The Wrath of the Unchained

The two armies moved steadily toward each other, a slow but inevitable clash creeping closer with each passing day. Lusweti and his 5,000 warriors marched in disciplined formation, every step measured, every movement deliberate.

Opposite them, Malik’s 10,000 soldiers advanced with far less caution. The Kilwa forces were a mixed, undisciplined horde of mercenaries, slavers, and professional warriors lumped together under the same banner. Some laughed and jeered as they marched, already speaking of their rewards, of the gold and women they would claim once Nuri fell. Others walked with dull expressions, uninterested in yet another battle they were forced to fight.

At the front, Malik rode with a perpetual scowl on his face. His eyes flicked over the uneven terrain, thick vegetation patches, and winding rivers cutting through the land. He clenched his jaw. Why was he even the Sultan?

This march had exposed him. He was proving himself incompetent with every passing day.

A Kilwa commander rode beside him, his expression set in a grim frown. "This is a foolish decision," the man muttered. "Marching blind without knowing the enemy. What are we even walking into?"

Malik did not have the patience for this conversation. "This is what the Sultan commanded," he snapped. "We had no time to scout ahead."

The commander sighed, shifting in his saddle. "Then we should prepare for the worst. We don’t know their strengths or weaknesses, and that makes them dangerous."

A sharp bark of laughter came from behind them. Another officer grinned lazily. "Dangerous? To who?" he sneered. "This is a band of barbarians we’re fighting. Future slaves, nothing more. You worry too much."

The first commander shook his head but said nothing.

Malik, however, was not as certain. He recalled the Nuri delegates he had tortured—days of pain, starvation, and suffering, yet they had not broken. There had been no desperate bargains, no spilling of secrets. Only silence.

That was unnatural.