The battle was over. Kilwa was no longer burning.
But no one celebrated with cheer.
Lusweti stood in the middle of the ruined square, blade heavy in his hand, blood soaking his tattered armor. Around him, the last of Nuri's warriors staggered to their knees or dropped where they stood, too exhausted to speak. Their chests heaved like bellows, faces drawn, eyes haunted. They had pushed themselves past the limit—marching for hours, charging through fire and steel, enduring horrors no one should witness.
The fires around them hissed in the light rain that had started to fall.
The Kilwans emerged slowly from hiding—shadows turned to flesh. From broken doorways and shattered mosques. From behind the rubble of homes. Mothers clutching children. Brothers carrying the wounded. They had fought, yes—but many had never killed before. Some stared at their own hands, as if unsure what they had become.
