Black Panther: Tales of Wakanda E-Book

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A ground-breaking anthology celebrating Marvel's beloved Black Panther and his home of Wakanda, penned by an all-star cast of authors such as Sheree Renée Thomas and Nikki Giovanni.T'Challa faces the gods of his parents. Vampires stalk Shuri and a Dora Milaje in voodoo-laced New Orleans. Erik Killmonger grapples with racism, Russian spies, and his own origins. Eighteen brand-new tales of Wakanda, its people, and its legacy.The first mainstream superhero of African descent, the Black Panther has attracted readers of all races and colors who see in the King of Wakanda reflections of themselves. Storytellers from across the African Diaspora some already literary legends, others who are rising stars have created for this collection original works inspired by the world of the Panther and its inhabitants. With guest stars including Storm, Monica Rambeau, Namor, and Jericho Drumm, these are stories of yesterday and today, of science and magic, of faith and love.These are the tales of a king and his country. These are the legends whispered in the jungle, myths of the unconquered men and women and the land they love.These are the Tales of Wakanda.Featuring stories by Linda D. Addison, Maurice Broaddus, Christopher Chambers, Milton J. Davis, Tananarive Due, Nikki Giovanni, Harlan James, Danian Jerry, Kyoko M., L.L. McKinney, Temi Oh, Suyi Davies Okungbowa, Glenn Parris, Alex Simmons, Sheree Renée Thomas, Cadwell Turnbull and Troy L. Wiggins.

Leseprobe

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover

Novels of the Marvel Universe by Titan Books

Title Page

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Copyright

Dedication

Introduction by Jesse J. Holland

Kindred Spirits by Maurice Broaddus

Heart of A Panther by Sheree Renée Thomas

Killmonger Rising by Cadwell Turnbull

I, Shuri by Christopher Chambers

Of Rights and Passage by Danian Darrell Jerry

And I Shall See the Sun Rise by Alex Simmons

Faith by Jesse J. Holland

Ukubamba by Kyoko M

What’s Done in the Dark by Troy L. Wiggins

The Underside of Darkness by Glenn Parris

Return of the Queen by Tananarive Due

Immaculate Conception by Nikki Giovanni

Legacy by L.L. McKinney

The Monsters of Mena Ngai by Milton J. Davis

Shadow Dreams by Linda D. Addison

Bon Temps by Harlan James

Stronger in Spirit by Suyi Davies Okungbowa

Zoya the Deserter by Temi Oh

About the Authors

About the Editor

Acknowledgements

NOVELS OF THE MARVEL UNIVERSE BY TITAN BOOKS

Ant-Man: Natural Enemy by Jason Starr

Avengers: Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Dan Abnett

Avengers: Infinity by James A. Moore

Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther? by Jesse J. Holland

Captain America: Dark Design by Stefan Petrucha

Captain Marvel: Liberation Run by Tess Sharpe

Civil War by Stuart Moore

Deadpool: Paws by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Forever Young by Stefan Petrucha

Spider-Man: Kraven’s Last Hunt by Neil Kleid

Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours Omnibus by Jim Butcher, Keith R.A. Decandido, and Christopher L. Bennett (forthcoming)

Spider-Man: The Venom Factor Omnibus by Diane Duane

Thanos: Death Sentence by Stuart Moore

Venom: Lethal Protector by James R. Tuck

X-Men: Days of Future Past by Alex Irvine

X-Men: The Dark Phoenix Saga by Stuart Moore

X-Men: The Mutant Empire Omnibus by Christopher Golden

X-Men & The Avengers: The Gamma Quest Omnibus by Greg Cox

ALSO FROM TITAN AND TITAN BOOKS

Marvel Contest of Champions: The Art of the Battlerealm by Paul Davies

Marvel’s Spider-Man: The Art of the Game by Paul Davies

Obsessed with Marvel by Peter Sanderson and Marc Sumerak

Spider-Man: Hostile Takeover by David Liss

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Art of the Movie by Ramin Zahed

The Art of Iron Man (10th Anniversary Edition) by John Rhett Thomas

The Marvel Vault by Matthew K. Manning, Peter Sanderson, and Roy Thomas

Ant-Man and the Wasp: The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Endgame – The Official Movie Special

Avengers: Infinity War – The Official Movie Special

Black Panther: The Official Movie Companion

Black Panther: The Official Movie Special

Captain Marvel: The Official Movie Special

Marvel Studios: The First Ten Years

Spider-Man: Far From Home – The Official Movie Special

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse – The Official Movie Special

Thor: Ragnarok – The Official Movie Special

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BLACK PANTHER: TALES OF WAKANDA

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781789095678

Electronic edition ISBN: 9781789095692

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First hardback edition: February 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING

Jeff Youngquist, VP Production and Special Projects

Caitlin O’Connell, Assistant Editor, Special Projects

Sven Larsen, VP, Licensed Publishing

David Gabriel, SVP of Sales & Marketing, Publishing

C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Special thanks to Wil Moss & Brian Overton

Black Panther created by Stan Lee & Jack Kirby

© 2021 MARVEL

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

This work is lovingly dedicated to our ForeverKing Chadwick Boseman

Long May He Reign

INTRODUCTION

AN UNEXPECTED GIFT

AS A child, I began constructing my Wakandan soul.

You see, one of my first comic books—if not the first—was a copy of The Avengers #177. Inside was a collection of heroes, some my adolescent and comics-obsessed mind knew, and some I didn’t. In particular, I discovered a soft-spoken man in black who didn’t have a magic hammer, an indestructible shield, or a red-and-gold suit of solar-charged armor, yet somehow was respected by everyone from the Invincible Iron Man to the Mighty Thor and Captain America. Even the issue’s villain noted how noble, how honorable, how regal this man was.

This was my first time laying eyes on T’Challa, the Black Panther, and I was hooked.

Here was a character who wasn’t a sidekick or assistant, wasn’t a Blaxploitation-style stereotype talking “street” character or wearing discotheque-style clothing, wasn’t in awe of the godlike white men with whom he associated. In fact, he was richer and more powerful than Tony Stark, on par with geniuses like Bruce Banner, Henry Pym, and Reed Richards, and was just as royal as Thor, Doctor Doom, or Prince Namor. Best of all, he looked like me! (Or at least what I hoped I would look like whenever I made it to adulthood.)

There, on the pages of a comic book, was an unapologetic, proud, intelligent paragon of Blackness, our personal King Arthur. In addition to saving the world alongside the Avengers and other super heroes, the Panther took on issues that we personally cared about, like the Klan, apartheid, racism, colorism, anti-Africa hatred. He walked the mean-yet-majestic streets of Harlem, and he called the most advanced country in the world—which happened to be in Africa, no less—his home.

From that day forward, I absorbed as many tales of the Black Panther as I could find, whether it was as a supporting character in The Fantastic Four, a member of the Avengers, the star of his own tales in the unfortunately titled comic Jungle Action, or in his own Black Panther series. Eventually he would move into other media in a 2010–11 Black Entertainment Television cartoon series, and finally the eponymous record-breaking movie.

Indeed, many of us have been constructing our Wakanda souls for years.

We know every twist and bend in Serpent Valley and the heights of Warrior Falls. We know his uniform is a kingly habit, not a “cat costume.” We sat with T’Challa and Monica Lynne as they bonded overlooking scenic Wakandan countryside. We cried when Bast blessed the union of Ororo and T’Challa, and we raged when the world wouldn’t allow them to remain together as they were destined to be.

We feared the coming of Killmonger, the one man T’Challa has never entirely beaten.

Our fascination with the character gave us a head start on Wakandan lore, and for a long time it was a relatively exclusive group. In recent days that’s changed. The Black Panther has joined the ranks of cultural icons, and we’re ecstatic that so many other people—many of whom had never heard or cared about the Panther before the movie—have figured out what so many of us always knew.

T’Challa is THE man, and we are Wakandan.

With the Panther’s ascension, many of us found the courage to define for ourselves who our heroes would be, what they would look like, and what they represented, not only to us but to the world. This is the true gift that the Black Panther gave the world: an opportunity to embrace his or her own personal heritage, each unique, each worthy, each distinctive to his or her own nation, culture, ethnicity, and even neighborhood.

Yet this legend is more than just a mythology told by modern-day griots around an electronic fire. Wakanda is more than the ancestral plains to which we may aspire, and T’Challa is more than a dream-king meant to inspire greatness. The Black Panther has long represented genuine change in the comic book industry, and a step forward by the men and women who crafted these modern-day morality tales.

*   *   *

WHEN STAN Lee and Jack Kirby created T’Challa, Wakanda, and the Panther mythos, they weren’t creating just another supporting character for a popular comic book series. Appearing in Fantastic Four #52 (dated July 1966), T’Challa was the first major Black comic book character to appear in a mainstream comic. By introducing him, they made a declaration—that all men are equal, that every man and woman could prove worthy of being a king, a queen, and a hero.

It didn’t stop there. In his editorial “Stan’s Soapbox,” which appeared in all of the Marvel titles, Lee proposed, “racism and bigotry are among the deadliest social ills plaguing the world today,” that we should, “judge each other on our own merits,” and not on the color of our skin, our gender, or religion, or any other artificial barrier that mankind has invented.

I don’t claim to know what was going through their minds when Stan and Jack came up with the Panther. (It feels right to call them “Stan and Jack,” instead of Mr. Lee and Mr. Kirby, given the sheer number of their comic books I devoured.) What I do know is that their work revolutionized the industry, and shattered a glass ceiling for comic books and all popular culture storytelling. The Panther was first, but in his wake came a whole new world. Other characters followed, including the Falcon (Marvel’s first major African-American hero) and Luke Cage.

With the Black comic book characters there came another world-changing concept—Black comic book writers and artists! They had existed before, as with the lauded artist Matt Baker of the 1940s and 1950s, and even George Herriman, creator of Krazy Kat, but few readers knew their ethnic origins. Suddenly we discovered illustrators such as Billy Graham, who worked on both Black Panther and Luke Cage, Keith Pollard, Arvell Jones, and Ron Wilson.

Black innovators became prominent in other media, as well. There were Floyd Norman, an animator for Disney, and Martin R. Delaney, author of Blake; or, The Huts of America, considered one of, if not the, father of African-American speculative fiction. Other such prose superstars have included the incomparable Octavia Butler, whose work opened the eyes of so many in my generation, Nalo Hopkinson, N. K. Jemisin, Tananarive Due, and Nikki Giovanni.

Back in comics, innovation continued as Marvel brought on board a pioneering African-American editor, Christopher Priest, who went on to write the Black Panther series. The great Dwayne McDuffie, my own personal griot and one of the first comic book writers I ever met, helped to found an entire imprint dedicated to African-American characters and creators. Their legacy continued through creators like Aaron McGruder, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Reginald Hudlin, and more.

*   *   *

WHY SHORT stories?

I’ve loved these characters my entire life. I’ve loved comic books my entire life, but I’ve also loved books and, in the early days, wondered why there weren’t more books that featured my favorite comic book characters.

In my mind, super heroes translated well to the printed page: great heroic characters, tragic situations, massive sacrifices, happy endings, romance, heartbreak, loneliness, despair and triumph, all wrapped up in characters who have a strong belief in the righteousness of their actions and the idea that someone should do something when a person needs help.

What better characters to feature in a novel?

But when I was beginning my reading journey, those books didn’t really exist. Oh, there were the Big Little Books, but those were baby comics and didn’t have enough story in them to satisfy me. (I came along before the easy availability of collected editions, and I still own my copy of the first Marvel graphic novels, The Death of Captain Marvel and The New Mutants.) I wanted more story than I was getting from the monthly comic books, and to me, novels were the best option.

This is actually how I personally started writing, because I couldn’t wait until next month to see what happened to Luke Cage, the Avengers, or the Black Panther, so I started plotting the stories for myself at home to fill the time in-between issues. And of course, being crazy happy when one of my ideas showed up on the page (Great minds think alike, I thought!), and setting my ideas aside when the writer and artists went in other directions. But those days sitting at home, coming up with stories around what Jim Rhodes, Sam Wilson, Misty Knight, Ororo Munroe, and other Marvel characters would do in the situations that I would put them in is still a fond memory.

And then the Distinguished Competition had its breakthrough.

I loved that first Batman movie with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, but what was even better was that after that movie came out, there was a line of anthologies that allowed writers to write their own version of Batman stories. They weren’t just about Batman, either: there were Robin stories, Catwoman stories, Penguin stories, and Alfred stories. This wasn’t just The Further Adventures of Batman, these were tales of Gotham, these were stories about the World of Batman.

I still have my three tattered The Further Adventures of Batman anthologies, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, here in my bedroom, dog-eared, tattered, well-read and absolutely loved. I consumed them over and over, and when I finished my own Black Panther novel, Black Panther: Who is the Black Panther?, I looked at those anthologies and thought back.

The 2018 Black Panther movie was just as or even more influential than the 1989 Batman movie. The Black Panther is just as if not more influential than Batman is today. Therefore, T’Challa’s world needs, nay deserves, the same kind of exploration in prose form as Bruce Wayne’s did, told by writers who appreciate and admire the world of Wakanda in the same way writers adored the world of Gotham a couple of decades ago.

And the idea was born.

*   *   *

IN YOUR hands you hold a first—an anthology of Wakandan stories told specifically by authors of African heritage who have been inspired by the Black Panther. Tales told in a variety of voices, revealing a variety of concepts, yet all coming from the same place—their Wakandan souls.

With this book, our goal is to take the spirit of what Stan and Jack started, combine it with what so many writers and artists continued over the years, and reveal the inspiration instilled in readers like me, who discovered T’Challa and suddenly felt connected with something greater. In these tales, we hope you find the passport into a world where African colonization failed, Afrofuturism rules supreme, Wakanda is forever, and the Panther stalks those who would threaten the innocent. Come sit with us around the fire, feel the arid wind and the unforgiving sun, as we pledge honor to the Panther God and her disciple by keeping their legend alive with some of the newest and most exciting talent to come from Mother Africa.

Somewhere, I hope there is a young child—like me—sitting alone in their room, learning that the world is a lot larger than he or she thinks. And that for them, with this anthology and Bast’s blessing, the first spark of their own Wakandan soul ignites.

KINDRED SPIRITS

MAURICE BROADDUS

WATCHING WAKANDAN people through a series of cameras and satellites is not exactly spying if they’re family.

Sort of. Well, maybe the whole idea’s fried. The thing about being a Dora Milaje—the royal protectorate gathered from various tribes for the Wakandan king and, well, his personal bodyguards (not that he needs either)—is that I have access to all sorts of technology and surveillance. Not that studying a fisherman ranks high on anyone else’s priority list.

Just outside of the Crystal Forest, home of the Jabari cult, an old man gathers his catch. Still strong and able, though he’s seen his share of days, he hops out of his boat onto the white sands of the beach and heads to his village. Passing farmers tending to their fields, that’s life in my home village.

One I couldn’t enjoy, because of the politics of who I am. Queen of the Jabari cult. Since T’Challa keeps the peace between the tribes of Wakanda with the chosen Dora Milaje, I’m a walking international incident waiting to happen. The spying thing probably doesn’t help, but this is the village where the family I never knew comes from.

Until recently, as far as I knew, I was born Chante Giovannie Brown. I gave myself the name Queen Divine Justice. Come to find out that my true Wakandan parents named me Ce’Athauna Asira Davin, meaning “the Peace of God.” But ever since I was sent away, I’ve known anything except peace. Or, for that matter, divine justice.

I pan the camera back toward the unspoiled Nyanza Bay and stare out at the water for a while. That’s when I see it.

A fish bobs to the surface of the water. Then another. And another. Soon, a hundred or so float in the bay, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sun. Not sure if this is a thing, I hesitate, uncertain of the protocol in this situation. This is one of those moments when I try to talk to my mom and dad. Anywhere else, I’d probably be labeled crazy, since they were killed when I was a baby and I don’t even remember them. I only have a vague impression of who they were. But here in Wakanda, they’re all about talking to their ancestors. Heck, I work for a guy who talks to spirit cats that date back to the dawn of time, so I’m in good company.

My gut tells me this is a spy vs spy situation, so there is only one person to contact.

“You summoned me, my Lady?” I recognize the voice before I turn around. Hunter. Also known as the White Wolf, chieftain of the Hatut Zeraze, literally “the Dogs of War.” Figuratively, he’s the head of Wakanda’s secret intelligence forces.

And the Black Panther’s half-brother. The king trusts him as much as Thor trusts Loki.

“I ain’t down with that ‘my Lady’ ish.” I fix my eyes on him the way I would any dude who cat-called me while I was trying to take a stroll minding my own business. That hard “don’t test me” stare flashes to bear like breathing at this point.

“Just showing the respect due a queen.” Hunter leans against the doorframe without a worry about getting the slightest bit of dirt on his perfectly white, perfectly tailored business suit. But everything about him is a lie. His suit is actually his White Wolf uniform made to appear as a suit, with the same advanced technology that allows him to sneak in here and pose dramatically.

That’s the thing about Hunter: he’s like the uncle that is always up to something.

“I can get with that.” I shut off my display. “Though I hadn’t actually summoned you. Yet.”

“Yes, you had, though you may not have realized it. Perhaps now would be a good time to caution you that when you use our defense monitors to spy on a restricted area, someone’s going to notice.”

“Okay, I kinda thought my Dora Milaje status gave me clearance. Anyway, I wanted your opinion on something.” I point to the fish clustered on the water. “What do you make of this?”

“A fish kill.” His wry grin betrays amusement at his own smug response.

“That much I figured out on my own.”

“What do you think it means?” Hunter’s eyes constantly size me up.

I hate how everyone around here treats every opportunity like it’s a teaching moment. “Someone’s dumping something they shouldn’t.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“I don’t know. It needs to be investigated. Maybe take it to the king.”

“This is nothing to bother the king about. He already mopes about in his malaise.”

The ever-present shadow of the king looms long, with few ever escaping it. No one ever wants to trouble him.

“Then would you check it out? Investigate and learn more? Those are my… I don’t know what those people are to me, but I’m protective of them.”

“Very well.” Hunter steps to the console and produces a series of holographic images. “In the meantime, I’m to brief you on the gala tonight.”

“Where’s…” I glanced about for my Dora Milaje instructor.

“This is a state function and a security matter. You’ll be escorting the king as he meets with the Chinese business delegates as part of the Build and Railway Forum soiree.”

“A… BARF party?” I yell louder than I intended. I can’t hide the snicker in my voice.

“Queen…” his voice trails in admonishing disapproval.

“Don’t get mad at me for calling it what it is. They spend all that money, and no one had an extra $50 to chip in for better branding?”

“I assure you, this is a matter of grave import to the Chinese. Their larger agenda involves building a railroad from Azania that will eventually extend to Narobia and Niganda, replacing the line built during British colonial rule. The better to transport wealth out of the countries more efficiently.”

“Cynical much?” My eyebrows arch, but I also have a resting skeptical face.

“Merely a student of history. Colonizers are like addicts.”

“I know my share of addicts. They don’t see people. They only see resources to be consumed. Once they have, you cease to exist and they move on.” Rotating back to the monitors, I see the fish drift to the shore to rot in the sun. “They dump whatever they want, destroying our rivers. Our quality of life.

“As long as we continue to be the object of their irresponsibility, injustice, and inhumanity, our entire continent and way of life is in jeopardy.”

“Welcome to the new colonialism: plundering nations with a checkbook.” I talk with my full chest now.

Hunter tilts his head like he’s surprised by my answer. “And the Black Panther sits idly by while it happens.”

“You could at least try to hide your resentment of the king.”

“It’s not resentment. I simply hate the lies and hypocrisy of Wakanda. I have one motive: to defend and serve the kingdom of Wakanda. And its king. I do the dirty jobs so that my brother and his father before him could keep their hands clean. And blameless.”

“You’re a white dude, trying to speak on our behalf.”

“I am the son of its king.” When he was a baby, the plane carrying him and his family crashed in an outlying area of Wakanda. T’Chaka, T’Challa’s father, adopted him. Hunter’s been sort of overcompensated on the loyalty thing ever since. His Hatut Zeraze are reputed to be the most loyal of the many secret services operating on behalf of Wakanda. Almost fanatically so. He never let little things like torture, assassination, and brutality slow his roll any. Which was why T’Challa eventually dismissed him. Hunter’s been slowly working his way back into his brother’s good graces, from freelancer back to player in the game.

“For a decade, I was the lone son of King T’Chaka and Queen N’Yami. Until T’Challa, the king’s biological son, arrived. N’Yami died in childbirth. T’Challa’s birth…”

“…and you lost your parents all over again.”

Hunter stared at her. “You have no idea what it’s like to be colonized within your own family.”

“We have a lot in common…” My voice trails off as I catch myself with the observation. I hate it when bits of accidental truth slip out. A moment passes between us, the communion of loss in the silence.

Being adopted into royalty doesn’t make up for being dealt a rough hand. I’m just as lost and lonely surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and power. Always struggling to fit in, to find my footing, to be accepted.

“You need to get ready for the gala.” Hunter shifts noisily. “You don’t want to be late for the gathering.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“No. My brother, the king, does not require me there.”

I understand Hunter giving this shindig a hard pass. People only knew of Hunter in relation to T’Challa or his father. It’s difficult to find your place in a family with a celebrity in it. Everyone approaches you interested only in your famous relative. It may take half a dozen questions before they even notice you exist as your own person. It’s got to be doubly tough when you are the older brother, and the younger is king. The favored one. The wanted one.

Without another word, Hunter activates his cloaking technology and fades into the background like an annoying ghost, remaining unseen.

*   *   *

LIFE IN Wakanda always feels like part pageant. Life as celebration, using any event as an excuse to showcase our culture. The drummers announce the entrance of the Dora Milaje, falling into rhythm so we can step in a choreographed dance, like Alpha Kappa Alphas on steroids. Though there’s something extra to it, like I’m tapping into the source of the very spirit of our dance. Only once our performance has ended do I settle down to business.

For once, it’s fitting that the Dora Milaje have me outfitted in my standard dress like a dinner party might break out at any moment. People look through me as I walk, at best cognizant of my position. A businessman approaches me with an appraising gleam in his eye. I wave him off with a snarl and my hand reaching for a weapon. After grabbing a plateful of those bacon-wrapped shrimp things, I withdraw into my thoughts.

China is the big player in Africa, while the U.S. still thinks of it as just one big country, too far away and too poor to care about. China sends delegates and corporate representatives to the capital of every nation in Africa every year to be hosted at a (I refuse to call it by that ridiculous name) party. All to secure various infrastructure projects. Over ten thousand Chinese firms are doing business in Africa.

None in Wakanda.

That’s why the surrounding nations from Azania to Niganda quietly resented T’Challa. Not that the king expected to be celebrated for ending Wakandan isolation, but as far as the surrounding countries were concerned, it was like growing up hungry only to find out your next-door neighbor had been gorging on burgers the entire time.

Then, without fanfare, the king arrives. I know he’s here the way you knew any cat was in the room. The way my bladder suddenly felt full as if I might be potential prey. An indefinable sense of presence. Watching you. Tracking you. Hunting you.

His black cutaway coat—with Wakandan patterns embroidered at each cuff and about his collar—has a regal drape. King T’Challa glides through the room like a shark unhampered by water. No, that’s not quite right. He’s free, in the truest sense of the word. No one here holds any leverage over him. No one can control him. No one binds him. Not by chains. Not by favor. Not by money. Yet there’s still a heaviness to him, like he carries the responsibility to his entire nation. When you’re king, the weight of the world rests on your shoulders—and he has big-ass shoulders.

“Why am I here?” Without heat, genuinely curious, I assume my position at his side.

“To watch. To learn.” T’Challa only speaks to me in Hausa, his default language of and that of the Dora Milaje. Any given citizen of Wakanda speaks three or four languages. At least.

I was born in Chicago. I still don’t know much Hausa. Even less Wakandan. “I need you to speak American. Preferably in the dialect of hood.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, practically a beaming smile for him. “Consider this a practicum in your study of international affairs. Part of your training as Dora Milaje, if you are to one day lead.”

Hunter’s warning flits through my head, but I need to bother a brother.

“King T’Challa, a matter has come to my attention. There’s been a fish kill at Nyanza, on the outskirts of the Crystal Forest. I… asked the White Wolf to check it out.” I close my eyes, waiting for the yelling about overstepping my bounds to start. At least, that’s what my life in Chicago taught me to expect. When it doesn’t come, I open them again.

“My brother is not to be trusted,” T’Challa intones, low and serious.

“What’s the deal with you two? If he can’t be trusted, why put him in charge of anything more important than toast?”

“He’s still family. He’s still loyal to Wakanda.”

His childhood—already constrained by being the heir to an ancient and unbroken dynasty—ended when he was about my age, when his father was killed in front of him. His life, all duty and sacrifice, measured in discipline, drive, and focus. I’m doing good to get my Corn Flakes in the morning. It might be the king thing or the hero thing or the inner teenage boy whose dad was taken away from him thing, but he’s closed himself off. Rarely letting anyone in, the man’s in need of a hobby.

“Good evening, King T’Challa.” Jiang, the chief executive officer of one of Asia’s largest corporations, sidles up to us. Though the king towers over a foot taller than him, the CEO of the East Asia Corp. carries himself with the confidence and unassuming power of someone used to being underestimated. “It is still ‘King’, correct?”

This jumped-up real estate mogul trying to be slick with his shade. T’Challa recently thwarted a challenge from Erik Killmonger. As part of his strategy, King T’Challa dissolved Wakanda’s political government and crashed its economy. One of his typically convoluted plans that pitted everyone against each other so that folks couldn’t see what he was up to. U.S. State Department liaison Everett Ross once told me, “If you learn nothing else about my client, learn this: whatever you think he’s doing, he’s doing something else.”

But like all actions, it had its share of consequences. He’s still technically king, but no longer chieftain. The way I understand it, the rule of law became tribal over political. One of the reasons I was brought here from my safehouse in Chicago was to quell some of the tribal council tensions.

“I am Wakanda’s king.” Though he spoke without a hint of annoyance, T’Challa’s voice always had the undercurrent of “Tread lightly or I’ll take grandmomma’s switch to your behind.”

“We hope to be Wakanda’s friend. The East Asia Corp. of course hopes only to help Africa stand by themselves.” Jiang’s face lit up, all warmth and charm. “Our government, and our business concerns, have always backed African liberation movements, since Wakanda won’t.”

“A velvet glove does not make the yoke of colonialism any less brutal. If you’ve come to exploit us, it only makes you someone new to resist.” T’Challa meets his eyes. It’s a dark and terrible thing to stare into the eyes of a panther up close.

Jiang takes a half-step backward. “We have learned much from the way of those who would oppress us.”

“That is the fear: that you believe that it’s China’s turn to exploit us. A new colonizer looking to grow its power on our wealth.”

Jiang presses his hand to his chest in mock injury. “Our corporation pursues a different path. After all, after the death of our founding father, our more progressive leaders chose to invest in business, science, and technology. Now we simply do business. We’re offering trade and aid. For example, we’re building a $1.7 billion-dollar hydropower dam in Niganda.”

Jiang leads the way to the center stage. With a hand flourish, a three-dimensional holographic rendering of the edge of Niganda appears. An ancient shoreline on the far side of the Nyanza. Once that image settles, Jiang overlays it with the image of the proposed project: a tourist park, residential area, industrial zone, commercial zone, tech park, art district, all terminating at the dam in progress.

“We want to turn the city into a high-tech hub. One of the world’s largest cities with the largest port.” Jiang all but beams with pride. “It’s all about responsible investment.”

“Responsible foreign investment is an oxymoron.” At the sudden silence, I glance around. Everyone shifts toward me. I had accidentally used my outside voice.

“Go on,” T’Challa says.

“When I first read the proposal, it looked generous,” I begin, hiding the quiver of uncertainty in my voice. “The deals and loans weren’t profitable for China’s Commercial Holdings International bank.”

“Why do we listen to the naïve prattling of a child?” Jiang’s umbrage sears as a visible scar of a sneer across his face.

“The way you talk to the youngest of our citizens is emblematic of how you see all of us. This ‘child’ is a valued member of my inner circle. The children of Wakanda are trained as leaders from the time they can speak. And are free to share their thoughts.” T’Challa nods for me to continue.

“But,” I emphasize the word for good measure, “when you read the fine print, should a country fail to meet the terms of the loan, Chinese corporations and, by extension, the government of China will control those projects for their interests. Outright.”

“The finer points of international commerce may be lost on you. We pay our fair share in taxes to the countries we do business in. Azania. Canaan. Narobia. Niganda. We promote African autonomy and independence because we need more trading partners. Again, we only want to be a friend to the hei ren.”

That means “black people.” The way he says it, I hear a hard “r.”

“Africa has no friends. Only exploiters. The history of empty promises and condescension from the West has made us wary. We know when we’re addressed as equals. After all, we, too, are a nation of banks.”

This is exactly why I hate political intrigue. There are simply times you need to just straight cuss someone out to their face. Speaking of, T’Challa’s face devolves beyond a poker face. Like he’s able to hide even his, I don’t know, spirit from me. There’s just a wall where a man should be. Ruling seems to be about managed paranoia. Calculating what your enemies are up to, even what your friends are up to, since everyone moves according to their own self-interest. An outsider can only know T’Challa from his actions, and even those are layers within schemes. A lonely place within the halls of power.

A flutter in the hologram draws my attention.

“Is this a live feed?” I ask.

“Yes it is.” Jiang relaxes, sounding entirely pleased with himself.

“My king…” I nod toward a shimmer on the screen. The slightest ripple, but to those who know what they were looking at, it’s the signature distortion effect produced by the way Hatut Zeraze’s cloaking technology bends light. Hunter. The king surely saw it, though his face didn’t betray a flicker of recognition. Then I wonder if I was supposed to alert anyone to it at all, and curse my big mouth. Jiang squints, but he doesn’t know what to look for.

“If one of your operatives sabotages our work,” the businessman blusters, his assumptions filling in the blanks of what he can’t see, “we will hold you personally responsible.”

“As a measure of our commitment to building our relationship, I will personally see to any rogue elements of my kingdom.”

“No.” A heightened measure of alarm fills Jiang’s voice. “We will see it as an intrusion of our sovereignty.”

“And, yet, you have no standing here. Niganda is not your nation.”

“Nor yours.” Jiang straightens his suit as if unruffled. The elephant crapping in the pool being that Niganda is a kleptocracy on its best day. Its loyalty bought by whoever has the largest check at the moment. “Besides, we have sensitive corporate intelligence issues in play here. We would not want to put Your Highness in a position to be accused of espionage.”

“If there are any rogue elements, I shall gather them before anyone is compromised.”

“Your Highness, there is simply no need. We…” Jiang’s voice trails off as he considers his words. It must be important, because he usually flows with no kind of filter. “Such an egregious trespass will not be tolerated. You’ll be wise not to meddle in our business affairs.”

“This was not a request.” T’Challa whirls on his heel with the ease and power of a hurricane changing course. Pity any who got in his way.

*   *   *

“WHERE TO?” Preparing to punch coordinates into the Talon, a Wakandan stealth jet, I glance back toward the king.

“To the Nigandan site, Beloved.” T’Challa’s suit transforms, his jacket fading into the ceremonial vestments of his tribal rank. ’Cause, seriously, who was going to take that suit from him. Vibranium soles. Energy daggers. Built-in night vision. Claws made of anti-metal, a Vibranium alloy that destabilizes the molecular structure of other metal it comes in contact with. No longer chieftain in title, he was still the Black Panther.

And he must mean business, because he’s not wearing the cape.

(I’m not one to judge another’s drip, but I never felt the cape.)

He focuses his scrutiny on me. I don’t know if it’s the odd tilt of his head or what, but it’s like his steady gaze takes in the entirety of who I am. “What’s troubling you?”

I hate it when he does that, like a doctor diagnosing you before you’re ready to admit that you’re sick. “How many Wakandans are out there as part of the Diaspora?”

“None.”

“None?” Even my voice arches in skepticism.

“None of our people were ever enslaved.”

“I wonder what Killmonger would have to say about that.” I regret my words as they leave my mouth. “I’m so sorry, my King. I chose my words poorly.”

Funny how I get all “my King” whenever I remember he’s not the typical member of the long underwear club. He’s actual royalty. It’s within his discretion to order my execution as a matter of state. I might slip and catch a case for treason. No, that’s not what fuels it. It’s more that I am reminded of the fundamental respect I have for the man. The title comes along for the ride, but it’s the man I never want to disappoint. Or hurt.

“Say your piece, Beloved,” his tone gentle and inviting.

Flying over mud hut villages with thatched roofs, coconut groves along the beach, reminds me how close we are to the villages of the Crystal Forest.

“It’s just that while even Ghana welcomes those of us from the Diaspora home, it feels like Wakanda has turned its back on us.” I feel myself getting heated. Like all the years away from my tribe, hidden away in Chicago—all the things I’d seen, all the moments I lost—bubble up as… anger. “What have you invested in your brothers and sisters? I shouldn’t have to convince you that all Black lives matter.”

For what felt like years, silence sits between us.

“Did I offend you, my King?” I am so conscious of my words I tread extra lightly.

“I read your assessment regarding the banking deal.” His voice as inscrutable as his face, he taps his Kimoyo card. “Kimoyo” is Bantu for “of the spirit” and is the name of the Wakandan tech that works like a supercomputing tablet. “You have some observations. Remember, we do not play their game on their terms. I am adjusting your suggested protocols.” He pulls his mask into place. “We are almost there. Be sharp.”

The White Wolf skulks in the shadows of the castle remains. He’s plainly up to something I just can’t tell from up here. T’Challa doesn’t wait for me to land. He opens the Talon’s window above him and leaps out. With no parachute.

I’d like to say that I’m used to this sort of action, but my heart nearly squeezes my throat shut. I know enough not to cry out in concern, and search for the nearest landing spot instead.

Though I manage to land ahead of him, he passes me without acknowledgement. The wind blows through the leaves like the whispers of ghosts, louder than any sound marking his passage. The scariest thing about T’Challa when he’s in Black Panther hunting mode is his eyes. Unknowable black mirrors. Everything becomes prey to him, always stalking, always three steps ahead. It’s exhausting to watch, so I can’t imagine what it was like to live like that.

Fun fact: the Castelo de Sao Jorge de Mina in Elmina, Ghana, was the first trading post built on the Gulf of Guinea, the oldest European building south of the Sahara. It became a key stop on the Atlantic slave trade. It wasn’t the only slave fort built. Slave traders constructed the forts in the most defensible positions, fortified against pirates and other European nations they were at war with. The Portuguese demolished the homes of villagers to make room for them, the same way folks tore up our neighborhoods back in Chicago to make way for the highway.

One such fort occupied the bay on Nyanza.

A dry, double moat surrounds a huge rectangular castle along a rocky perch above a dam. A white-washed fortress, five stories high, surrounding a stone courtyard. The ruins of the inner façade of the bastions built from lime, stone, and bricks. From the remains of the towers, windows like empty eyes stare over the ground-level warehouses that once stored gold, brandy, tobacco, weapons. Below them, the dungeons. In the eerie silence, I can hear the wailing of my ancestors. People left to languish in those prisons waiting for slave ships to collect them. Their food passed to them through iron gates. No toilets. No bed berths. Only the small holes at either end of the ceiling for light or fresh air. Untold hundreds died there in the oppressive heat, left to an existence of terror, death, and darkness. Until one day, the fortunate survivors passed through an unassuming gate—the gate of no return—where they were loaded into ships, never to be seen by their kinsmen again.

In the slave fort’s shadow was the dam.

“Hunter, stand down,” the Black Panther shouts with the authoritative voice of someone used to being obeyed.

“My King, the last charge is almost in place.” Hunter doesn’t look up.

“Do not do this thing. This trespass is a matter of state.”

“Command me in all things, my King. Tell me not to reveal the truth and I will submit.”

T’Challa pauses an extra heartbeat. There is an unspoken language between siblings. The knowing nods and furtive eye glances. The deep nuance of understanding. But this may be one of those “better to ask forgiveness than permission” sort of situations. Hunter taps his Kimoyo card.

The entire courtyard trembles as a series of explosions erupt all about us. I cover my head and duck behind the remains of a tower. None of the explosions shudder near us, but rather along key points of the dam’s structure. Dropping the outer concrete wall like a heavy stage curtain. The water slowly drains from the lock within the bay.

“What have you done?” the Black Panther asks.

As the water continues to empty from the man-made lake, it reveals more of the cliffside of the fort. I’m not sure what I’m looking at. Machinery, at first looking like mechanized scaffolding until the entire picture coalesces in my brain. A warship, easily as large as a N’Yami-class mothership. A battle cruiser.

“That’s not all.” Hunter gestures for the king. “The station is stocked with experimental magnetic-powered Reverbium weapons. Ballistic weapons. Electromagnetic pulse-based weapons. It’s an entire first-strike operation for a private army. I suspect similar Chinese-built stations at each hub in all of the nations surrounding Wakanda.”

“This is why they are being so aggressive with their ‘aid,’” I say.

“Why didn’t we know about this before now?” the Black Panther asks.

“It was an underwater operation. I would need authorization for such observation without violating agreements with our neighbors.”

“But, Hunter…” Older brothers can’t help themselves sometimes. Like, no matter what, they have this baseline instinct to be protective of their younger siblings. I start doing the math. And eventually carry the one. True to form, I realize that White Wolf manipulated me to maneuver the king here. Probably sabotaged the system by the Crystal Forest on the Nyanza himself to lure me in. With the dawning understanding sweeping my face, Hunter all but winks at me.

“Your xenophobic isolationism was a dangerous provocation. We have to take steps to protect ourselves and our interests.” Hunter stands, his arms held out as he nears the king. “These Chinese corporations, and by proxy their central government, will use its African territories to fight the West. Establish a base of operations for future wars. A war on African soil, drawing Africans into the conflict.”

The Dora Milaje train in a variety of subjects, especially those involving human behavior. There’s a theory of thought called family systems that describes how when two people are in conflict, sometimes people triangulate. That’s when, rather than resolving their disagreement, they involve or entangle a third person in an attempt to avoid or diffuse their own conflict.

The Black Panther and White Wolf are about to triangulate the mess out of the Chinese.

“You cannot act in the name of Wakanda without my leave.” T’Challa raises his voice.

“You could have funded, even built, a clean-energy infrastructure. Propelled all of Africa, not even just our neighbors, past any other first-world nation. With reforms and opportunities in education and employment, you could transform entire developing economies. You squander your rule by betraying your own people.”

Anger is a gift. I understand because I’m like the Santa of rage. All that diplomatic training and big picture thinking has trained T’Challa to be a miasma of repressed emotions. Internal pain always comes out. Stuck in patterns, cut off, stuck in conflict, and played by politics, be it family or governmental. All those hurts, insecurities, slights, resentments, anger all welling up. Using their fists to sort out their feelings, everyone pays the price. In that, maybe the Black Panther is not so different from the regular spandex set.

“You… dare?”

The Black Panther never hesitates. He leaps into the air, going into full flip mode. Dodging. Cartwheeling. The way his body moves makes no sense. Clawing at the White Wolf, then diving away, not allowing the dude to draw a bead on him. I duck behind a pile of fallen stones.

Hunter skulks about the shadows, casually blasting away like that’s what people do. He strikes without a sound, noiselessly passing with brutal efficiency. Every bit the king’s rival. And brother.

“Y’all can’t just hug this ish out?” I scream over the weapons fire.

One of the White Wolf’s blasts ruptures a pipe of some sort. There’s another explosion. Smoke fills the spot where Black Panther once was. My heart can’t help but pause worrying after him. King or no, he is my family. Maybe the only family I have left. I suppose they both are.

Through the swirl a shadow moves. Faster than my eye can track, the Black Panther dashes from the smoke, and in a mighty leap lands a kick that sends the White Wolf across the room. Staggering to his feet, the White Wolf looks so lost. Like a dutiful son desperate to please a father who would never love him. A man in search of purpose and mission. Something to accomplish to fill the hole in him. A missing part of himself.

Like his brother, trying to be strong in a world that tears at that strength. Not wanting them to be great.

I love T’Challa, I really do, but he has the emotional intelligence of a goldfish. It occurs to me that maybe one of the reasons he went to America, to eventually join the Avengers, was to become more connected, to learn our story.

“Stop!” As I come out from behind the stones, I raise my hands in a “don’t shoot” pose. “In all your time together, did you ever learn his story? Or were you too busy becoming your father’s son? Forgetting and leaving behind the man who was your brother. Everyone just wants to find a place in their family. Even Hunter.”

White Wolf continues to circle, but some steam has been taken out of his movements. T’Challa lifts his hand to stop him. Black Panther pauses, tilting his head again like he’s taking in every aspect of his brother for the first time.

“Sawubona, Hunter,” T’Challa says, low and measured.

Back in Chicago, I was in a summer program called the Sawubona Lab. The word is a Zulu greeting that literally means, “I see you and by seeing you I bring you into being.” It’s a beautiful way to say “hello.”

“Yebo, sawubona,” Hunter replies, the customary “yes, we see you, too,” but looks like a man trying to figure out a way home. “For a self-described man of peace, many of your conflicts end with violence.”

“Why do so many of your attempts to snap me out of my supposed malaise look like attempts on my life?” T’Challa asks.

“Sibling reparations,” Hunter says.

“Which are not a thing.” His voice as calm as ever, like he’s on a pleasant stroll through the park, T’Challa smirks. “Beloved, if you would deal with our friend, the CEO.”

My Kimoyo card dings. On cue, Jiang’s image pops up in all his holographic glory from it.

“You are encroaching on private property. Uninvited. Violating our agreements with Niganda. Guilty of industrial espionage.” His clipped speech builds up a head of steam.

“We had reason to believe that there were other… actors who might engage in military aggression. Wakanda does not interfere with the affairs of other governments; however, foreign corporations pitting allies against each other in a costly military conflict is a game we won’t abide.”

“We are cautioning you, Your Highness…” Jiang begins.

“Caution all you wish. We cannot allow such a gesture to go unanswered.” The Black Panther removes his mask so that Jiang stares into his eyes. “Beloved, can you illustrate for him what a nation of banks can do?”

“Yes, my King.” I activate my protocols… which T’Challa revised. He knew. Of course, he knew. It’s not about us. It’s about Wakanda. Always Wakanda first. Sometimes I feel like we’re all—me, Hunter, Jiang—always playing catch up with him.

“Through a series of international shell corporations,” King T’Challa begins, “the nation of Wakanda has purchased all available shares in the bank handling the financing of your deals. Enough to initiate a proxy battle for Wakanda to assume all African loans. At the very least, this will bog down this hostile incursion for years.”

“You really don’t want to see Wakanda flex,” I add.

“This…” Jiang studies his unseen screen. “You can’t.”

“This could all be a misunderstanding,” the king continues. “Elements of your corporation not informing other elements of such pre-emptive military escalation. No one should misinterpret our… restraint… as weakness. Our next response shall be equally… pre-emptive.”

“I am… shocked that I was not looped into such a military escalation effort by my underlings.” Jiang strokes his chin. “If I were to advise my board about how best to de-escalate the situation, what could I pass along?”

“That this installation, and all such first strike stations, cease operations. My brother will oversee this.” Black Panther nods to White Wolf. “Though you are encouraged to follow a course of rebuilding the infrastructure you promised.”

Jiang’s face acquiesces before his image disappears. Without another word, the White Wolf turns to find whatever transport he took here. T’Challa leads the way back to the Talon, but pauses. Without quite turning around, he says, “You should report to your home… the palace, when you get back.”

Hunter angles his head in consideration. And nods.

“Are you two good?” I ask.

“We are brothers,” T’Challa says. “We both serve the land of our fathers. Our home, now as it ever was, is Wakanda.”

Sometimes, with family, that’s as good as things get.

HEART OF A PANTHER

SHEREE RENÉE THOMAS

THE HERBS were dying.

An elder, Adisa, held a wilted, bruise-stained blossom in shaking hands. Black soil, thick and fragrant, rested in her palms. Dirt lined her nails, dark half-moons. The sorrow in her eyes matched the shock in T’Challa’s own.

He had not visited the ancient groves hidden in the great mountain since the shamans brought him there years ago. It was the weeping time when his father, T’Chaka, had joined the ancestors, the time when T’Challa had to prove that he was worthy to wear the sacred mantle, worthy to follow in the steps of the great Panther King.

The path of a panther was arduous and long. The prospect of the throne twisted the mind of his half-brother, Hunter, and tempted his best friend, B’Tumba, to betray him. Only T’Challa—the Black Panther—and his younger sister Shuri remained, but Bast’s favor created a distance between them. T’Challa had long been prepared for the burdens of ruling, but loneliness gnawed at him and now strange dreams haunted his sleep.

He stood in a barren field that faced the rising sun, then darkness fell down all around him. Huge stalks burst from the earth, imprisoned him in a wall of thorns. Covered in a thousand wings, he was no longer a king, a panther, or a man. He could not leap, climb, or crush. He could not see, hear, or breathe. When he opened his mouth to scream, he found the field was on fire, but the land was no longer beneath his feet.

T’Challa was ashamed to wake with the fears of a child. Though the dreams made no sense, he woke with something else, something close to clarity. Even before his father was killed, still arrogant with youth, T’Challa wasn’t sure if he could be king. And now, when there was no longer any doubt, T’Challa wasn’t sure he still wanted to be.

*   *   *

A DAMP, earthy scent filled the cavern’s still air. Faint green lights flickered across the darkness, with bioluminescent beetles and glowworms scuttling across the ground, leaving trails of breathtaking blue. T’Challa brushed his palm against the craggy wall, maintaining balance as he leapt down the treacherous rocks, each step as graceful as the next. His enhanced vision adjusted easily to the cave’s darkness. The sweet musk of cave moss intensified as the murmurs of the underground river echoed off high, jagged ceilings. Halfway there, he wound his way to the center of Mount Kanda, home of the Heart-Shaped Herb.

As one of Wakanda’s most sacred symbols, the rare plant was nearly as mysterious as Vibranium, the element that provided the herb with its strength and power. Together, the two secret resources had made Wakanda invincible to its enemies over the millennia. But while Vibranium fueled his kingdom’s economic and technological success, it was the Heart-Shaped Herb and its connection to the Goddess Bast that was the origin of the Black Panther’s most impressive powers—and in this moment, his deepest fear.

Shadows danced along the damp, earthen walls carved in the signs and symbols of the earliest Wakandan script.

“The language of the ancestors,” his father once said.

T’Chaka, a fiercely loved leader whose reign was still sung by griots, had told a very young T’Challa the story of the mysterious meteor that crashed into the mountain. The Vibranium had set off a chain of reactions buried deep within the earth. The arrival of the extraterrestrial element heralded a new age for their people, one that would see them prosper and emerge far more advanced than their neighbors over many long years.

*   *   *

“HOW LONG?” T’Challa asked.

Guilt flashed across shifting eyes. An elder and yet a child of Nganga, Adisa’s line had tended the sacred herb for generations. No crop before had ever failed. The shame was as palpable as the cloying wet heat in the air.

“The answer would not please, Your Majesty,” Adisa said.

Her purple robes billowed around her as giant fans spun slowly up above. She had the noble stature and melodious, calming voice of her family. Shamans spoke and sang to the flowering herbs, with spells and ancient magics that guarded them well.

“We have been monitoring these developments for some time,” she said carefully. “Our family uses the best practices, perfected by tests and culled over a thousand years. We have tested and we have prayed. We sang the old songs and we danced. The soil health is strong, the water is pure, but the seeds, the roots and the flowers… they deteriorate.”

“But how can this be?” T’Challa asked.

He reached for the wilted herb, held its leafy heart-shaped blossom in his hand. Light as a butterfly’s wing, as soft as a feather, the herb smelled overly sweet, almost putrid. Its beautiful color, once vibrant and lush, was faded in some spots, darkened in others. It looked as if poison had seeped through its taproot and filled every vein.

“Soil samples are Vibranium-rich, the minerals and nutrient levels normal. No weeds or intruder species apparent. Your Highness, there are no known parasites—at least none that we can perceive.”

The elder’s fear was understandable but the question in her voice troubled T’Challa more.

“What do you mean, ‘none that we can perceive’?” He held the Heart-Shaped Herb up, allowed the artificial sunlight to pierce the thin petal.

Adisa chose her words carefully. “Without a new harvest…” she began.

“Wakanda risks being unable to pass the Black Panther’s powers on to the next king.”

“Without a king… the Black Panther…” Adisa whispered.

“Wakanda is lost.” T’Challa stared at rows upon rows of shriveled-up herbs, sacred plants stunted on the vine.

Worry darkened his face. His jaw set, his eyes narrowed as he remembered the bittersweet taste of the herbal tea the shamans urged him to drink. The Rite of the Panther was one of Wakanda’s oldest traditions, but there were few traditions without sacrifice.

Phantom pain rippled through the muscles in his neck and chest. Memories rained down on him, a sharpness that ran up along his throat to gather at his temples.

Adisa watched him. Fear etched itself across her whole presence. Even the Kimoyo beads on her wrist, the shaman’s necklace around her neck, vibrated with the hope for their nation. She motioned at the groves that filled the cavern. Rough and calloused, she had a gardener’s hands, but she spoke with the concern and softness of a healer.

“My King, perhaps we are looking in the wrong place.”

“What do you mean?” T’Challa asked.

She bowed her head.

“Don’t be afraid, Adisa. You may always speak plainly to me.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps the problem is spiritual. The herbs are connected to you, my King. You are joined in ways that neither you nor any of us, your shamans, fully understand.”