The night did not smell of rain. It smelled of wet iron, ozone, and the copper tang of butchery.
Baraka moved less like a man and more like a landslide.
The ambush had come from nowhere. One moment, his men were setting up camp, laughing about the mud and the lack of decent food. The next, arrows fletched with black feathers had rained down like hail, silencing the laughter forever.
A mercenary with a rusted battle-axe, wearing no crest and shouting no war cry, swung for Baraka's head. Baraka didn't dodge. He didn't flinch. He caught the axe shaft with his bare left hand.
"Ganda!" (Freeze!)
The air shrieked as the temperature dropped thirty degrees in a split second. Frost raced up the wooden handle, turning it white and brittle. Baraka twisted his wrist—CRACK—shattering the weapon into splinters.
The mercenary's eyes went wide, realizing too late who he was fighting.
Baraka stepped in, his movement fluid, a dance of death he had perfected over decades.
"Ngumi ya Barafu!" (Fist of Ice!)
He drove a fist encased in jagged frost into the man's leather breastplate. The impact didn't just break ribs; it froze the blood in the man's chest instantly, turning his heart into a stone of ice. The mercenary dropped without a sound.
"Formation!" Baraka roared, his voice tearing through the storm. "Back to back! Protect the center!"
But there was no center. The camp was a slaughterhouse. Tents were burning despite the pouring rain, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to fight alongside the killers. These were not enemy soldiers from the neighboring valley. These were ghosts—silent, efficient, and endless.
"Jirani! Left flank!"
The Mage—Baraka's neighbor and friend—spun around. He looked nothing like the calm man who drank tea in Baraka's hut. His hood was thrown back, and his eyes glowed with a terrifying violet luminance.
A mercenary leaped at him from the shadows, dual daggers raised. The Mage didn't even touch him. He simply twitched a finger.
BOOM.
Gravity folded in on itself. The mercenary was slammed into the mud with the force of a falling boulder, his bones snapping audibly under the invisible weight.
"They aren't fighting for ground!" the Mage shouted, his voice tight with strain as he erected a barrier of shimmering force against a hail of arrows. "They're culling us, Baraka! They are killing the wounded! They are killing the cooks!"
Baraka gritted his teeth, the rain sizzling as it hit his ice-cold armor. "We get to the Command Tent. We get to Kito. The Chief's son is the priority! If he falls, the Kingdom falls!"
Meanwhile, in the forest…
Zawadi was not a mage. She could not freeze the rain or bend gravity.
But she was the wife of a General, and she knew how to hunt.
She moved through the dense bamboo forest like a shadow. Her feet were bare, sinking into the cold mud, but she made no sound. The rain was her ally. The thunder was her cover.
strapped to her chest, wrapped in layers of soaked cloth, were the twins. They were miraculously silent, as if they sensed the predator stalking them.
Snap.
A twig broke to her left.
Zawadi froze. She pressed her back against the rough bark of a massive Mahogany tree, her breath held tight in her chest.
A figure emerged from the gloom. He was clad in dark leather, a short sword in his hand. He wasn't a regular guard. He was a Tracker—one of the Chief's elite hunters, used for chasing down runaway slaves and deserters.
He paused, tilting his head. He was sniffing the air.
Zawadi's hand tightened on her small blade. She was exhausted. She had just given birth hours ago. Her body was screaming in agony, her hips burning, her legs trembling with weakness. But her eyes were blue fire.
The Tracker turned. He saw her.
A grin spread across his face. "Found you, mother."
He lunged.
He expected a frightened woman. He expected her to cower or beg.
He did not expect Zawadi to drop to her knees, sliding through the mud under his sword arm.
As she slid, she slashed upward. It wasn't a killing blow—she didn't have the reach—but her blade severed the hamstring of his right leg.
The Tracker howled and collapsed, his leg giving way.
Zawadi didn't run. She scrambled onto his back like a wildcat. He thrashed, throwing an elbow back that caught her in the jaw, tasting copper. Stars exploded in her vision, but she didn't let go. She wrapped her arm around his neck, locking it tight.
"Sleep," she hissed into his ear.
He clawed at her arm, his nails digging into her skin, but she squeezed harder, channeling every ounce of her maternal rage into the chokehold.
For the twins.
His thrashing slowed. Then stopped.
Zawadi released him, rolling away into the mud, gasping for air. She checked the babies immediately. They were warm. Safe.
She stood up, wiping blood from her lip. She grabbed the Tracker's sword—it was heavier than hers, better steel.
"One down," she whispered to the storm.
Back at the Ambush…
Baraka and the Mage carved a path through the chaos. Baraka was a whirlwind of blue steel and white frost.
A spearman lunged at his legs. Baraka stamped his foot.
"Ukuta!" (Wall!)
A thick sheet of ice shot up from the mud, deflecting the spear tip. Baraka spun around the ice wall, his sword trailing freezing mist.
"Kata ya Upepo!" (Wind Cut!)
He swung the blade in a wide arc. The ice magic extended the reach of his sword, a crescent of razor-sharp frost slicing through the air and cutting down two attackers at once.
They reached the clearing of the Command Tent. But as they burst through the line of fire, the battle died.
The silence was louder than the screaming.
In the center of the carnage, sitting atop his black stallion, Kito remained perfectly dry. A circle of heavy mercenaries stood around him—shields locked, weapons facing out.
They weren't attacking him. They were his personal wall.
Baraka skidded to a halt, his chest heaving, steam rising from his frozen gauntlets.
"Kito?" Baraka breathed.
The Chief's son looked down, wiping a speck of mud from his velvet sleeve. He looked bored.
"You're late, General," Kito drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the dying groans of Baraka's men. "I expected the mercenaries to peel you apart by the riverside."
The Mage stepped forward, his barrier dropping in shock. "You… you paid for this? These are your father's soldiers! Your people!"
"My father's soldiers," Kito corrected coldly. "Not mine. To build a palace, Mage, you must first clear the rot. And you two?" He smiled, a joyless curving of lips. "You are the rot. Too powerful. Too principled. Too… dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Baraka stepped forward, his grip tightening on his sword until the leather creaked. "I have bled for this family! I am the shield of this Chiefdom! I taught you how to hold a sword!"
"And now you are an obstacle," Kito snapped, his boredom vanishing. "The prophecy says the twins will break the world. My father wanted them dead. I simply decided to remove the board entirely. I am removing the parents who would inevitably try to save them."
The world stopped.
The rain seemed to hang in the air.
"What did you say?" Baraka whispered.
Kito leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with malice. "My men are already at your hut, Baraka. The order was specific: Burn it. If the woman screams, let her burn louder."
Something inside Baraka snapped. It wasn't a thought; it was a fracture in his soul.
"NO!"
The Mage roared, raising both hands, violet energy gathering in a massive, swirling sphere of destruction aimed straight at Kito.
THWIP.
A sound like a dry branch breaking.
The violet light vanished.
The Mage gasped, his hands falling to his sides. A black crossbow bolt, fletched with crow feathers, protruded from his throat. He looked at Baraka, eyes wide with confusion, before collapsing face-first into the mud.
The neighbor—the most powerful sorcerer in the lands—dead in a heartbeat.
"Kill the General," Kito ordered, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. "And dump him in the river."
In the Forest…
Zawadi was running again, but her path was blocked.
Three figures stepped out from behind the trees. Mercenaries. Big men, wearing chainmail that jingled softly. They held torches that hissed in the rain.
"Nowhere to run, little lady," the center one sneered. He had a scar running down his nose and held a massive warhammer.
Zawadi backed up, clutching the twins with one arm, the stolen sword in the other. She was trapped against a steep rock face.
"Give us the bundles," the scarred man said, stepping closer. "And we make it quick."
Zawadi looked at them. Three men. Heavily armed. She was bleeding, exhausted, and burdened.
But she smiled.
It was a terrifying smile. It was the smile of a lioness who realizes she has nothing left to lose.
"Come and take them," she challenged.
The scarred man laughed and charged, swinging the hammer.
Zawadi didn't block. She couldn't block a hammer with a short sword. She dropped to the ground, rolling forward between his legs.
As she rolled, she sliced his inner thigh.
He screamed, his leg buckling.
The second man swung a sword at her head. Zawadi ducked, using the momentum of the falling scarred man as a shield. The sword struck the mercenary's chainmail, sparking.
Zawadi thrust her sword upward, into the armpit of the second man—the weak point in the armor.
He gasped, dropping his weapon.
But the third man was smart. He didn't attack her. He kicked her.
His heavy boot caught Zawadi in the ribs.
Crack.
The pain was blinding. Zawadi flew backward, hitting the rock wall. The breath left her lungs. The sword spun out of her hand.
The third mercenary stood over her, raising a spear.
"Die."
Zawadi looked at the spear tip. She couldn't reach her sword. She couldn't move.
But her hand brushed against the wet earth.
She didn't have magic. But she had grit.
As he thrust the spear down, Zawadi grabbed a handful of mud and flung it upward into his eyes.
He roared, blinded for a second, the spear missing her inch and striking the rock.
That second was all she needed.
Zawadi grabbed the spear shaft, pulled herself up, and headbutted him. Her forehead slammed into his nose with a sickening crunch. He staggered back.
She picked up her sword.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't pause. She drove the blade through his chest.
She stood panting over the three bodies, the rain washing the blood from her white hair. Her ribs were broken. Her face was swollen. But she was alive.
"My children," she whispered, looking down at the bundles. "Will not die today."
The Edge of the Ravine…
Baraka didn't scream. He didn't cry.
He exploded.
"Miba ya Kuzimu!" (Thorns of the Abyss!)
Baraka slammed both hands onto the wet earth. The ground beneath the mercenaries erupted. Massive, jagged stalagmites of ice tore through the soil, impaling two of the guards instantly.
Baraka charged, no longer a General, but a father possessed.
He ducked a swinging mace, grabbed the attacker's face with his bare hand.
"Vunja!" (Break!)
He unleashed a pulse of pure cold. The man's helmet froze to his skin; he dropped, screaming.
Baraka vaulted over the body, sword swinging.
"Kimbunga cha Theluji!" (Snow Blizzard!)
He spun like a dervish, unleashing a vortex of ice shards and steel. He cut down one guard. Froze another. He was five feet from Kito.
Kito's boredom vanished. Fear flickered in his eyes. "Kill him! Stop him!"
Six heavy mercenaries slammed into Baraka at once.
He roared, catching a sword on his pauldron and headbutting a helmeted face, denting the steel. He stabbed one through the thigh, ripping the blade out sideways.
"Pasua!" (Split!)
He froze a mercenary's shield until it was brittle as glass, and smashed his elbow through it, driving his fist into the man's face.
But they were too many.
A warhammer slammed into his ribs—crack.
A blade sliced his calf—shk.
A spear pierced his shoulder.
Baraka stumbled, falling to one knee. He looked up, vision swimming in red and grey. Kito was right there. Ten feet away.
"You coward," Baraka gargled, blood bubbling past his lips.
"Throw this trash in the river," Kito sneered, pulling his horse back.
Three shields slammed into Baraka's chest, driving him backward.
His boots slid on the slick mud.
He clawed at the air, at the ice, at anything—but there was only the void.
He tipped backward over the precipice.
As gravity claimed him, the sounds of battle faded, replaced by the deafening roar of the dark river far below.
Kito rode to the edge and looked down. He saw the General's body swallowed by the white foam.
"It is done," Kito spat. "No man survives the Crimson River in a storm. Especially not in iron armor."
He turned his horse away.
But Kito did not understand the nature of the man he had just killed. He knew Baraka as the master of Ice. He knew Ice was hard, brittle, and unyielding.
He did not know that Ice… was simply water that had learned to hold its breath.
Baraka hit the surface with bone-shattering force.
Any other man would have been crushed. Any other man would have fought the current, thrashed against the suffocating cold, and drowned in the chaotic swirl.
But as the darkness took him, Baraka did not fight.
He relaxed.
The river roared like a beast, tearing at his armor, dragging him down into the gloom. But to Baraka, the roar was not of a beast. It was a language he had not spoken in years.
The water did not feel like an enemy. It did not feel like death.
It felt like… Chimbuko.
The Source.
He closed his eyes, and the river took him—not as a corpse, but as a secret.
Miles away, deep in the thrashing forest, Zawadi stumbled. A sharp pain pierced her chest, cold and sudden. She gasped, clutching the twins tighter, her eyes darting to the same stormy sky.
She didn't know how, but she knew.
She was alone now.
One parent fell into the deep, claimed by the Chimbuko.
The other ran into the wild, claimed by the shadows.
The betrayal was complete. Now, the war for the future had truly begun.