Chapter 3

The tent felt calm compared to the chaos outside. Shadows danced under flickering candlelight. Markos led Viessa inside. Hycis and Aien were already there, waiting.

They had set a simple table with bread, cheese, and wine. The smell of food brought comfort. It reminded them of life after the battle’s chaos.

Markos looked at Viessa. She was once his mother’s sister. Now, her face showed age and pain. He spoke softly, “You are not just a widow of the defeated. You are family. You are welcome to stay with the Bunga.”

Hycis stood nearby, offering a warm smile. Her eyes reflected kindness. “If you wish,” she said gently, “you may choose to marry again. We have strong, kind men who would cherish you.”

Viessa’s expression softened. The tension in her shoulders eased. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Markos nodded, seriousness in his gaze. “We will not treat you as Khabox treated ours,” he promised, his voice heavy with certainty. “We will not sell you. We will look out for you.”

Viessa nodded.

“Thank you, Viessa,” he said, sincerity in his voice. “But I ask for this.” He paused, locking eyes with her. “I need your loyalty. I need you to worship me as your god and leader.”

Finally, she replied. “If your intentions are true, Markos,” she said, “I will pledge my loyalty and worship to you. As your aunt and as a member of the Bunga.”

Her words sparked a gentle smile on his face. Hycis and Aien stood by, pride shining in their eyes. They were proud of the man he had become.

“Your uncle was wrong,” Hycis whispered. “You are more than just a warrior. You are a leader.”

Those words warmed Markos’s heart. He had never imagined himself as a leader, yet here he was. His own clan looked up to him.

He nodded, filled with purpose, and led the way out of the tent.

Under the wide desert sky, the Bunga clan gathered around a large bonfire. The rich smell of roasting meat and spices filled the air. Flames danced and flickered, casting warm light on the faces of the warriors. Makeshift tables held their looted goods.

Markos sat at the head of the table. Nearby, the widows of the Rukh clan watched, their faces showing fear and uncertainty.

Aien, Markos’s brother, took charge. His eyes sparkled as he directed the servants to serve the wine. This was no ordinary wine. It was a special blend, mixed with desert flowers. The liquid flowed from goatskin bags into wooden cups.

Servants moved through the crowd, heads down. They offered wine to everyone: triumphant Bunga warriors and trembling widows alike.

One young servant, Mura, served Markos’s wine with trembling hands. She had once been a servant to the Rukh but was now part of the Bunga. Her heart raced as she approached Markos.

Markos noticed her. His voice rose above, directed to the servants. “Take a cup for yourself. You are one of us now. You too shall drink to our victory.”

The servants, inspired by his words, took their cups.

Markos stood up. His wife, Hycis, was on his right. His aunt, Viessa, was on his left. The fire flickered, casting an orange glow on their faces.

In front of the crowd sat Jaskrot, the head warrior of the Bunga. His gaze was steady, unyielding. Beside Markos, his brother Aien stood.

The Bunga clan watched Markos. They admired him. Markos had a special way with people. He had embraced the widowed Rukh women. That revealed a great deal about his heart. It contrasted sharply with the harsh desert they all knew.

He began to speak, his voice carrying over the gathering. “Dear members of Bunga, today’s victory is not just about the fall of the Rukh clan. It is about our rise. We are the outcasts—the forgotten, the castaways. Together, we are one—a new tribe forged from the sands of adversity.”

He looked over the faces before him. Vuzembi, Zalameen, and Nariq were all there, united under the Bunga banner. “We are more than our individual stories,” he said, his voice growing stronger. “We come from different lands. But today, we become family.”

Hycis and Viessa nodded. The widows watched, some uncertain. Aien’s eyes shone with pride.

He raised his cup high. The essence of the desert flower sparkled in the firelight.

“This is not just a drink to our triumph,” he said. His voice was low but strong, carried by the desert breeze. “It’s a pledge to our unity. A symbol of our bond.”

The warriors nodded. Their eyes shone with excitement and curiosity. The widows watched closely. Their hands trembled as they took a sip.

Markos understood the flower’s power could inspire loyalty within his clan. The effects were gentle, creeping in slowly.

He stood tall and faced the crowd. “I only wish your loyalty. In me, you shall find a god.”

His gaze swept over the faces before him. Fear mixed with excitement and confusion. The desert breeze picked up, carrying his words across the camp. The bonfire flames seemed to lean in, eager to catch every word.

The wine took hold. The desert flower’s effects became clear. One by one, the widows stood. Their movements matched, as if guided by an invisible force. They knelt before Markos, cups still in hand. The Bunga warriors joined in. Their roars echoed through the night. They declared their faith in their new god-king.

Hycis watched, feeling the aphrodisiac’s pull. Desire clouded her thoughts. She stood, legs shaky, and knelt beside him. Her gaze never left her husband’s face.

His aunt Viessa and brother Aien followed her. The drug strengthened their loyalty. It felt like the desert flower cast a spell of submission. The widows, once afraid, now gazed up at him. Hope and desire danced in their eyes. A new light shone there—a spark of fierce loyalty.

As the night wore on, the women began to soften. The wine, laced with an aphrodisiac, stirred something deep within them. They giggled, whispered, and stole glances at the Bunga men. The mood shifted from fear to something more inviting.

Some widows and women took bold steps. They approached the Bunga warriors. Hands brushed against each other. Laughter danced in the air. The aphrodisiac had its effect. Desire flared up like sparks in dry grass.

Markos savored another sip.

He turned to Jaskrot. “My dear warrior,” he said softly. “You’ve fought beside me. Your strength is unmatched.” Jaskrot’s eyes glimmered with understanding. He sensed what was coming. The anticipation hung thick in the air.

Markos leaned in, a sly grin on his face. “Jaskrot, you have been my unwavering support. Your courage has no limits. Choose a woman as your bride.”

Jaskrot’s gaze fell on Thara, a Rukh widow. She had fiery hair and eyes like the desert sun. Earlier, she watched the battle unfold, her heart racing with fear for her children. But now, as the warmth of the wine enveloped her, she felt a pull toward the strong leader of the Bunga.

Markos watched Jaskrot lead Thara away.

Jaskrot’s hand rested on her lower back, guiding her to his seat. Markos felt a sense of relief. He knew Jaskrot would treat her well.

Markos gave permission to other warriors. They moved towards the women, their eyes eager with desire. They made their selections one by one.

Markos turned to the crowd. He raised his voice, filled with conviction. “From this day forth, our clan will flourish. We will face many wars. Our enemies will tremble at the mere mention of the Bunga.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. The atmosphere shifted. A smile crept onto his face. “But in times of peace, we shall also indulge.”

“Warriors,” he called, his voice strong. “The desert is unforgiving. We may lose our brothers in the battles ahead. The sands will demand more than we can bear. But we will not let the Bunga fade away.”

The widowed women looked up at Markos. Their eyes were filled with questions. He recognized their fears. He understood the struggles of being alone in the desert.

He paused, taking in the faces around him. Each one held stories, hopes, and fears. “For every warrior we lose, the survivors will marry his widows. We won’t abandon our kin to the desert’s mercy.”

“In times of peace, if your hearts wish for more, Bunga men can take additional wives.,” he announced, meeting their gaze.

But he had to be clear.

“This is a privilege, not a right. You must care for all your wives equally. Treat them with respect. Provide for them. Financially and emotionally.”

He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.

“If a woman wants to leave her husband, she can. Our clan will support her. She and her children will always be known as Bunga.”

Markos saw this as a new beginning. This presented them with an opportunity to alter their previous practices. This is an opportunity to prioritize loyalty and love above all else.

The widows, now brides, mingled with their Bunga husbands. The aphrodisiac had its effect. Laughter filled the air, mixing with the crackle of the fire.

Lovers found comfort in each other’s embrace. Markos watched, a smile creeping onto his face. His clan welcomed him. They accepted his claim and his vision for a new world.

The women were no longer just survivors. They represented the future of the Bunga. With them, their numbers would grow.

As the night went on, the clan bonded. They shared more than just victory. Markos pulled Hycis close. Their eyes locked. He whispered, “We will not just survive. We will thrive.”

Their kiss ignited with passion. It symbolized their strong bond.

As night fell, the clan members drifted to their tents. The soft moans of women echoed, expressing their joy with new Bunga husbands.

A couple of days later, under the cloak of darkness, the Vuzembi clan leaders gathered in a tent outside Khaod city. Tension hung in the air. The scent of burning incense filled the space.

“The Bunga’s victory over the Rukh clan,” one elder said, stroking his beard. “It’s more than just a power shift.”

The others nodded. They understood. Markos’s rise alarmed them.

“He called himself a god after a single win,” another elder spat.

The desert had seen leaders like him before. These were men who had the potential to pose a threat to their rule.

“We cannot let this ... god-king grow too strong,” another elder hissed. “We need to eliminate him before the Bunga clan turns into a hindrance.”

Silence fell. Each leader weighed the danger. They knew the stakes. The time for action was near.

The whispers grew louder. Anger flickered like candle flames in the tent.

“We need someone from within,” one elder said. His eyes were cold and calculating. “Someone who can infiltrate and do the deed for us.”

Silence fell. All eyes turned to the youngest among them—a cunning warrior named Burz. His eyes sparkled with the challenge.

“I know someone,” he said softly, stroking the hilt of his sword. “Aien, Markos’s brother.”

The mention of Aien sent a wave of surprise.

“How can we turn him?” another elder asked, doubt creeping into his voice.

Burz leaned back, a sly smile on his face. “We must offer him something he desires,” he replied, his gaze piercing. “Something that Markos cannot give.”

The elders whispered among themselves. They understood Aien’s background. His Nariq blood made him vulnerable. The Nariq were often enslaved, rarely seen in power.