The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 13: New King, Old Problem

The Dora Milaje and Jabari warriors stepped forward at Zuri's call, closing the circle in deliberate formation, shields raised, spears poised. The ring of combat was formed. Emily lingered at Queen Ramonda's side, uncertain whether her place was within the ritual or outside of it.

Ramonda caught her hesitation. "You fought beside us once. Go. Stand with them."

The command was gentle, but final. Emily bowed her head in acknowledgement before moving to take her place amongst the warriors at the edge of the circle, though her eyes never left T'Challa.

The duel began in ritual silence broken only by the clash of weapons and the roar of water against stone. At first, T'Challa held his ground. His strikes were swift, controlled; he landed blows with precision that made the crowd murmur with approval. Yet as the warriors tightened the ring around them, the space to manoeuvre narrowed, and M'Baku's raw strength began to turn the tide.

Each of his strikes fell like a hammer, and soon the Prince was driven to his knees, his shield barely absorbing the brunt. Emily's jaw clenched at the sight, her nails biting into her palms as the Jabari leader's taunts cut through the air.

"No powers. No claws. No sacred armour. Only a boy," M'Baku sneered, raising his club high. "A boy unfit to lead."

The words were barbed, meant to wound deeper than any strike. Emily felt anger coil tight in her chest. She caught T'Challa's gaze across the ring, saw the momentary falter in his eyes, the weight of legacy and grief pressing against him.

Her voice tore through the chants, sharp, unyielding: "T'Challa! Get off your royal ass and show him who you are!"

Heads turned at the audacity, but her words struck home. T'Challa rose, battered but unbroken, blood mingling with water as it ran down his face.

"I am T'Challa," he declared, his voice cutting clear and steady. "Son of King T'Chaka."

The name echoed against the cliffs, reverberating with the power of lineage. M'Baku roared in fury, charging. This time T'Challa was ready. He slipped aside with measured grace, using his opponent's momentum to send him sprawling with a shove that drew the breath from the crowd. The chant began low, then surged like a wave: T'Challa! T'Challa!

Moments later, M'Baku lay on the cliff's edge, chest heaving, T'Challa's legs locked around his throat in an unbreakable hold.

"Yield," T'Challa demanded, voice ragged but resolute. "Do not make me kill you."

"I would rather die!" M'Baku spat, defiant even as the rock crumbled beneath him.

T'Challa's grip tightened, but his eyes softened with something close to sorrow. "You have fought with honour. But your people need you. Do not rob them of their leader."

Silence stretched. Finally, M'Baku tapped against T'Challa's leg—three sharp strikes. The circle erupted.

The Dora Milaje lowered their spears in unison. The Jabari retreated in grim silence, their leader humbled but alive.

Zuri stepped forward, raising his arms. His voice was reverent, almost trembling with emotion. "I present to you... King T'Challa, the Black Panther."

The Dora Milaje began their rhythmic dance, feet pounding the stone, spears clashing in time with the jubilant cries of the people. The valley shook with the sound of Wakanda rejoicing.

Emily let herself smile, her chest swelling with pride as her eyes sought T'Challa's across the throng. For the briefest of moments, he met her gaze, and the smile he returned was not for the crowd, not for the throne—it was for her.