The campfire smoke hung heavy in the morning air, curling above the tents like ghostly ribbons. The sound of hammers on metal echoed faintly from the forges, where soldiers repaired weapons dulled by days of fighting. Every man and woman in the camp moved with the exhaustion of war, yet when the royal escort arrived, a ripple of alertness spread through the ranks.
Baraka led the small convoy through the guarded perimeter, his expression unreadable. The banners of Kongo fluttered faintly beside Nuri's, a strange sight, once unthinkable.
When the command tent flap opened, the air inside stilled.
Prince Khisa stood beside the table of maps, flanked by his generals and Ole Samoei. His cloak bore the dust of the battlefield, but his gaze was sharp, his composure unbroken.
