The journey to Kilwa took seven long days.
Through forest and field, Malik and Simiyu rode ahead of the Nuri and Kilwa army, leaving the bulk of the troops behind at a fragile ceasefire. The borderlands still simmered with tension—both sides uncertain whether to trust the silence after so much blood. But they needed to see Kilwa for themselves. They needed to confirm what Simiyu told them: that the Sultan was dead, that the city had fallen, and that Lusweti swore to take it back.
Malik barely slept. Every hoofbeat felt like a hammer striking his pride. He remembered Kilwa's golden age—its domed mosques, the scent of spice and salt from the sea breeze, the bustle of trade, diplomacy, and dignity. It was the crown of the Swahili coast. But what would they find now?
When they reached Kilwa's outskirts, a haunting stillness awaited them.
