The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 65 - Redemption in the Ashes

The Kilwan soldiers rode in silence.

Their boots struck the earth with steady rhythm, but their hearts thundered with dread.

As they neared the coast, a sickening hush swept through the ranks. The breeze that once carried the scent of salt and trade now reeked of burnt wood, blood, and old grief. Blackened skeletons of homes stood like accusing fingers against the sky. The proud city of Kilwa—once a jewel of the Swahili coast—was now a scar carved into the land.

And then the weeping began.

One soldier, silent the entire ride, suddenly screamed.

He leapt from his horse, sprinting down what used to be a familiar street, only to collapse before a crumbled building. It had once been his home. He fell to his knees, fingers clawing at the ash and stone. His voice broke as he called out names—his wife’s, his son’s—again and again. But only silence answered.

Others followed.

A young man tore through the ruins of the market square, heart pounding. The place had been reduced to rubble and corpses, half-buried in debris. He tore through the wreckage, searching for his brother who used to sell cloth by the fountain.

"Bwana! Please! Not him—" His voice cracked, dissolving into sobs.

Another found a child’s doll—his daughter’s. It lay charred in the street. He didn’t speak. Just sat there, cradling it, his tears cutting clean trails through the soot on his cheeks.

Dozens collapsed into grief. The reunion with their homeland was not one of joy—it was a funeral with no priest, no burial song, only screams and the quiet crumble of what had been.

Through the chaos stood General Malik, General Simiyu, and King Lusweti.

They waited just outside the city, solemn and silent beneath the ruined skyline. As the Kilwan soldiers approached, commanders among them stepped forward—some furious, some trembling, all gutted by what they saw.

General Malik looked at the soldiers he led into battle, ashamed. So many lost and he could not protect them. He clenched his fists to his side.

’I should have known.’ He thought angrily.

Lusweti stepped ahead of his generals.

His voice was steady—not loud, but it carried like thunder across the wreckage.

"Kilwa has suffered," he began. "But not in vain."

A heavy silence fell.

"We fought to stop this massacre. Almeida betrayed you. His foreign mercenaries turned on your families. They burned your homes. They butchered innocents. Held your people in chains like animals. But we did not stand by. We struck back—and we won."

He paused, letting the weight of the truth settle in their chests.

"Almeida is dead. His mercenaries hunted down like dogs. None were spared. The Sultan—the one who fed this fire—was brought down, shot and strung from the highest wall by his own allies for Kilwa to see."

Gasps broke through the quiet. Some soldiers exhaled. Others lowered their heads, mourning the man they had once served.

"This war was never about conquest," Lusweti said. "It was about justice. And it is not over—not until Kilwa breathes again."

A commander stepped forward, jaw clenched.

"And now what? You want us to bend the knee? After we bled for a tyrant, you’d have us bleed for a king we don’t know?"

Another added, "You say Kilwa is yours. Then leave. We’ll rebuild without your mercy."

A third spat the words like venom. "After everything we’ve done to your men, you expect us to believe we’ll be accepted in your kingdom?"

Lusweti did not bristle.

He met their eyes, not as a conqueror, but as a man who knew pain.

"I understand your anger. Your grief. Your distrust. You have every right to feel betrayed. But I did not come to rule Kilwa. I came to protect it."

He took a step forward, his voice rising with quiet fire.

"Just as I earned the trust of Kilwa’s citizens, I will earn yours. You are now part of Nuri—not as subjects, but as kin. Nuri does not abandon its own. Supplies will come. Builders. Healers. You will rebuild—and you will thrive."

He turned, gesturing to the soldiers around them.

"Your homes are yours. Your land is yours. We do not take from our people. You will never again be ruled by slavers or betrayed by those meant to protect you. Not while we stand together."

He paused.

"We will fight under the same flag. And bleed under it, too. But hear this—your sins, from this war and from before, are wiped clean. All that remains... is redemption."

He extended his hand—not with force, but with hope.

"If you are willing, take it. Let us rise together. Let Kilwa stand—not in chains, but in pride. Let the world see that Nuri bows to no master, and neither will you. Not anymore."

The silence that followed was thick.

Wind stirred ash and dust through the streets.

And then—one man stepped forward.

Tears streaked his soot-covered face. In his arms, he held the scorched doll of his child.

"If what you say is true..." he whispered, voice raw, "Then let Kilwa rise again."

No one cheered. No one roared in celebration.

But no one raised a blade.

And in that fragile stillness, hope was born.

Back in Nuri,

The returning army was greeted like gods returned from war.

Cheers shook the earth. The people lined the roads with song and drums, throwing flowers and colored cloth. Children ran beside the soldiers, eyes wide with wonder and pride.

The golden sun of Nuri’s flag soared high, catching the light—a symbol not of war, but of something greater.

Hope.

In the great square, musicians, artisans, and scribes gathered. Warriors recounted tales of the final battle—of fire and betrayal, of impossible courage. They spoke of Lusweti’s boldness, of the scouts’ near-impossible feats, of victory carved from ruin, of the glorious first march into battle.

Children clutched sticks like spears, mimicking victory cries.

Young men and women watched with envy, their hearts aflame with the desire to serve, to protect, to become legend.

For the first time in a long time, the people of Nuri believed not just in their army...

...but in the strength of their name.