The Kilwan soldiers rode in silence.
Their boots struck the earth with steady rhythm, but their hearts thundered with dread.
As they neared the coast, a sickening hush swept through the ranks. The breeze that once carried the scent of salt and trade now reeked of burnt wood, blood, and old grief. Blackened skeletons of homes stood like accusing fingers against the sky. The proud city of Kilwa—once a jewel of the Swahili coast—was now a scar carved into the land.
And then the weeping began.
One soldier, silent the entire ride, suddenly screamed.
He leapt from his horse, sprinting down what used to be a familiar street, only to collapse before a crumbled building. It had once been his home. He fell to his knees, fingers clawing at the ash and stone. His voice broke as he called out names—his wife's, his son's—again and again. But only silence answered.
Others followed.
