The dawn came heavy with mist and silence.
Boots pressed into wet earth, rifles glinted faintly in the dim light as the army of Nuri and Buganda moved in careful ranks across the valley floor.
Ahead of them, the scouts of Nuri, ghosts in tan cloaks, moved through the fog like whispers, rifles slung low, eyes sharp.
The only sound was the rhythmic crunch of their steps and the faint clatter of metal on leather.
Khisa rode near the rear command line, his gaze fixed on the distant ridge. Ole Samoei had already gone ahead with the vanguard, a hundred of Nuri and Buganda's finest, his task clear: locate the enemy, engage, and hold the line until the main force arrived.
Hours passed beneath the gray sky before it came — a sudden burst of red smoke curling upward in the distance.
The signal.
Khisa's hand clenched. "They've found them," he murmured. Then, louder: "Advance!"
