The morning after the storm, Lusaka felt like a city that had been scrubbed raw. The air was unnervingly crisp, and the red dust had been hammered into a dark, rich mud. At ZIA, the scent of wet eucalyptus was everywhere, but the "clearing" Zazu had promised felt more like a temporary truce.
Leya walked through the gates with her head held high, though her heart was doing a frantic staccato against her ribs. She was wearing a freshly pressed uniform, but she could still feel the phantom sensation of Zazu's forehead against hers—the weight of a promise made in the dark.
The school assembly was a sea of blue blazers and hushed voices. As the students filed into the hall, Leya felt the familiar prickle of eyes on her back.
"Look at her," a voice hissed from the back row. "I heard she stayed in the Music Block all night. Alone."
"She wasn't alone," another girl whispered, giggling. "The Prince's car was still in the lot when the security team did the 9:00 PM sweep."
Leya didn't flinch. She took her seat in the back, the cello case resting against her leg like a shield. She looked toward the front of the hall, where the prefects stood in a disciplined line.
Zazu was there. He looked perfect—his tie knotted with military precision, his face a mask of regal indifference. He was looking straight ahead, over the heads of the students, as if he were scanning a horizon only he could see. But as Leya sat down, his hand moved. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture—he adjusted his cufflink, a flash of silver that caught the light.
It was the signal they had agreed on in the dark. I'm still here.
The Headmaster stepped to the podium. "Before we begin today's announcements, I have been informed of a... development regarding the school's extracurricular register."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
"The Heritage Society has been officially reactivated under the 1992 Charter," Chilufya said, his voice sounding like he'd swallowed glass. "Miss Leya Kapiri will serve as Chairperson. Their first meeting will be held tomorrow at lunch in the courtyard."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush. Every head in the hall turned toward Leya.
Musi, sitting in the front row, didn't look shocked. He looked delighted. He turned in his seat, catching Leya's eye and mouthed three words: Game on, Queen.
As the assembly was dismissed, the social hierarchy of ZIA shifted. Students who had spent weeks ignoring Leya were now backing away from her as if she were radioactive. She was no longer just the "Exiled Queen"—she was a contender.
She was halfway to the library when Zazu intercepted her. He didn't stop to talk; he just walked beside her, his pace matching hers.
"Musi knows," Leya whispered, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. "He didn't look surprised by the announcement."
"He doesn't know about the ledger," Zazu replied, his voice a low, steady hum. "He just thinks we're playing a game of school politics. He's going to try to humiliate you at the meeting tomorrow. He'll bring up your mother's 'theft' in front of the whole school."
"Let him," Leya said, her British accent returning with a cold, sharp edge. "I've been practicing my defense for ten years, Zazu. But what about you? Your mother is going to see that charter signature by lunch."
Zazu paused as they reached the library steps. He looked at her, and for a second, the mask slipped. The "Golden Boy" was gone, replaced by the boy who had held her hand in the dark.
"I told you, Leya," he said softly. "The debt is being revalued. If my mother wants to talk about signatures, we'll talk about the ones she put in that blue notebook."
He turned to walk away, but paused. "And Leya? Wear the black ribbon on your cello tomorrow. Let them know you aren't just here to play. You're here to rule."
As he disappeared into the crowd, Leya felt a thrill of terror and excitement. The slow burn was over. The fire had started.