Chapter 15: The Queen's Risk

 

The royal gardens lay silent under the cover of midnight, the only sound the distant chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of the wind through the tall grass. Zakhona moved like a shadow through the familiar paths, her bare feet soundless against the packed earth. She clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not against the cold, but against the fear of being discovered. At the edge of the kraal, where the royal grounds met the wild brush, a figure waited. Sipho. His broad shoulders were tense, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. When he saw her, his entire body seemed to exhale. "You came," he whispered, his voice rough with disbelief. Zakhona didn’t answer—not with words. She crossed the distance between them in three quick strides and pressed herself against him, her hands gripping the worn fabric of his tunic. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for the first time in months, she felt her lungs fill completely. "I couldn’t stay away," she breathed against his chest.They didn’t dare meet often—once every few moons, if they were lucky. Always in the dead of night, always in places no one would think to look. Tonight, it was the old grain storage hut at the edge of the fields. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried maize and earth. A single oil lamp cast flickering shadows against the walls. Sipho cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away tears she hadn’t realized had fallen. "Does he hurt you?” "No," she said. "He barely looks at me.” It was the truth. Zwelibanzi was distant, absent even when he was present. His mind was always elsewhere—across the sea, in a place she would never see. Sipho’s jaw tightened. "Then why stay?” "You know why.” Zakithi. The kingdom. Duty. The words hung between them, unspoken but understood. Before dawn, Zakhona slipped back into the royal quarters, her movements practiced and silent. The guards at the palace gates were half-asleep, their spears leaning against the wall as they passed a flask between them. They didn’t notice their queen slipping past like a ghost. In her chambers, Zakithi slept soundly, her tiny fingers curled around the wooden horse her father had brought her from some far-off place. Zakhona pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, then crossed to the window, staring out at the fading stars. No one had seen her. No one knew. But the risk was always there, coiled beneath her ribs like a serpent.