Dawn crawled slowly over Do, gilding the stone rooftops and the surrounding hills. The light did not strike; it caressed, as if afraid to disturb the kingdom's measure.
Under the veranda of the House of the Ridges, Famory was already awake. He was sharpening not a weapon, but a silence. His gray eyes followed a bird cutting across the sky, and with each beat of its wings, the air seemed to align itself with his breath.
Below, a few young Donso were training. One of them tried to channel his Nyama into a short spear; the light bent, ricocheted off a stone, and died at once.
Famory did not need to speak. He turned his head slightly, and the simple tilt of his gaze silenced the clumsy ones.
"Nyama is not a fire," he murmured calmly, "it is a rhythm."
Everyone fell quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Djata stepped out from the learning hut. Vespera, still resting in its leather sheath, lay on a small stone altar a little apart.He bowed to it, not as one greets a weapon, but as one respects a presence.
Balla, sitting on a low wall, was quietly tuning his ngoni.
"You didn't sleep, huh?" he asked without lifting his head.
"I tried," Djata replied. "But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the blade."
"And what was it doing?"
"Nothing. It was looking at me."
Famory finally raised his eyes.
"That is already a lot. A Totem weapon does not speak; it measures."
The three of them left the city a little later, followed by the curious gazes of the apprentice hunters. They whispered among themselves: "The son of Niani... Famory is taking him himself?"
Rumors in Do traveled quickly, but never quicker than the wind.
They followed a steep trail that snaked toward the southern hills. As they climbed, the sound of drums faded behind them, replaced by the wind sweeping through the tall grass.
"Why is Do built so high?" Djata asked.
Famory answered without turning around:"Because here, we learn to see before acting. A hunter who only looks at the tracks often forgets the shadow of the wind."
The walk lasted until they reached a vast plateau swept by the breeze. At its center stood a gigantic kapok tree, its twisted roots forming something like steps rising toward the sky.
Famory planted his staff in the ground.
"Here begins your first step."
Balla settled a little farther away, ngoni on his knees, ready to translate the world's heartbeat.Famory placed the leather sheath before Djata. Vespera seemed to absorb all the surrounding light.
"Hold it."
"You said it had to come to me."
"And it will. But it must first know the temperature of your blood."
Djata grasped the hilt of the blade. The contact was cold, almost painful. A current shot up his arm, harsh, like an invisible bite.
He flinched. The blade vibrated with a dry, sharp sound, closer to judgment than to music.
Famory did not move.
"What did you feel?"
"That it wanted to push me away."
"No. It recognized you. But it found your step too fast. Nyama does not tolerate impatience."
Balla plucked three slow notes. The sound stretched into the air, then faded, swallowed by the wind.
Famory continued:
"Close your eyes. Breathe. Let your Nyama flow into the blade like water into the earth. If you force it, you will break it. If you hold back, you will lose yourself. Find the middle."
Djata obeyed. The cold of the blade became warm, then hot, without burning. His breathing grew steadier, and something opened within him, not a power, but an attention.
He felt the flow move from his palm to his chest, then down to his injured leg. Where the pain had built its walls, the warmth settled.
And suddenly, the blade vibrated. The golden lines of Vespera lit up one by one, forming filaments that pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
An image formed in his mind: a lion walking across a plain of ashes, leaving no trace, each step drawing a road of light.
Famory nodded.
"You heard it. Now listen to yourself."
But before Djata could answer, a rumble rose from the ground. Not thunder. A breath.
The grass bent, and a shape took form before them: a leopard of ash, made of emptiness and luminous dust.
Around the plateau, the young Donso who had followed quietly stepped back, frozen in place. One of them whispered:
"A Nyama beast... alive."
Famory raised one hand, and silence fell instantly. Even the wind stopped moving.
"Do not move, Djata. It is not attacking you. It is testing you."
The beast approached, its breath making the golden lines of the blade quiver.
Djata felt fear, but also measure. He slowly placed Vespera on the ground, the tip turned toward the earth.
"When water becomes clear, it reflects the sky," he murmured to himself.
The leopard of ash paused, then pressed its forehead against the blade. A vibration passed between them — neither fire nor ice, only truth.
Then the creature dissolved, carried away by a gentle wind.
Famory knelt, placing his palm on the ground.
"First step of the blade. You did not try to win; you learned to let your strength breathe. That is how one carries a Totem."
Balla plucked a clear note, long and pure. The world seemed to hold its breath before spinning again.
On their way back to the city, the young Donso observed them from afar, still shaken.
"He stood before a Nyama beast... and Famory didn't lift a hand."
"Because he didn't need to," another replied. "His gaze was enough."
When they reached the great gate, the sun was already sinking over Do. The Numu workshops vibrated, though no hammer struck.
Balla smiled, ngoni in hand.
"So tell me, Djata. What did you learn today?"
"That a blade is not made to cut, but to remind the world where it must stand."
"That will make a fine song."
Night settled over the city. In the House of the Ridges, Vespera rested on its altar. A thin golden pulse crossed its filigree, like a quiet breath.
And on the palace terrace, Famory watched the horizon. The northern wind brushed his gray braids.
He murmured softly:
"Babemba's living weapons never sleep for long. When the Mandé calls them, they awaken. And the Sosso... is already listening."