Chapter 1: The Dungeon’s Chosen

As the notorious and ruthless Eldest Princess—

People for Da Sarki kingdom still dey fear my name pass hot pepper. Palace servants dey whisper, "That one, na real wahala. If she call you, no look back, just dey run!" Even my mother’s friends go gather for market square to gossip: "Na so that her first daughter carry spirit of iron—who wan marry am sef?" I just dey wave all of them. The power wey I hold no be small. If I cough, the whole court go freeze. If I vex, even the palace guards go adjust their wrapper sharp sharp.

I picked the fiercest man-servant from inside the iron cage, the one wey get the kind of leather muzzle hunters use for wild dogs in the North strapped to his face. I was ready to enjoy myself.

But as I step forward, body wrapped in royal red asoke with gold embroidery, I remember my mother warning me: "No ever trust desert men, their heart dey run wild like harmattan fire." The memory flash, but I push am aside—my stubbornness no dey allow me change mind. I double down, step closer. I hear the sharp clink of his chains. The other servants dey hide their faces, but this one, Garba Musa, no dey fear eye. My heart dey pump small—na real wahala I pick today.

Suddenly, WhatsApp status updates flashed before my eyes:

[Chai! Villainess big sis no dey joke—she just pick the enemy prince straight up.]

[No wahala, you fit chain am do anyhow now, but if that guy escape, e go bring thirty thousand horsemen come scatter your kingdom.]

[Villainess sis, abeg, e still get time! Try love, change am!]

As if dem dey gist for mama Chuka shop, my head dey swirl with all these updates. Even palace girls dey gossip for their group chat: "Eldest Princess na fire, sha! She wan taste that Garba Musa blood." The air for dungeon heavy like harmattan dust; the smell of old palm oil, dried sweat, and candle wax choke everywhere. Everybody dey wait to see who go break first.

I lazily flicked my koboko, lifting the man-servant’s tense, sharp jaw.

As the koboko touch am, some guards for the corner just suck breath. My own mouth twist small; this one go hot pass suya pepper. The soft lantern light dey bounce for the iron bars, making shadows long like the night after a funeral.

Let him conquer my bed before he conquers my land.

My mind dey race, but my face no change. This man think say na only battlefield he sabi? He never see bedroom war.

The whip in my hand get barbs.

This koboko no be play. I get am specially from one hunter for the North, e fit tear cow skin. For my hand, e dey feel alive, hungry for flesh. Palace eunuchs dey shift leg as I test the whip, dem sabi say if my mood spoil, anybody fit collect.

I dragged it down the man-servant’s solid chest, scraping over his Adam’s apple that dey move up and down fast.

The scrape loud for the quiet room—garri never make this kind sound. Garba Musa grip the chain tight, but him no beg. One drop of sweat roll for his forehead like small stream after first rain.

Finally, I pressed it against his strong jaw, forcing him to raise his head and look me eye to eye.

The air smell of hot skin, iron, and the oil dem dey use rub wound. His lips dry, but his eyes still dey sharp. For that moment, na only me and am exist—everybody else disappear like old gist.

I no go lie, Garba Musa na the tallest and wildest among all these servants.

From when dem capture am, palace dey restless. Even small children dey use him name scare goat for bush: "Garba Musa dey come, o!" E get one kind presence—when he waka enter, even cockroach dey hide.

Even with iron chains, he still bite plenty guards, so they had to muzzle him.

Dem talk say na when he bite guard captain ear, king order dem make dem lock his mouth. The muzzle dey tight for him face, but him eyes still dey sharp like blade. If you see the scar for his arm, you go know say this one no dey play.

Under the cold touch of my whip, Garba Musa shivered.

The man shiver no be small—na fight between pride and fear. The guard beside me squeeze his own staff tight, ready to jump if wahala burst. I smell his sweat mix with the dust and candle wax.

His bloodshot, wild eyes—like say na bush dog dey eye goat meat—locked onto me.

For that moment, my own heart do kpim, but I no fit show weakness for front of all these people. This one no be regular houseboy. If him no dey chain, palace for dey in trouble. Still, my own pride no go allow me show fear. I lock eyes with am, my gaze sharp pass razor.

You fit remove my muzzle, noble Eldest Princess?

He say am with one kain deep, hoarse voice, muffled by leather but still defiant. Guards hiss under their breath. Palace girls at the back dey whisper: "Na this one get mind."

His muscles bulged with scary strength, making the chains jangle.

If you see as his veins stand, e be like rope wey dem use tie yam. Iron no dey shame am. His skin shine under lantern light, muscles dey flex as if he fit burst the chain any moment.

This lowly servant even bend him mouth give me one wicked, dangerous smile.

Palace women wey dey peep from the corridor just dey giggle and whisper—"If to say na me, I for run!" Even palace cat sneak under the table. The kind confidence wey him show, na only people wey don fight for desert sabi.

I fit bite your soft neck break am anytime.

Even with all the palace people, guards, and chains, he no dey humble himself. The way he talk am, I fit feel small breeze for my neck, cold and sharp. For my mind, I dey think—if not for this chain, maybe na me for dey beg now.

As the Eldest Princess and regent, nobody fit challenge me—talk less of one servant kneeling for my front.

Na my rule, my law, my kingdom. My papa dey travel, leave all for my hand. Even the old chief priest dey greet me with respect. No man fit talk when I talk.

I raise my hand, no pity at all.

My hand steady, even though my chest dey heavy. For palace, if you show pity, dem go eat you raw. My own mother always talk: "Soft hand no fit feed lion."

The whip land hard for his chest.

The crack loud, echo for the stone walls. Garba Musa suck breath, but him no shout. Some servants for back cover face, one even drop his water pot.

Garba Musa’s chest rise and fall heavy.

You fit see say the pain dey bite am, but he no wan show weakness. Na pride and anger dey fuel am now. He dey breathe like wounded lion.

Red blood begin drip from his dark, hard chest, running deeper along his abs…

The blood dey bright under torchlight. For a moment, even I pause. Na hot iron dey my hand, but na real flesh dey break. I smell that metallic scent—reminder say all this na power game.

I narrow my eyes, suddenly I feel one kind thirst for my throat.

Power dey sweet, e dey taste for my tongue. I lick my lips. Palace dey watch. My mother’s voice for my head: "Show dem you no soft."

He dey wake that my urge to conquer.

Inside my body, fire dey burn. No be only for fight—na for heart, for spirit. If I win am, na my pride sure. If I lose, palace go talk say I don fall hand.

This whip wey I dey use tame beast—if e fit break ram, e go break you.

I dey think, if this koboko fit hold desert prince, who else fit challenge me for Da Sarki? Even the chief eunuch dey shiver small.

Just as I wan flog am again, more WhatsApp comments waka enter:

[You wicked pass everybody for this story, your ending sef bad. Na so you dey dig your own grave.]

[Villainess sis, wahala dey o. The male lead don hate you reach bone. Once he escape, e go pay you back a thousand times for tonight. Get ready for your land’s finish.]

[Of all the men you fit play with, na the fallen desert prince-turned-servant you choose. Try treat am well, use love change am like your goody-goody sister. Maybe your ending go better—or at least dem no go scatter your corpse.]

Even for outside, people dey gossip. My steward Sikiru fit hear am for buka: "Eldest Princess don go too far. One day, her own go reach." But who cares? Na my story, na my way.

I lower the whip, dey look Garba Musa, full of blood and panting with that muzzle.

For a split second, my hand weak. I remember say this man get story. Maybe e fit bleed, but e no go break. But I no fit show mercy—palace people dey look.

Desert prince, the main guy for this world.

Dem talk say his father get horses wey dey run pass wind. Even when kingdom fall, Garba Musa no beg. Na only men of honour dey like that. Palace girls dey dream am for night, but for now, na me hold his fate.

Garba Musa’s sharp, deep-set brows move small.

I notice, for all the pain, his eyes never lose fire. He dey calculate, dey plan. Maybe him dey wait for my own mistake. My heart dey beat fast, but I no show am for face.

The way he look me—like say he wan skin me alive and drain my blood finish.

If look fit kill, I for don die today. For his mind, I be real enemy. But power dey my side. I dey smile small, but my hand still dey ready.

WhatsApp comments still dey run:

[Thank God, our sweet baby heroine don show! She go pity am, rescue Garba Musa.]

[E go better. As villainess commot, our sweet baby go treat his wounds. The male lead get plot armour—he go heal sharp sharp.]

[Villainess na just stepping stone. All the pain she dey give the male lead go still return to her, and e go make him and sweet baby closer.]

[Once the male lead escape, collect back his prince status, he go bring thirty thousand horsemen for revenge. Da Sarki royal family go finish—na only sweet baby heroine go remain. Garba Musa go marry her as desert queen.]

The air choke, as if spirit dey pass. Even the torch for the wall flicker small. My body tense—dem dey talk about destiny, about fall and rise. Who go really win?

Before I fit react to all these spoilers for WhatsApp comments—

My half-sister, Aisha, another princess of Da Sarki, burst enter the dark dungeon, push everybody aside.

Her wrapper drag for rough stone, feet bleeding, but she no send. Even thunder for outside pause small. Her wrapper dey loose, hair scatter like she run from thunder. Her feet dey bare, blood for her toe. When she burst in, even guards forget their own duty. Her courage na the kind dem dey write for folk tales.

As she see Garba Musa’s sorry state, chained up, her nose turn red, she start dey sob with pain:

Her voice tremble pass harmattan breeze. "Elder sister, abeg, stop to dey torture am."

Aisha’s tears dey shine for her face. Even the stone wall dey pity her. One palace maid for corner whisper: "Na so soft heart dey win king’s love."

"If na to vent your anger or amuse yourself," Aisha bite her lip, raise her chin, stand brave for front of the man-servant, "let me take his place."

The guards hiss, surprised by her boldness. One even shake head: "Wetin small girl wan do for lion mouth?" But for that moment, Aisha no dey move. Her courage get weight, pass her slim body.