The grand hall of Sultan Muhammad Ibn's palace was a place of excess. Golden chandeliers hung from high ceilings, their polished surfaces reflecting the warm glow of countless oil lamps. The air was thick with the scent of incense, masking the underlying musk of sweat and ambition. At the center of it all sat the Sultan, reclining on a cushioned throne, his rotund frame draped in the finest silks imported from across the sea.
Before him, his ministers sat in a semi-circle, each man adorned in embroidered robes, their fingers weighed down by rings of gold and gemstones. Servants knelt beside them, pouring tea and offering trays of sweet dates and spiced meats. But the food was untouched, their attention fixed on their ruler.
Sultan Muhammad Ibn tapped his thick fingers against the armrest of his throne, his expression twisted with hunger—not for food, but for something far more intoxicating.
"Wealth beyond measure," he murmured, savoring the words as if they were the finest delicacy. "And it sits in the hands of nameless peasants? A backwater kingdom that has no proper place in the world?"
The ministers exchanged glances, their own greed mirroring their ruler's.
A thin, sharp-faced man, Wazir Fahad, leaned forward. "If their wealth is as great as the delegates claim, my Sultan, we must act swiftly. Allow me to send traders—let us propose an alliance. If they are fools, they will welcome us, and we will take what we need without raising a single sword."
The Sultan scoffed. "Why ask for crumbs when we can feast upon the whole meal?" He straightened, his eyes gleaming. "I want it all. Their gold, their iron, their land, their people. I want their king kneeling before me in chains, their warriors broken, their women and children serving in my courts. There is no need for pleasantries."
His general, Malik, grinned at the words. "Then we must move quickly. The delegates are stranded here, unable to send word back home. If we seize one of them—break him—we can force him to guide us to Nuri."
The room fell into a hushed silence, the weight of the plan settling upon them. Then, a slow, cruel smile spread across the Sultan's face.
"Yes… Yes! Let them be the architects of their own downfall." He laughed, his voice booming across the hall. "They think themselves free? They will soon learn the only true power in this world is that of the Sultanate of Kilwa."
His ministers laughed along with him, their excitement growing. The fate of Nuri had been sealed—at least, in their eyes.
Fransisco de Almeida sat in his candlelit study, a map of the East African coast spread before him. He traced a gloved finger along its surface, eyes narrowed in thought.
The Sultan was a fool. Predictable, impulsive, blind with greed. He would send his army, smashing against Nuri like a wave against the rocks. But waves could be redirected.
His most trusted soldiers stood before him, awaiting orders. These were not mere warriors; they were spies, infiltrators, men who knew how to slit throats in the dark and smile in the daylight.
Fransisco looked up, his expression unreadable. "The Sultan will march to war, but we will not waste our strength on such folly." He leaned back. "War is expensive. Unnecessary. We take the land not by blood, but by ink. We will own them before they even realize they are being conquered."
One of his men, a grizzled veteran, smirked. "And if they resist?"
Fransisco chuckled. "Then we remind them of history. We remind them that we are Portugal, and they are nothing."
The men nodded, their mission clear.
As they left, Fransisco turned his gaze back to the map. Somewhere westward, Nuri awaited. Soon, it would belong to him.
Mshale and the other delegates huddled together in the dimly lit room, the scent of damp wood and unwashed bodies pressing in on them. The gravity of their situation weighed on their shoulders.
"We must get word to Nuri," Mshale said, his voice tense. "If we wait, we might be too late."
Jumba exhaled sharply. "The Sultan and the foreigner won't act immediately. They will plan first. That gives us time."
Mutiso frowned. "But how do we leave without being noticed? The gates are watched."
Rehema nodded. "Jabari might be our only hope. He's out there somewhere. If we can find him—"
"We don't have time to find him," Mshale interrupted. "We must send someone now."
A heavy silence filled the room. Then, an idea formed.
"We must use their arrogance against them," Mshale said slowly. "We ask for a tour of the city. They see us as beneath them, as nothing more than simple villagers. If we act like fools, they will lower their guard."
Jumba grinned. "Then let's give them a show."
Kilwa's market square was alive with noise and movement. Traders called out their wares—silks from India, spices from Arabia, ivory from the deep interior. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread drifted through the air, mingling with the salty breeze from the nearby port.
Mshale and the delegates wandered through the crowd, their Kilwa guards watching them with mild amusement.
They stopped to speak with the common folk—fishermen, merchants, beggars, servants.
"I hear your city is wealthy," Mshale said to a merchant selling dried fish.
The man puffed out his chest. "We are the greatest trading port in the world! Wealth flows through us like a mighty river."
Mshale nodded. "And yet, your people suffer." He gestured subtly to the barefoot beggars lining the street. "In Nuri, there are no slaves. No bribes. No nobles hoarding wealth while the poor starve."
The merchant scoffed. "Foolishness. A land without slaves? Without hierarchy? Such a place cannot exist."
Mshale merely smiled.
A nobleman passing by sneered. "This 'Nuri' sounds like a child's fantasy. A land of weaklings and dreamers."
But not all ignored his words. Among the common folk, whispers spread. A land of freedom? A kingdom where a man was measured by his strength, not his birth?
A fisherman leaned in. "Tell me more."
And so Mshale spoke.
Word of Nuri traveled faster than the wind.
Some laughed, dismissing it as the lies of desperate men. Others whispered in dark corners, wondering if there was truth behind the words.
The Sultan's greed had made him blind to one truth—ideas were more dangerous than armies.
And the idea of Nuri had already taken root in the hearts of Kilwa's oppressed.