The night air carried a chill that seemed to seep into my bones, though perhaps that was just the weight of my thoughts. I didn't turn when I heard the familiar shuffle of feet behind me – there were few who would seek me out here, and fewer still who moved with that particular warrior's gait, slightly hampered by recent wounds.

"You're still alive, farmer?" Amadi's voice carried its usual trace of humor.

I couldn't help but laugh, though it pulled at my healing ribs. "Better than you are, king's guard."

He eased himself down beside me with a barely suppressed grunt of pain. The moonlight caught the fresh scar that ran along his jaw, a souvenir from our recent mission. We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, two warriors bearing the marks of battles fought in shadow.

"That poison," he said, rolling his shoulder with a wince, "still feels like fire in my joints some mornings."

"At least you can stand straight," I countered. "I still list to the left like a poorly built hut."

We shared another laugh, though it was tinged with the knowledge of how close we'd both come to never laughing again. The night sounds of the hill – crickets, distant owl calls, the whisper of wind through grass – filled the space between our words.

Finally, Amadi turned to me. "I hear the northern riders found her."

"News travels fast."

"In Nne Ogwu's lair? Faster than the harmattan winds." He paused. "You're conflicted."

It wasn't a question. I picked up a small stone, turning it over in my hands. "How can I not be?"

"Mmm." Amadi was quiet for a long moment. "Let me ask you something, farmer. When we fought to restore the Igwe, what were we fighting for?"

"Peace. Stability. The right order of things."

"And now the woman you love has the chance to do the same for her people." His words were gentle but firm. "She helped restore peace to your land. Perhaps it's time to help her restore peace to hers."

The stone in my hand suddenly felt very heavy. "By letting her go?"

"By remembering she was never ours to keep." Amadi's voice carried the weight of ancient wisdom. "She was always betrothed to another. We both knew this, even if we chose to ignore it. The gods gave you time with her – precious time – but perhaps that was all they meant to give."

The truth in his words stung worse than any battle wound. "Her people need her."

"As our people needed us." He shifted, reaching out to grasp my shoulder. "We chose to bleed for our land, to sacrifice everything for peace. Can we deny her the same choice?"

I let the stone fall from my hand, listening to it clatter down the hillside. "When did you become so wise, king's guard?"

"Probably around the same time you stopped being just a farmer." He smiled, though his eyes remained serious. "The ancestors don't give us easy paths, brother. They give us the paths we need to walk."

We sat there under the vast sea of stars, two warriors who had fought death itself, now facing a different kind of battle – the battle of letting go.

Finally, Amadi stood with careful movements. "Make a wise decision, my friend. One that both your heart and your honor can live with." He paused. "And remember – sometimes the greatest act of love is letting someone fulfill their destiny, even if that destiny leads them away from us."

I watched him make his way back down the hill, his silhouette merging with the darkness. His words echoed in my mind, mixing with the night sounds and the memories of golden eyes and shared dreams. Above me, the stars continued their ancient dance, indifferent to the choices that would reshape lives come morning.

The first light of dawn painted the sky in shades of sorrow – pale purples and reds that bled into each other like watercolors in the rain. I hadn't moved from my spot on the hill, letting the night pass around me like a river around a stone. The morning chorus of cockerels echoed through Abankiti below, their cries heralding another day that would change everything.

I heard her footsteps before I saw her – soft, hesitant, like she was afraid each step would break something precious. When I turned, Mairo stood there in the growing light, more beautiful than ever in her pain. Her wrapper, the color of dawn itself, fluttered around her like wounded butterfly wings.

"Have you made your decision?" I asked, though my heart already knew the answer.

She shook her head, tears welling in those extraordinary golden eyes. "I can't... I can't choose between my heart and my blood."

I stood then, ignoring the protest of my healing wounds, and took her hands in mine. They were trembling like leaves in the harmattan. "Then I will choose for us both."

"Orji, please..." Her voice broke on my name.

"Your people need you, Mairo." Each word felt like swallowing fish bones. "They need the daughter of the waziri. They need their hope."

"But I need you." The tears spilled now, tracking down her cheeks like morning dew. "I need you more than I've ever needed anything in this life."

I pulled her close, feeling her tears soak into my bare chest. Her body shook with silent sobs, and I held her tighter, memorizing the feel of her in my arms, the scent of her hair, the way she fit against me as if we were carved from the same tree.

"Listen to me," I whispered into her hair. "You showed me what it means to fight for what's right, even when it breaks your heart. You watched me bleed for my people, supported me when I had to make impossible choices." I pulled back slightly, cupping her face in my hands. "Now it's my turn to be strong for you."

"I don't want to be strong," she said, her golden eyes swimming with tears. "I want to be happy. With you."

"And that's why I love you." I wiped her tears with my thumbs, even as my own began to fall. "Because your heart is big enough to love both a simple farmer and an entire kingdom."

She pressed her forehead to mine, our tears mingling. "I love you beyond anything. Beyond reason, beyond duty, beyond the rising and setting of the sun itself."

"I know."

"I will come back to you," she said fiercely, gripping my arms. "When my people are safe, when peace returns to the north, I will find my way back to these hills."

I tried to smile, though it felt like my heart was being torn from my chest. "You don't have to—"

"Say walah," she interrupted, her voice urgent. "Ask me to swear it."

"Mairo..."

"Ask me!"

"Say walah," I whispered.

"Walah." She spoke it like a prayer, like a binding spell. "By Allah and all that is holy, I will return to you. This is not our ending."

I kissed her then, tasting the salt of our shared tears. It was a kiss of desperate love and desperate loss, of promises and prayers. Her hands clutched at my face as if trying to memorize it by touch alone. When we finally broke apart, we were both gasping, though whether from the kiss or from grief, I couldn't tell.

She buried her face in my chest one last time, her words muffled against my heart. "Wait for me."

"Until the hills crumble into the sea," I promised.

The sun had fully risen now, casting long shadows across the hilltop. Below, I could see riders gathering – her cousins, come to escort their princess home. Mairo pulled back slowly, her hands sliding down my arms until just our fingers were touching.

"The next time you see these eyes," she said, managing a tremulous smile, "they'll bring you only joy, not tears."

Our fingers finally parted, and she took a step back. Then another. Each step seemed to physically pain her, as if invisible threads were being pulled taut and snapping between us. At the hill's edge, she turned one last time.

The morning light caught her tears, turning them to gem stones, and for a moment she looked like something from a legend – a princess of the north, golden-eyed and beautiful, returning to save her people. Then she turned and began her descent, each step taking her further from my heart and closer to her destiny.

I stood there long after she had disappeared from view, long after the sound of horses had faded into the distance. The sun climbed higher, but I felt none of its warmth. Only the wind remained, carrying the echo of a promise: "Walah."

"And that was the last time I ever saw her."

I took a slow sip of the last palm wine in my cup, letting the words settle among my listeners. Thirty-three years had passed since that morning on the hill. In all that time, not a word had come from Garin Gabas or the northern kingdom. My audience watched in silence—some with tears brimming, others avoiding my gaze in awkwardness.

"So, you see, my children," I said, "love is like the river's journey; it may quench the thirst of a passing traveler, but it never turns back to fill the same hands. Cherish it while it flows through your life, for once it passes, only the memory of its sweetness remains."

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