The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 61 - The Unseen Horizon

The sky hung low above General Malik’s camp, a dull grey stretching endlessly over cracked earth and restless soldiers. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and burnt rations. The fires were dimmer now, the food nearly gone, and the silence in the camp wasn’t calm—it was dangerous.

Kilwa had gone silent.

No updates. No messengers. Just whispers. Just doubts. The dead mercenaries had spoken of betrayal—how Almeida, the Sultan’s supposed ally, was preparing a coup. How Lusweti, King of Nuri, had marched to stop him.

It made no sense.

Malik stared at the map of Kilwa spread across his desk, its corners pinned down by rusted daggers. His hands hovered over the city drawn in ink. His jaw clenched.

If Almeida had betrayed the Sultan... if Lusweti had somehow known and acted first...

Then what did that make Malik?

A fool? A pawn?

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling everything on it. No. It couldn’t be true. It shouldn’t be true.

And yet, it was possible.

That possibility enraged him. Not just because it suggested he had backed the wrong side—but because it meant he had tortured innocents. That the delegates he maimed, the Nuri warriors whose bones were crushed and pride broken under his orders, might have been telling the truth all along.

And that thought made him sick.

His whole life, Malik had obeyed the hierarchy—honor, command, execution. The Sultan gives the word. You carry it out. Doubt was weakness. Hesitation was death.

But now the Sultan might be dead. Almeida might be gone. The chain of command had snapped—and Malik stood in the rubble, unsure of what came next.

A voice in his head screamed to press the attack, to punish Nuri for daring to rise. Another whispered that he had been on the wrong side all along.

He hated both voices.

"I should never have listened to those mercenaries," he muttered to himself. "I should’ve seen it coming."

But it was too late to undo anything.

And still, Nuri came with open hands. A messenger. An offer for dialogue. General Simiyu had proposed a meeting.

Talks, after all that had happened?

Malik clenched his teeth. He didn’t believe in forgiveness. He believed in strength. In control. But something in him—a weary, bleeding thing buried deep—wondered if he had already lost both.

He turned to his aide. "Send word. I’ll meet with General Simiyu. Neutral ground. Limited escort."

A small tent flapped gently under a midday sun. It stood alone in a dry, cracked clearing between the camps—an island between two seas of warriors. Inside, Malik and Simiyu sat across from each other, a single wooden table between them. Outside, guards from both armies stood stone-faced, eyeing one another with silent hostility.

Inside, the air was thick.

Simiyu broke the silence first. "I’m glad you came. This conflict—this bleeding of our people—it needs to end."

Malik didn’t respond at first. His gaze was cold, his hands resting on the hilt of his sword.

"I came to listen," he said finally, "not because I trust you, but because I’m tired of watching men die for nothing. Let’s see if your words are worth the breath."

Simiyu gave a slight nod. He didn’t expect warmth. He expected resistance. "You’ve been lied to. Almeida used you. Used all of us. The mercenaries told us of his plans. He was going to kill the Sultan and sell Kilwa to the highest bidder."

"That’s easy to say now," Malik shot back. "Convenient, even. Do you expect me to believe that Nuri’s sudden heroism was purely noble?"

"No," Simiyu admitted. "I expect you to doubt. But I ask you to think. What does Nuri gain from Kilwa’s destruction? What do we gain from your suffering?"

Malik’s silence was long.

Simiyu continued, pressing gently but firmly. "We fought slavers years ago—foreigners who think us cattle. They never left. They just changed their masks. Almeida is one of them. The question is: will you fight with us, or die for them?"

Malik narrowed his eyes. "Big words, General. Words cost nothing. I need proof."

Simiyu nodded. "Then come with me. You, me, and a few from each side. We’ll ride to Kilwa and see what’s left. Until then, a ceasefire."

Malik didn’t respond immediately. He stared at Simiyu, searching for cracks. None showed.

"Fine," he said at last. "But if this is a trick—"

"It isn’t," Simiyu said. "You have my word."

Outside the tent, a Nuri warrior brushed shoulders with one of Malik’s soldiers. The man snarled.

"Watch it, dog."

The Nuri warrior raised an eyebrow. "Still think you’re on the winning side?"

Two Kilwan soldiers glared at the Nuri guards, one muttering, "Look at them. Standing proud like they’ve already won."

A Nuri warrior stepped closer, lips curling. "We didn’t come to fight. But we’ll finish it if you push."

Another Kilwan sneered. "You think a little speech changes everything?"

Inside, the pressure simmered.

"You’re asking for a ceasefire," Malik said. "Yet neither of us knows if the situation has changed. For all we know, Almeida still sits in Kilwa and Nuri’s King lies dead in the street."

Simiyu didn’t waver. "Then come. See for yourself."

Malik blinked.

The tension snapped. Swords half-drew, eyes wild. A guard captain barked, and the warriors reluctantly backed down.

Inside, Simiyu sighed. "This won’t hold long. The sooner we ride, the better."

Malik stood. "We leave at first light. I’ll bring my best. And if you’re lying—"

"You’ll kill me," Simiyu finished. "I know."

As Malik stepped out into the sun, he didn’t look back. His face was unreadable, but his mind was a storm.

"Our medics will treat your sick," Simiyu offered. "As a gesture of goodwill." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"You think that earns my trust?"

"No," Simiyu said. "I think it saves lives."

Malik looked down, then stood abruptly. "If this is a trick, I’ll make sure your kingdom burns with us."

"Then let’s both pray it isn’t," Simiyu said, rising as well.

The horizon was filled with shadows—and not all of them belonged to enemies.