While Kilwa burned, Lusweti raced toward it, his heart pounding against his ribs. Uncertainty gnawed at him—he had no idea what awaited him. But he didn't care. This war would end today. No matter what it took, Almeida would fall.
Malik, on the other hand, awaited news from the scout he had sent. With the war dragging on, reinforcements from Kilwa would be a godsend. He had no idea the man he depended on was already dead. He had no clue that Almeida—the Sultan's most trusted man—had already claimed Kilwa for himself. They were fighting for a kingdom that no longer existed.
The scout reached the outskirts of Kilwa, his horse gasping for breath, foam flecking its mouth. He, too, was exhausted, his muscles burning from the relentless journey. But his hope for reinforcements pushed him forward. Then he saw it. Smoke.
Thick, black, and endless, the smoke blanketed the city like a funeral shroud. The sky itself seemed choked by it.
