Lion Head Mesa there is a woman in Somalia

magui absorbed his words quietly, the truth of them heavy but not unwelcome. this was the shape of verapaz—duty first, families built on necessity, strength grown from the womb rather than the sword. she had expected as much.

still, her voice stayed gentle when she answered.

i see, she murmured. then your promise is to verapaz first… and the woman who bears your children becomes your wife. it is a serious duty. not one many men could hold.

she let that respect sit between them for a breath before continuing.

is serein well? she asked softly. pregnancy can be a harsh season for a woman. if she is unwell—or simply alone—I could look in on her. bring herbs, or company. whatever she needs.

the offer was sincere, not strategic—at least not outwardly.

and yet, beneath her calm surface, a quieter understanding twined itself through her thoughts:

before my season comes, I must choose my path. the man I seek must know me before he is bound elsewhere.

but none of this touched her face. she simply offered him a warm, steady look.