The air was heavy with the scent of dry earth and smoldering wood as Lusweti stepped away from the tent, seeking the quiet of the night. The camp stretched out before him, a sea of flickering torches illuminating the disciplined figures of soldiers preparing for battle. Some sat sharpening their weapons, their faces cast in flickering shadow. Others spoke in low, tense voices, murmuring prayers to ancestors or sharing quiet laughter to mask their unease.
Lusweti took a slow breath, trying to steady the storm within him. Though outwardly composed, his mind churned. Was this the right path?
He was no coward—his courage had never been in question. But bravery alone did not make a great leader. He had seen too many men rush into battle with confidence, only to lead their people to slaughter. He would not be one of them.
His fingers clenched into fists. What lies beyond Almeida? What power does he truly serve?
