The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 2: The Beginning Pt.1

Emily adapted to Wakandan customs more swiftly than she had expected. A week into her training with the Dora Milaje, standing sentinel at the foot of the throne and sharpening her skill with spear and blade, she felt something she had scarcely recognised before—contentment. Perhaps even happiness.

By the end of her third month, loyalty had become her language. Every command was carried out without hesitation, every ritual observed, every tradition respected. King T'Chaka's watchful skepticism had softened over time, replaced with something approaching trust. Through the King she met Queen Ramonda, dignified and perceptive, and Princess Shuri, whose brilliance seemed to illuminate every room she entered. Emily quickly grew fond of the princess, spending long hours in her laboratory, where technology hummed like a second heartbeat. Shuri would unveil her latest inventions with unconcealed delight, while Emily—awkward with machines but earnest in her efforts—tried to assist. Even Ramonda, cautious at first, warmed to her presence.

Prince T'Challa, however, remained unmoved. From the first day his father had permitted Emily to stay within the palace walls, he regarded her as one might a serpent, beautiful in its movement but always coiled to strike. His suspicion never wavered, especially when Shuri insisted on keeping Emily close. Their arguments were frequent, though Shuri always emerged victorious in words if not in temper. Emily, caught in the crossfire, said nothing. She had won the trust of the King, the Queen, the Princess, and even the Dora Milaje. The Prince's trust, however, would not be given easily.

Time passed. By the sixth month, something shifted. T'Chaka, once distant, had begun to treat her like a daughter, guiding her through the labyrinth of Wakandan culture. He taught her the intricacies of the language, the stories of the tribes, the rhythms of ancient ceremonies, and the sacred legend of the Heart-Shaped Herb. He showed her the beauty of his land—the mountains that touched the clouds, the rivers that glittered under moonlight, and above all, the sunsets that painted the sky in fire and gold. With each lesson, she felt less like a stranger.

Even T'Challa began to bend, if only slightly. His vigilance lingered, but the steel in his eyes dulled. Sometimes he joined her and Shuri in the lab, feigning interest in the designs only to endure Shuri's merciless teasing. Emily found herself laughing with him despite herself, and he did not seem to mind. Eventually they began sparring together, trading blows beneath the shaded gardens, then walking side by side until duty reclaimed them. Friendship grew slowly, warily, like grass forcing its way through stone.

There were dinners with the royal family where she no longer stumbled over titles. T'Chaka became "T'Chaka," Ramonda "Ramonda," Shuri simply "Shuri." Only with T'Challa did she hesitate, but even there the stiffness loosened. She belonged, or something close to it.

Bucky's absence gnawed at her less with each passing day. He had left without a word, a wound that had scarred rather than healed. She no longer expected to hear from him. Still, the hollow of his loss remained, an emptiness Okoye filled in part. Through their relentless training, the Dora warrior became more than a mentor—she became a friend. Though in sparring, friendship mattered little; Okoye never spared a strike, and Emily never asked her to.

Two years passed. For the first time in her life, Emily had begun to imagine permanence. Until the night Hydra returned.

***

The palace glittered that night, alive with gold light and laughter. The chandelier caught the glow of a thousand candles, scattering them across polished marble. Music swelled and swirled as couples spun in unison, their silks and jewels flashing beneath the torchlight. It was a celebration of joy, of continuity, of a king and queen who had carried their people through decades of peace.

Emily felt strangely adrift in the beauty of it. The gown clung unfamiliar to her frame, her hair pulled and braided into elegance under Shuri's skilled fingers. She had been polished into something unrecognisable, and yet the laughter spilling from the princess's lips made her believe—if only for an evening—that this masquerade was real.