The Wrath of the Unchained

The council meeting was tense.

Lusweti sat at the center, his expression sharp and unreadable. Around him, the surviving Angwenyi warriors sat with the Abakhore, still uncertain of their new alliance. Some Angwenyi elders whispered among themselves, exchanging doubtful glances.

One finally spoke up. "You expect us to follow the orders of a child?" His voice carried the weight of years of war. "Lusweti, I know you fight with strength, but a true leader is more than a warrior. Can you truly lead us?"

Another elder nodded. "You killed our chief. Who's to say you won't turn on us the same way? What stops you from betraying us as he did?"

Lusweti's gaze darkened. He leaned forward, his voice like a blade. "What stopped your chief from betraying you?" He let the silence stretch before speaking again. "You say I am young. But age does not make a leader—strength does. Will. A man who is too afraid to fight for his people is no leader."

The room fell silent.

Khisa then spoke, his voice measured. "You fear we will turn on you, but what choice do you have? If we do nothing, the slavers will return, stronger than before. They don't care if you are Abakhore or Angwenyi. To them, we are all cattle."

Murmurs of unease spread through the warriors.

Khisa's expression remained calm, but his words were deliberate. "We need to strike first. But before that, we need information. Two of your men will go ahead, on horseback. They will tell the slavers that the Angwenyi have defeated the Abakhore. That the mines are yours again. That way, the slavers will come to you, thinking they are coming to do business as usual."

The room was still. Then one of the older warriors, Baraza, stood. "I will go." Another warrior followed. "And I."

Lusweti smirked. "Then we move at dusk.