The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 12: Challenge Day.

The flight was short, though to Emily it felt endless. The closer they drew to Wakanda's border, the heavier the anticipation pressed against her chest. A part of her longed for it desperately—the warmth of a place that had once felt like belonging. Yet another part of her wished the journey would stretch on forever, sparing her the reckoning that awaited.

What if they did not want her back? What if Queen Ramonda and Shuri despised her for disappearing, for leaving them to wonder? Perhaps they were better without her. Perhaps they had already moved on.

The sun had begun to rise, spilling its first pale light across the landscape. Emily's mind drifted in spirals—snatches of memory, old regrets, fears she dared not name aloud. She sat in that trance-like daze, eyes unfocused, until the lightest touch at her shoulder drew her back.

"I'll take over," said Nakia softly.

Emily blinked, dragging herself from her thoughts. "Thanks."

The other woman smiled—gentle, knowing—and slid into the pilot's seat. Emily stretched, working stiffness from her limbs, before moving toward the rear of the jet. She lowered herself into a seat opposite T'Challa.

For a time they sat in silence, both staring at the floor as though it might yield answers. Emily found her fingers twisting together, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm on the metal. She hadn't even realised how tightly wound she was until T'Challa broke the quiet.

"You are nervous," he said simply, not unkindly.

He rose and crossed the space to sit beside her. She glanced at him, brow furrowed, but quickly averted her eyes, fixing them on the patterned floor. He leaned back, gaze directed straight ahead.

"Is it the people of Wakanda you fear will turn you away?" His voice was low, steady. "Or is it the Queen and the Princess you worry will not forgive?"

Emily felt his attention settle on her, but she refused to meet it. Her shoulders sagged, a sigh slipping out before she could catch it. He let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now.

"They do not blame you for what happened."

That caught her. Her eyes flicked to him—searching, questioning—but she found no hesitation in his expression, only quiet certainty. She wanted to demand how he could be so sure, but the words would not come. Instead she leaned back, closing her eyes, and let memory wash over her: fractured flashes of Hydra, of Vienna, of falling through sky and fire.

T'Challa's voice broke through those images, almost a whisper, pitched as though meant for her alone.

"Earlier, you called Wakanda 'home.'"

Her eyes opened. She turned to find the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.

A sheepish laugh escaped her, and she shook her head slightly. "I suppose I did."

The smile widened, warm but not teasing, and she found herself returning it despite the weight on her chest. For a brief moment, it lightened her.

From the cockpit, Nakia's voice carried back to them, calm and steady.

"We are home."

Emily's heart lurched at the words, her pulse quickening as the jet dipped toward the golden light breaking across Wakanda's horizon.

***

Emily stood rooted to the floor of the jet, fidgeting despite herself as the ramp began to lower with a groan of metal and hydraulics. Sunlight spilled into the hold in a blinding flood. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, her lungs stuttering in uneven breaths. Beyond the glare lay Wakanda—home, and yet not, at least not until she knew she was welcome again.