The sky hung low above General Malik's camp, a dull grey stretching endlessly over cracked earth and restless soldiers. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and burnt rations. The fires were dimmer now, the food nearly gone, and the silence in the camp wasn't calm—it was dangerous.
Kilwa had gone silent.
No updates. No messengers. Just whispers. Just doubts. The dead mercenaries had spoken of betrayal—how Almeida, the Sultan's supposed ally, was preparing a coup. How Lusweti, King of Nuri, had marched to stop him.
It made no sense.
Malik stared at the map of Kilwa spread across his desk, its corners pinned down by rusted daggers. His hands hovered over the city drawn in ink. His jaw clenched.
If Almeida had betrayed the Sultan… if Lusweti had somehow known and acted first…
Then what did that make Malik?
A fool? A pawn?
He slammed his fist on the table, rattling everything on it. No. It couldn't be true. It shouldn't be true.
And yet, it was possible.
