The morning sun filtered through the trees as Amadi and Rimi walked the palace path, her weaving tools wrapped carefully in cloth under her arm. The silence between them stretched like honey, thick with things unsaid.

"So," Amadi cleared his throat, affecting his usual swagger. "Ready to dazzle the princess with your foreign patterns?"

"Foreign?" Rimi raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was a properly trained Obiako weaver now."

"Ah yes, of course." Amadi grinned. "And I'm sure all Obiako weavers learned their craft in..." he trailed off meaningfully.

"In...?" Rimi prompted innocently.

"Exactly." He waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh.

They walked a few more paces before Rimi spoke again. "You know, for the head of vigilantes, you're not very vigilant. There could be dangers everywhere on this path."

"Oh?" Amadi's hand went to his machete with exaggerated concern. "What kinds of dangers? Wild animals? Bandits?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Beautiful foreign weavers who might steal a man's..." he coughed, "peace of mind?"

Rimi nearly tripped over her own feet, her cheeks warming. "I meant snakes," she muttered.

"Ah, snakes!" Amadi straightened, his voice too loud. "Yes, terrible creatures. Almost as dangerous as women who pretend they're looking at their weaving when they're actually watching men train."

Now Rimi did stumble, and Amadi's hand shot out to steady her, lingering perhaps a moment too long on her arm.

"I-I watch to critique your form," she managed. "Someone has to tell you when your guard is sloppy."

"My guard is never sloppy," he protested, then added under his breath, "except perhaps around you."

"What was that?"

"I said 'it's quite choppy'... the path, I mean. Here, let me carry your tools."

As he reached for her bundle, their hands brushed. Both pretended not to notice.

"You know," Amadi said after another stretch of charged silence, "I've escorted many people to the palace. Merchants, elders, even that herb woman who taught Ma—" he caught himself. "I mean, who came to trade with Mairo."

Rimi hid her smile at his slip. "And?"

"And none of them made the walk seem so..." he gestured vaguely with his free hand.

"Long?" she suggested.

"Short," he corrected softly.

Their eyes met briefly before both looked away.

"Well," Rimi said, her voice slightly higher than usual, "perhaps that's because none of them pointed out how badly you hold your spear during training."

Amadi gasped in mock offense. "I hold my spear perfectly! Ask anyone!"

"I've seen baby monkeys with better grip."

"Baby mon— Now you're just being cruel." He clutched his chest dramatically. "And here I am, nobly escorting you to the palace..."

"Nobly?" Rimi laughed. "You practically knocked over Orji volunteering before he could finish asking."

Amadi's swagger faltered for just a moment. "I... that is... it's my duty as head of vigilantes to..."

"To what?"

"To..." he cast about desperately, "ensure the princess gets the finest wrapper! For the good of Obiako!"

"Of course," Rimi nodded seriously. "Nothing to do with wanting to spend time with—" she paused meaningfully, watching him squirm, "—the palace guards."

The relief on his face was almost comical. "Yes! The palace guards. My good friends. Exactly."

They walked a few more paces.

"Although," Rimi added casually, "I did notice you only volunteer to escort me, never Mairo."

Amadi tripped over nothing, nearly dropping her weaving tools. "That's... I mean... Look! The palace gates! We're nearly there! Time really does fly when... when one is... performing one's vigilante duties."

Rimi bit her lip to keep from laughing. The mighty head of vigilantes, terror of wrongdoers, reduced to stammering.

As they approached the palace gates, Amadi suddenly turned to her, his face uncharacteristically serious. "Rimi, I—"

"Yes?"

The tension between them could have been cut with a knife.

"I..." he swallowed hard, then thrust her weaving tools back at her. "I hope you remembered all your patterns!"

Rimi's face fell slightly. "Oh. Yes, of course I did."

They stood awkwardly for a moment before Amadi added, "I'll wait here. To escort you back. For safety. Because of the snakes."

"The snakes. Right." Rimi straightened her wrapper and turned toward the gates, but not before Amadi caught the small smile playing at her lips.

He watched her walk away, then smacked his forehead repeatedly with his palm. "Snakes?" he muttered to himself. "Snakes?!"

Behind him, a palace guard poorly disguised his laughter with a cough.

Amadi stood in the shadows of the great courtyard pillars, watching as Rimi went through the ancient protocols required to see the Igwe's daughter. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest with each step she took away from him.

First, she had to remove her beads and adornments, placing them carefully at the feet of the protocol master, who examined her feet for any signs of disease or impurity. Then came the ritual washing of hands in the clay bowl held by two young maidens, the water infused with special herbs from the Igwe's personal garden.

Rimi's movements were uncertain but graceful as she followed the protocol master's instructions. The old man's face remained impassive as he guided her through each step, but Amadi noticed how the protocol master's eyebrows rose slightly – impressed, perhaps, by her natural dignity despite her common birth.

"Kneel here," the protocol master instructed, pointing to a specific pattern in the courtyard's intricate tile work. "Three times, touching your forehead to the ground each time. Then rise and walk seven steps backward."

Amadi's fingers dug into his palm as he watched Rimi perform the prostrations perfectly. He wanted to run forward, to stop this whole process, to take her hand and flee back to the simplicity of Orji's compound. But he remained rooted to his spot, knowing this was her choice to make.

The final test came as she was presented with three clay pots – one containing palm wine, another water, and the third, palm oil. The choice she made would determine how she would be announced to the Igwe's daughter. Without hesitation, Rimi chose the water, earning an approving nod from the protocol master. It was the humble choice, the wise choice.

Just before she passed through the huge wooden doors, Rimi turned her head slightly, her eyes finding Amadi's in the shadows. In that brief moment, something passed between them – something that made his chest ache with both pride and fear.

Then she was gone, swallowed by the darkness beyond the doors, leaving Amadi standing there, feeling as though a part of him had disappeared with her into the Igwe's inner chambers.

Amadi finally forced himself to turn away from those imposing doors, his mind still swimming with the image of Rimi's backward glance. He took one step, then another, trying to shake off the heaviness in his chest – and suddenly collided with silk and coral beads. The impact sent a cascade of tinkling sounds through the air as golden anklets shifted. His hands instinctively reached out to steady whoever he'd run into, only to freeze when he found himself staring into the dark, eager eyes of Nkili, daughter of Ozo Ibezim. She had positioned herself perfectly in his path, like a hunter setting a snare, and the shy smile that graced her lips didn't quite match the calculating gleam in her eyes.

"Oh!" The soft exclamation came with a deliberate stumble that brought Nkili directly into Amadi's steadying hands. She looked up at him through carefully lowered lashes, her coral beads clicking softly with the movement. "Amadi, what a pleasant surprise."

Amadi stepped back immediately, his hands falling away from her embroidered silk wrapper as if it burned. His thoughts were still with Rimi, disappearing behind the huge wooden doors of the Igwe's inner chambers. He managed a polite bow. "Lady Nkili."

"How fortunate to find you here," she said, adjusting her wrapper with practiced grace. "I've been meaning to thank you for the beautiful workings you carved for my father's hut. The egrets look as if they might take flight from the wood itself."

"Your father paid well for the work," Amadi replied flatly, already angling his body to leave.

But Nkili stepped closer, the gold anklets her father had commissioned from northern kingdoms tinkling with each movement. "I watched you work on it, you know. From my window. Your hands move like poetry when you carve." A slight blush colored her ebony cheeks, perfectly timed. "I've watched you many times, actually. Ever since I saw you."

The confession hung in the air between them. In another life, it might have been the beginning of a great romance – the master carver/village vigilante and the treasury keeper's daughter. But Amadi's eyes kept drifting to the Igwe's doors.

"That was kind of you to notice," he said, his voice distant. "But if you'll excuse me—"

"Wait!" Her hand caught his arm, then quickly withdrew when he stiffened. "I... I thought perhaps you might want to walk with me through the garden? Father just imported some new flowers from the far south, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on—"

"Another time, perhaps," Amadi cut in, bowing again. "Good day, Lady Nkili."

He walked away, never seeing how the carefully constructed mask of shy adoration crumbled from Nkili's face. Her delicate features hardened, transforming her beauty from something soft and inviting into something sharp and dangerous. Her fingers clutched her fan so tightly the bamboo creaked.

"Ehime," she called to her lady-in-waiting, her voice like honey over steel. "That girl he was speaking with earlier. Who is she?"

Ehime, who had been watching from a respectful distance, stepped forward. "From what I gathered, probably the new weaver, my lady. One of the common girls from the outer village."

Nkili's laugh was soft and musical, but it held no warmth. The fan snapped open with a sound like a blade being drawn. "A weaver," she repeated, watching the doors where both Rimi and her hopes had disappeared. "How... quaint."

The coral beads at her neck gleamed like drops of blood in the afternoon sun as she turned away, her mind already spinning with thoughts that would have made her father's treasury seem like a child's collection of cowries in comparison to their worth.

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