The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 64 - When Swords Are Sheathed

The war was over—but peace had not yet arrived.

From the still-burning coastlines of Kilwa, General Malik and General Simiyu stood over the broken remains of a war neither of them had truly wanted.

Kilwa would heal from this. The Kilwan men, women, and children worked slowly—doing anything to lift the scars in their hearts.

They sent out two messengers—one from Nuri, another from Kilwa—to carry the truth of what had transpired.

One messenger would ride to the Nuri camp and deliver word of victory and new burdens. The other would face a far more delicate task: informing the Kilwan army that their homeland no longer belonged to the Sultan, and that their brothers and sisters on the coast... were gone.

The Kilwan messenger rode without rest. Dust clung to his skin. His eyes stung from the memories he tried to suppress—blood still coating several buildings, rubble and bodies still laying in the streets.

By the time he reached the inland Kilwan camp, his horse staggered beneath him. But he would not stop—not until they knew.

Dozens of Kilwan soldiers gathered as he dismounted. Their faces were drawn and wary, half-expecting good news, half-fearing the truth.

"What happened?" one of them asked, his voice tight.

The messenger didn’t speak immediately. He scanned their faces, knowing what his words would do to them.

Then, voice raw and hollow, he began.

"Almeida and his mercenaries turned on us."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"They attacked without warning. Burned homes. Killed women. Children. Elders. Your families. Gone. They didn’t care who wore what uniform, who prayed to which god, or who had more gold. Kilwa... was torn apart."

"No," someone whispered. "No, that can’t be true."

"They left the city in ashes," the messenger continued, stepping forward as he spoke, his words like hammer blows. "Bodies lined the streets. Whole families... entire neighborhoods..."

He couldn’t finish.

One soldier dropped to his knees, clutching his head. Another screamed. Chaos followed—voices rising in anger, grief, panic.

"My wife! My girls!" cried one man, stumbling back as though struck.

"Did you see the northern quarter?" another shouted, grabbing the messenger. "My mother was there! Did she live? Tell me!"

"I—I don’t know who—" the messenger stammered, overwhelmed by their desperation. "There was too much rubble. Too many graves. Too many faces... I’m sorry."

Soldiers began to move around the camp, tearing through their belongings, shouting names of loved ones. Some tried to mount their horses then and there, desperate to ride toward the coast. Others wept openly, collapsed in the dirt.

The air was thick with terror—like the seconds before a storm breaks.

And beneath it all was a deeper, uglier emotion: rage.

"They died for nothing," one man growled. "We bled for nothing!"

"We followed orders! We trusted the Sultan! We trusted the mercenaries!" someone else screamed.

A group gathered near the center of the camp, fury in their eyes.

"What will happen to us now? We bled for months on the frontlines. For what?" another cried.

"Why should we listen to this Lusweti now? What’s to stop him from becoming another tyrant?"

"You think he’ll spare us?" another spat. "We walk into Kilwa and they’ll butcher us!"

Some talked of fleeing into the forests. Others spoke of mutiny. The tension was rising fast, thick and suffocating like smoke. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

The Kilwan messenger raised his hands, shouting over them.

"Stop! Stop—listen to me!"

His voice cracked, but it carried.

"There is still a choice. King Lusweti and General Malik... they are not like the Sultan. They don’t want more blood. Nuri has claimed Kilwa, yes—but not as conquerors. As protectors."

"You expect us to believe that?" a commander barked. "After everything?"

"They want to meet with you all," the messenger said firmly. "Face to face. You won’t be ambushed. You won’t be executed. They are offering you a place in Nuri, if you are willing to help rebuild. You will be accepted—as long as you’re ready to let go of the old ways."

The silence that followed was heavy with mourning and disbelief.

Eventually, their commander—an older man with a deep scar across his cheek—spoke. His voice was low, but steady.

"I don’t trust easily. And right now, I hate every inch of this madness. But I also know one thing—running won’t bring our people back."

He looked around the camp.

"Pack up. We ride to Kilwa. Not for surrender. Not for kings. But for answers."

Elsewhere, near Nuri’s camp, the Nurian messenger arrived to a camp that buzzed with nervous anticipation. When the soldiers saw him approach with a confident gait and a torn but upright flag of Nuri, they gathered fast.

"Well?" the captain asked.

The messenger gave a small nod.

"The foreign mercenaries and Almeida are finished. The coast is ours. The war... is over."

Cheers exploded. Men and women who had marched through blood now embraced like long-lost kin. Some cried openly. Others simply knelt in the dirt and gave thanks to the ancestors. King Lusweti had done it again.

"Shall we march to the coast and aid our brothers?" someone asked.

But the messenger raised a hand.

"No. The coast needs healers, builders, diplomats. You are warriors—you’ve done your part. Your orders are to rest, recover, and await new commands. Supplies will be sent. Help is coming. But for now—breathe."

Many nodded, though some clenched their jaws. They wanted to see Kilwa for themselves, but the exhaustion in their bones reminded them that victory sometimes meant letting go of the sword.

And so, both armies began to move.

The Kilwan soldiers rode toward the coast, their hearts pounding with dread. They had once called it home. Now, it felt like foreign soil—claimed by the same hands they had once raised blades against. Their future was a fog no spear could pierce.

The Nurians turned toward home, not as conquerors but as survivors. As protectors. They had won—but peace came with questions.

They had once all come bearing swords.

Now, they parted ways under different skies—unsure whether their next meeting would be in peace, or in battle once more.