The morning sun rose weakly over the scarred fields, its light falling on the thousands who had gathered in silence. The air still carried the acrid scent of smoke and blood, but today, it was the smoke of peace fires, not war.
King Nzinga stood before the assembled soldiers of both armies. Behind him, wooden pyres were stacked high, each one bearing the fallen from both Kongo and Buganda. Drums beat slowly, mournfully, their rhythm echoing like a heartbeat for the dead.
"Let the flames purify what hatred has tainted," Nzinga said, his voice steady but heavy with sorrow. "From this day forth, this land shall be sacred ground, a reminder of what our pride has cost us."
His gaze swept across the crowd — faces hollowed by grief, eyes shining with tears. "Here, we will raise a monument. The names of the dead, from both sides, will be carved in stone so that no king, no generation, will ever forget. Let their sacrifice bind us, not divide us."
