The sun above Kilwa's coast was hidden behind thick smoke and chaos. Gunfire roared in every direction, screams echoing over the crash of waves. The streets were slick with blood, and bodies—mercenary and Kilwan alike—lay broken on the sand and stone. Buildings burned, smoke snaking into the sky like the spirits of the dead ascending.
Lusweti pushed forward, flanked by Irungu and Oduor. His hands trembled with exhaustion, blood seeping from gashes along his forearms and thigh, but he would not stop. Not now. His breath came in short, burning gasps, but he gripped his sword tighter, moving like a storm, cutting through anyone who tried to halt him.
His men followed with equal resolve—some limping, some holding wounds closed with trembling hands, others dragging the dead out of the way to clear a path for their commander. They had long ceased to fight for survival. They were fighting for history.
