The fire crackled low in the hut, casting long shadows on the walls. Khisa sat cross-legged, deep in thought.
[You're hesitating.] Ayaan's voice resonated thought his mind.
Khisa sighed. "Not hesitating—deciding."
[There are only two paths before you: take them by force or appeal to their hearts. The former wins their bodies. The latter wins their loyalty.] She reasoned.
Khisa sighed, "If I appeal to their hearts and they reject me, then what?"
[Then they were never meant to stand beside you.]
He exhaled sharply. "We can't afford hesitation. The slavers won't wait."
Ayaan's voice softened slightly.
[Then lead.]
Khisa closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his resolve was set. "We ride at dawn."
The golden hues of morning painted the sky as the Abakhore warriors rode toward the Angwenyi village. Their horses moved in steady, controlled gallops, the sound of hooves striking the earth a rhythmic beat of war.
The captured Angwenyi warriors rode among them—not as prisoners, but as men with something to prove. Their faces were tight with unease, yet their hands gripped their weapons with purpose.
As they approached, the village gates were wide open, the people gathered in anticipation.
The Angwenyi chief stood at the entrance, arms folded, his stance exuding confidence. His warriors stood behind him, battle-worn but proud.
They thought their army was returning victorious.
Lusweti, riding at the head, exhaled sharply. "This will be over quickly."
Then—
"Now!"
With a sharp pull on their reins, the Abakhore warriors surged forward.
The Angwenyi barely had time to react before chaos erupted.
Lusweti's warriors swept through the village, striking with precision. The air filled with the clash of steel, the sharp cries of battle, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.
The Angwenyi warriors, though caught off guard, did not surrender easily.
One lunged at an Abakhore warrior, swinging his spear in a wide arc. It was met with a shield bash to the chest, sending him sprawling. Another Angwenyi managed to wound an Abakhore fighter before being disarmed and forced to his knees.
The battle raged through the streets, a brutal and calculated dance.
Khisa did not fight—he watched. Every move, every weakness, every opening.
The captured Angwenyi warriors moved like shadows, slipping through the chaos, whispering into the ears of the villagers.
"Our chief sent our warriors to their death."
"Our families are gone because of him."
"This is your chance. Let us take back our village from this traitor."
Slowly, the tide began to turn—not through force, but through doubt.
The Angwenyi warriors still standing hesitated, their movements faltering.
One by one, they were overwhelmed. Not killed—but subdued. Forced to kneel. Weapons stripped from their hands.
By the time the dust settled, the village belonged to the Abakhore.
The chief, his face twisted with fury, was dragged before Lusweti.
Bloodied but defiant, the Angwenyi chief glared up at Lusweti. "You think you can claim my people? They will never follow you."
Lusweti looked past him, at the gathered Angwenyi—warriors, elders, the wounded. Some still burned with resentment. Others looked uncertain.
"People of Angwenyi, we have been enemies for generations, we have taken too much from each other. Today I ask you to put aside our differences. Follow me into battle to reclaim your people."Lusweti's voice boomed.
Murmurs spread through the villagers.
"Why should we trust him?" an elder woman spat. "What stops him from selling us all off, just like our chief did?"
"He speaks of unity, but he came with a sword in hand," another man muttered. "How is he any different?"
Lusweti took a deep breath and stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was not cruel. It was raw.
"My wife was taken.Your chief took my wife from me and sold her like cattle. The same thing he has been doing to your people."
A hush fell over the crowd.
Lusweti's fists clenched. "She was stolen from me. Just as your sons, your daughters, your wives were stolen from you. I will not rest until I bring her home. I will burn the world if I have to."
His eyes swept over them. "I do not ask you to follow me. I ask you to fight with me. Because if we do not stop them now, they will return. And next time, there will be nothing left."
A tense silence.
"And what if we refuse?" one of the older warriors asked.
Lusweti's gaze hardened. "Then you can die with your chief."
He turned to the kneeling warriors, their faces bruised and bloodied.
"This is your choice: stand with us, fight for your people, or join your leader in the grave."
The villagers exchanged wary glances.
"And if we help you?" an Angwenyi woman asked, stepping forward. "What do we get?"
Lusweti met her gaze. "A home. A future. A leader who will fight for you, not sell you."
Some villagers still hesitated, skepticism lingering. But others—those who had lost the most—began to waver.
Baraza stepped forward. "If it means getting my sister back, I will fight."
Another voice followed. Then another.
But some remained silent, arms crossed, expressions unreadable.
Lusweti turned back to the chief. "Your own people have abandoned you."
The chief spat at his feet. "Traitors."
Lusweti studied him for a long moment. Then, without ceremony, he drew his blade and slashed across the man's throat.
The Angwenyi chief collapsed.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Lusweti's voice carried over the silent village.
"This is your new home. Stand with us, and we will bring our people back. Stand against us, and we will leave you behind."
The Angwenyi warriors—those who had hesitated—exchanged glances. Slowly, one by one, they bowed their heads.
That night, the fires burned high. Warriors from both clans sharpened their blades, whispering of what was to come.
Khisa stood before them. "The slavers are not far. They think they have won. But they have only made us stronger."
Lusweti stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "We ride at first light. And we do not stop until our people are free—or the rivers run red with their blood."
The warriors roared.
The hunt had begun.