Mengo sat beneath a quiet sky. The evening sun cast long, golden rays across the palace courtyard, and the air was heavy with the mingling scents of incense and herbs burning in the royal infirmary. Inside, the low murmur of healers mixed with the rhythmic thump-thump of wooden pestles grinding medicine. Every sound seemed distant, muted beneath the weight of fear that hung over them.
Khisa lay on a woven mat draped in soft cotton sheets, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His skin glistened with sweat, fever burning through him as his body fought the infection. Even in his stillness, there was something commanding about him, as if the air itself bent toward him, unwilling to accept that this man who had changed the course of nations could fade so easily.
When Zara, Kiprop, and Onyango arrived, their boots were caked in dust from days of relentless travel. They were led through the guarded corridors of Mengo Palace, past solemn faces and bowed heads.
