Chapter 32: The King's Audience

 

The great hall of her father's palace smelled of beeswax and aged wood, the familiar scent wrapping around Zakhona like a childhood memory. She knelt before the carved ebony throne, her forehead pressed to the cool stone floor in proper homage. Zakithi mimicked her movements beside her, small hands splayed against the polished rock. "Rise, daughter.”  King Mswati's voice had grown rougher with the years, but the command in it remained unchanged. When Zakhona lifted her head, she found her father's face more lined than she remembered, his once-black beard now streaked with silver. But his eyes—sharp as ever—missed nothing as they flicked over her travel-worn robes, the way Zakithi immediately clung to her leg.  "You return without warning," he said, fingers tapping the armrest. "Without escort. With only this child and dust on your feet." A pause. "Where is your king?” Zakhona kept her voice steady. "There is no king in Zululand, Father. Only a madman wearing a crown.” The courtiers murmured. Her father's expression darkened. In the private solar later, with only the crackling fire as witness, Zakhona told him everything—the deaths of Nkosana's children, the growing whispers of ancestral wrath, the way the new king's fingers had lingered near Zakithi's throat. King Mswati listened in silence, his gaze occasionally drifting to where Zakithi played with carved animals by the hearth. When Zakhona finished, he exhaled slowly through his nose. "So. The usurper has made a grave of his stolen throne."  He leaned forward, the firelight carving shadows into his face. "And you? What will you do?” "Protect my daughter," she said simply. Her father studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Then eSwatini is your shield."