The night was thick with humidity, the scent of damp earth rising with each careful step. Every rustle of the leaves, every distant call of a predator sent a jolt through Weche's nerves. He and Kibet moved swiftly, their bodies low, their senses stretched thin. The forest was alive with unseen dangers, but none greater than the enemy they pursued.
Their mission was simple but critical: track the Kilwa army, map their movements, and, if possible, sabotage their advance. A single misstep could doom the entire war effort.
They had been running for days, weaving through dense foliage, fording rivers with water up to their chests, their bodies pushed to the limits. They traveled light—only their bows, daggers, and enough food to keep them moving. Sleep came in short bursts, their ears always alert for danger.
And then, on the seventh day, they found them.
