The fires burned low that night, the sky painted with smoke and tired stars. The wind carried the smell of iron and damp ash through the camp, a battlefield's silence, uneasy and alive.
Inside the command tent, the generals of Buganda and Nuri gathered around the map table once more. Their armor was still streaked with mud and dried blood; their faces drawn tight from sleepless nights.
Khisa stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, his voice calm but firm.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I want our soldiers to take as many Kongo men alive as they can. Those who surrender are not to be killed. They'll be treated, fed, and kept separate from our own."
The statement hung in the air for a long moment — until one of the Bugandan generals scoffed loudly.
"You want us to save them?" he said, incredulous. "Feed them, even? Prince Khisa, we barely have enough for our own. Why waste resources on men who would gladly slit our throats if given the chance?"
