Matenje's execution was swift, his rebellion crushed before it could take root. His body, along with those of the four spies, was left for the vultures beyond the city walls—a message to any who still harbored treasonous thoughts.
But their deaths did not erase the damage. The rumors he and Simiyu had spread to trap Matenje had sown doubt, and doubt was like rot—it lingered even after the infected limb was cut off.
That morning, Lusweti stood in the eastern barracks square, his presence a storm waiting to break. Hundreds of warriors and civilians gathered, their eyes wary, their minds unsettled.
He let the silence stretch, making them sit with their own uncertainty. Then he spoke.
"How dare you?"
The accusation cut through the crowd like a blade. Some flinched. Others dropped their gazes.
Lusweti's voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the fire beneath it. He took a slow step forward, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.
