The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 22: Old Friends.

"You'll have the King's Guard. The Dora Milaje have already been alerted."

"And the Border Tribe?" T'Challa's voice was low, clipped—every syllable measured.

Okoye's jaw tightened. "Those who remain loyal."

"Then send word to the Jabari," he said. "M'Baku never turns down a fight."

The three of them descended from the palace steps toward the far edge of the Golden City, where the cultivated land gave way to quiet fields. The sun was fierce overhead, burning away the cool of morning. Two years had passed since T'Challa had taken the throne, two years since Emily had been branded an outlaw by the Americans—and two years since the Avengers had splintered like glass. She had no word of them, no trace of where each had scattered, though the ache of their absence had never dulled.

The path bent toward a small farm, a modest patch of earth just beyond the city's reach. It was here the "White Wolf" had chosen his exile.

"And what of this one?" Okoye asked, her gaze sharpening as she caught sight of movement across the field.

Emily followed T'Challa's eyes. In the distance, Bucky Barnes hefted a sack of grain onto a cart already half-loaded, his movements deliberate, almost meditative. Two boys crouched nearby, watching in the hushed awe reserved for figures both feared and adored.

"This one," T'Challa said quietly, "is weary of war." He paused, then glanced at Okoye—and at Emily, as though testing the words aloud.

"But the White Wolf," he continued, voice hardening into certainty, "has rested long enough."

***

As they drew closer, Emily's grip on the case handle tightened until her knuckles whitened. It wasn't the weight of the vibranium inside that made it feel heavy, but the knowledge of what it meant. It had taken Bucky years—painful, painstaking years—to claw his way back from the wreckage Hydra had left in him. The scars of one war had only just begun to knit closed, and now here he was, being summoned to fight another. To reopen what he had fought so hard to bury.

When they reached him, Emily set the case down carefully on the cart. The polished metal gleamed in the light as she flicked the catches open. For a moment she couldn't help but meet his eyes. Blue-grey, steady, and—just for an instant—filled with a kind of weary recognition. She broke the look quickly, retreating half a step until she was back at T'Challa's side.

Bucky leaned over the case, studying the vibranium arm nestled within its padding. His jaw tightened, though whether from reluctance or grim acceptance Emily couldn't tell. After a long silence, he looked up again—not at the King, but at her. It wasn't a question, nor forgiveness, nor blame. Just the unspoken truth of two people who had both been used, both broken, and both were now being asked to step into the fire again.

Finally, he turned to T'Challa.

"Where's the fight?" His voice was steady, but iron lay beneath it.

The King released a breath that was almost a sigh, quiet enough it barely carried over the fields.

"On its way."

***

The Quinjet slipped through the shimmering camouflage of Wakanda's force field, the Golden City unfurling in the valley below like a vision from another age. Its brilliance was brief, however—the jet banking before settling onto the landing platform outside the palace. The air was taut with expectation.

T'Challa led the way across the tarmac, his stride measured but resolute. The Dora Milaje flanked him, spears angled with ceremonial precision, while Emily fell into step just behind. Okoye closed the gap at his side, her voice low but edged with irony.