The two armies moved steadily toward each other, a slow but inevitable clash creeping closer with each passing day. Lusweti and his 5,000 warriors marched in disciplined formation, every step measured, every movement deliberate.
Opposite them, Malik's 10,000 soldiers advanced with far less caution. The Kilwa forces were a mixed, undisciplined horde of mercenaries, slavers, and professional warriors lumped together under the same banner. Some laughed and jeered as they marched, already speaking of their rewards, of the gold and women they would claim once Nuri fell. Others walked with dull expressions, uninterested in yet another battle they were forced to fight.
At the front, Malik rode with a perpetual scowl on his face. His eyes flicked over the uneven terrain, thick vegetation patches, and winding rivers cutting through the land. He clenched his jaw. Why was he even the Sultan?
This march had exposed him. He was proving himself incompetent with every passing day.
