General Simiyu sat in the command tent, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the wooden table. The coup in Kilwa had changed everything. The war, once fought for a city, now seemed pointless. But without undeniable proof, Malik would never lay down his arms. And until then, Nuri had no choice but to fight.
He exhaled sharply. "What to do?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing at the map before him. The pieces were all there; he just needed to make the right move.
Two nights passed, and the night of the ambush arrived. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made warriors grip their weapons tighter, whispering silent prayers to the spirits of their ancestors. Tonight, the mercenaries would learn what it meant to cross Nuri.
