu watched, a silent, marble reminder that while the people traded and danced, the power lived in the stone.
The sea of commoners parted before the steady trot of a chestnut stallion. Its rider, Bhusa, sat with the practiced ease of a man born to the saddle. He wore a simple breastplate of polished bronze over a deep crimson tunic, the colours of the House of Bruu, and though he was the King’s nephew, he rode without a heavy escort. In these streets, anonymity was a better tool than a phalanx.
From his vantage point, the city was a tapestry of movement, but Bhusa wasn’t looking at the goods for sale. His eyes, sharp and restless, flicked from face to face, searching for the “Manhui gait”, that subtle, arrogant stride of a person who thinks they are the masters of the world, even when dressed in a beggar’s rags.
“You there,” Bhusa called out, pulling his horse to a halt near a fire-breather who had just sent a plume of orange flame into the air.
The performer, a man with soot-stained cheeks, dropped to a knee, his eyes wide. “My Lord. Does the flame please the House of Bruu?”
“The King hosts a dinner for his generals tonight,” Bhusa said, his voice carrying the calm weight of authority. “He has a fondness for the spectacular. Be at the palace gates by sunset. Tell the guard Bhusa sent you. If you don’t singe the tapestries, you’ll be paid in silver.”
The man stammered his thanks, but Bhusa was already moving on. His mind was elsewhere.
Behind a stall selling dried figs and olives, three men were huddled. They wore the rough linen of traveling salt-traders, but their hands were too clean, their fingernails devoid of the grit that comes from hauling sacks across the confederacy. More importantly, they weren’t looking at the buyers; they were watching the path toward the military barracks.
Bhusa leaned forward, patting his horse’s neck to hide the way his gaze lingered on them.
Manhui, he thought, a cold tightness forming in his chest. Getti dogs.
The House of Getti sat on the throne of the Confederacy in Manhui, but their hunger for control was never sated. They didn’t trust King Kuar, and they certainly didn’t like the way Aldor’s walls were being reinforced. These “traders” were likely measuring the thickness of the gates or counting the shifts of the watch.
He nudged his horse closer to the stall, his expression shifting into one of bored nobility.
“Salt-man!” Bhusa barked, causing the three men to jump.
One of the men stepped forward, bowing a fraction too late. “Yes, Excellency? Fine salt from the southern flats?”
Bhusa noticed the accent immediately, the clipped, rhythmic vowels of the capital. He lingered on the man’s face, memorizing the scar on his temple and the way his hand instinctively twitched toward a hidden blade at his belt.
“The King’s kitchens find the southern salt… bitter,” Bhusa said, a thin, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “I prefer the salt from the coast. Tell your masters in the north that if they wish to sell their wares in Aldor, they should learn to blend in better. The air here doesn’t suit everyone.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He kicked his horse into a brisk walk, feeling the weight of their stares on his back. He had confirmed what he needed to know: the shadows of Manhui were lengthening within his uncle’s walls.
The transition from the sweltering, grit-choked streets to the Palace of the Bruu was like stepping from a forge into a cold stream. The air here was still, smelling of polished stone and the faint, citrus scent of expensive oils.
Bhusa dismounted in the lower courtyard, tossing the reins to a stable hand without a word. He didn’t stop to beat the dust from his cloak; the urgency in his chest wouldn’t allow for vanity. He climbed the wide, marble stairs of the Great Hall, his boots echoing against the high vaulted ceilings where murals depicted the first Bruu kings taming the wild lands of Aldor.
The Upper Court was a place of whispers. Titled lords and advisors stood in clusters near the towering columns, but they fell silent as Bhusa marched past. They knew his face, and more importantly, they knew his purpose: he was the King’s eyes where the King could not go.
At the far end, seated on a high-backed chair of carved cedar and ivory, was King Kuar. He was a man who looked like the very foundation of the city, broad-shouldered, with a beard streaked with silver and eyes that seemed to weigh the soul of anyone who entered his presence.
“Bhusa,” Kuar said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the court’s ambient murmurs. He didn’t wait for his nephew to bow fully. He saw the tension in the younger man’s jaw. “Walk with me.”
The King rose, his heavy purple-bordered toga trailing behind him, and led Bhusa away from the prying ears of the court toward the grand balcony.
They stepped out into the open air. From this height, Aldor looked like a mosaic of terracotta roofs and white stone, stretching out toward the horizon where the great gates stood. The wind whipped at their hair, carrying the distant hum of the marketplace below.
Kuar leaned his large hands on the stone balustrade, looking out over his kingdom. “The city looks peaceful from up here,” he murmured. “Deceptively so.”
“The peace is a mask, Uncle,” Bhusa said, stepping up beside him. He kept his voice low, his eyes scanning the nearby curtains to ensure no servants were lingering. “I found three of them near the barracks today. Posing as salt-traders from the south.”
Kuar didn’t turn, but Bhusa saw his knuckles whiten against the stone. “The Getti are not known for their subtlety. Did they see you?”
“I made sure they did,” Bhusa replied. “I wanted them to know that Aldor is not as blind as the House of Getti hopes. Their accents were pure Manhui, the high, sharp vowels of the capital. They weren’t here for trade, Uncle. They were measuring the distance between the gates and the garrison.”
Kuar let out a heavy sigh, the sound of a man who had spent years playing a game he was tired of. “The Confederacy is a cage, Bhusa. The House of Getti holds the key, but they are terrified we are learning how to pick the lock. If they find proof we are bolstering our defences beyond the High King’s decree, they won’t just send spies. They will send legions.”
“They are already here,” Bhusa pressed, his voice tight with frustration. “Under our eaves, at our tables, watching our grain stores. How long do we let them shadow us before we strike back?”
Kuar finally turned, his expression a mix of affection and grim warning. “We strike when the steel is hot, not when we are merely angry. Continue your search. Hire your performers, make the palace look like a den of hedonism and distraction. Let the spies report that the House of Bruu is obsessed with wine and song.”
He looked back at the city. “But keep your blade sharp, nephew. If you find a spy who has seen too much, make sure they never return to Manhui to tell the tale.”
Kuar didn’t step away from the balustrade. He gestured with a gold-ringed hand toward the eastern horizon, where the silver ribbon of the Benu River wound through the valley, dotted with the white sails of merchant galleys.
“Look at the river, Bhusa,” Kuar said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, conspiratorial whisper. “The Benu is the throat of this entire Confederacy. Every time a crate of Aldorian grain or a barrel of our salted fish moves toward the capital, the House of Getti grows fatter. A full third of the revenue that sustains the six kingdoms flows through our gates.”
He turned to his nephew, his eyes searching. “We are the bank of the world. But do you know what happens to a man who holds all the gold but cannot hold a sword?”
“He becomes a target,” Bhusa answered instantly.
“Worse,” Kuar corrected. “He becomes a slave. We need the Confederacy, Bhusa. We need the Manhui legions to guard our borders from the northern barbarians. We have the coin, but they have the steel. It is a marriage of necessity, and like all such marriages, it is built on a foundation of resentment.”
He paced the length of the balcony, the Roman-style tiles clicking under his sandals.
“The House of Getti is not blind. They know that wealth is the parent of ambition. They watch us because they fear the day we decide we no longer need their protection. They keep our standing army capped at a fraction of theirs by treaty. They monitor our smithies. They count our horses.”
Bhusa frowned. “And yet, you are having me scout for spies while we build our own strength in the dark. If they find the hidden garrison in the Iron Hills…”
“They won’t,” Kuar interrupted, his gaze turning sharp. “Because to the world, the House of Bruu is a house of merchants and gluttons. When the Getti envoys come, we show them our counting houses and our banquet halls. We play the part of the wealthy, soft provincial lords. We pay our taxes with a smile and a bow.”
He leaned in closer, his hand gripping Bhusa’s shoulder with surprising strength.
“Our strength must be like a dagger hidden in a silk sleeve. It is only useful if no one knows it is there until it is already at the throat. If the Getti suspect we are building a force capable of standing alone, they will evoke the ‘Confederacy Pact’ and raze this city to the ground before we can draw a single breath of independence.”
Bhusa looked back out at the bustling city, seeing it now not just as a home, but as a giant, gilded stage. “So, the street performers… the dinner tonight… it’s all theatre.”
“Everything is theatre, nephew,” Kuar said with a grim smile. “Now, go. Ensure the dinner is lavish. Ensure the wine flows. And ensure those spies see exactly what I want them to see: a King who cares more for his belly than his borders.”
The heavy atmosphere of political strategy was softened by the rhythmic clink-clink of gold bangles. Queen Sarina stepped onto the balcony, her presence acting like a cooling breeze against the heat of the afternoon.
She was draped in a stola of the finest iridescent silk, dyed a deep, shimmering teal that mirrored the Benu River at twilight. Her dark hair was coiled in an intricate Romanesque weave, held in place by pins tipped with pearls. She glided, her movements possessing a grace that made the harsh marble of the palace seem softer.
“The sun is high, and my husband’s brow is furrowed,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “A dangerous combination for the peace of the household.”
Bhusa immediately straightened, dipping his head in a respectful bow. “My Queen. We were merely… discussing the river traffic.”
Sarina reached Kuar’s side, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She looked at Bhusa with a knowing, playful tilt of her head. “Is that what we call the Getti’s shadows now? ‘River traffic’?”
Bhusa cleared his throat, a faint smile touching his lips. He knew better than to think anything stayed hidden from the Queen. “I believe I have duties in the lower court to attend to. By your leave, Uncle. My Queen.”
With a final nod, Bhusa turned and retreated into the cool shadows of the palace, leaving the royal couple alone.
Kuar placed his large hand over Sarina’s, his rough skin a stark contrast to her porcelain smoothness. He let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders visibly draining. “You always did have a habit of hearing the things I don’t say aloud, Sarina.”
“It is because you breathe differently when you are thinking of Manhui,” she replied, stepping closer so she could look out over the city with him. “Your heart beats for Aldor, but your mind is always trapped in the Getti’s courts. You’re wondering if the wine we serve tonight will be too expensive, or just expensive enough to make them think we are fools.”
Kuar looked at her, his eyes filled with an uncharacteristic softness, an adoration he reserved only for her. “And what does the cleverest woman in the six kingdoms think? Are we being too obvious with our theatre?”
Sarina leaned her head against his shoulder; her eyes fixed on the Great Gate. “The Getti expect a merchant king to be vain. So, give them vanity. But remember, Kuar, even a peacock has spurs. If you play the fool too well, they might forget to fear you entirely. And a predator who doesn’t fear his prey becomes careless.”
She turned in his arms, her gaze locking onto his with a boldness that few men in the kingdom would dare. “Tonight, let them see the gold. Let them see the wine. But when you look at the envoys, make sure they see a man who is counting the cost of their lives, not just his grain.”
Kuar chuckled, a low, rich sound, and leaned down to press his forehead against hers. “I pity the House of Getti. They think they are the masters of the world, and yet they have no idea that the real power in this Confederacy is standing on a balcony in Aldor, wearing silk and pearls.”
“Good,” she whispered, a sharp, intelligent glint in her eyes. “Let them revel in their legions. We will have our secrets.”
