The sun rose slowly over Kilwa, its golden light washing over the bloodied ruins like a false promise. Almeida was dead, and yet the scars he left behind would not fade so easily. The Nuri flag still flew high over the citadel, rippling in the morning breeze—a beacon of survival in a city that had tasted hell.
Kilwa was quiet, save for the sound of crows and the occasional sob. The air stank of smoke, blood, and rot. The houses, the old underground market tunnels—reeked of death. Bodies, both familiar and foreign, lay strewn across the stone floors. The scent clung to skin and cloth, stubborn and sharp.
They buried their dead in mass graves. There were too many for individual honors. Families wept as they lowered wrapped bundles into the earth. A boy named Musa found his niece under a pile of rubble, her small body limp, her dress stained. He didn't cry. He just held her and whispered stories they used to share until someone gently took her from him.
