Dawn cracked over the valley, golden light spilling across treetops like spilled oil. The Adal camp below stirred with the grumbling rhythm of n who’d grown too used to power. Their fires were smoldering embers, their laughter crude and careless, echoing off the surrounding cliffs. They numbered just over a thousand—ard with rifles, curved swords, and the bitter confidence of those who had gone unchallenged for too long.
The Abyssinian army crept through the ridges above, crouched low in the tall grass, the scent of wet soil and tension heavy in the air. konnen crouched at the cliff’s edge, scanning the camp through a spyglass. Lieutenant Hana joined him, jaw tight.
"Ready?" konnen asked.
"As we’ll ever be. Scouts marked three watch towers, and prisoners are kept near the southern edge, near the low boulders. Guards rotate every hour."
"Good. When the fighting starts, take your unit and get them out. Don’t look back."
Hana nodded. "We’ll burn the cages if we must."
A grim smile touched konnen’s face. "Then go."
Hana slipped away into the brush, his fifty-man unit fanning out like smoke. The main force waited, guns loaded, blades unsheathed. And when the first signal—a flaming arrow—shot across the sky, the valley roared to life.
Gunfire cracked. Smoke billowed. And war began.
Adal Camp, Minutes Before the Attack
Commander Idris of the Adal forces leaned back against a log, picking his teeth with a dagger. He was tall, broad, and reeked of spiced wine and arrogance. Around him, soldiers boasted, spat, and passed around dry bread and jugs of date liquor.
"Those Abyssinian dogs won’t co," one sneered. "They pray too much. Think gods will save them."
"They’re too busy hiding behind mountains," another added.
Idris snorted. "Let them. The only thing they do well is bleed."
But then the arrow flew. Then the earth shook.
Then the Abyssinians ca.
The valley exploded with movent. Abyssinians descended like thunder—rifles blazing, spears hurled with terrifying accuracy. konnen led the charge on the left flank, blade drawn, rifle slung on his back.
He moved like a man possessed, cutting through the chaos, barking orders over gunfire. "Push past the ridge! Don’t let them regroup!"
He t resistance—Adal soldiers rallying with fierce defense. But the Abyssinians held strong, outmaneuvering with superior discipline.
Then, through the lee, konnen spotted him—Commander Idris, shouting orders, slashing with a wide-bladed sword.
konnen charged.
Their blades t with a clash that rang through the din. Idris snarled. "You think you’ll take this camp? Fool!"
"You already lost it the mont you enslaved our people," konnen growled.
They fought in brutal, close combat—Idris with brute strength, konnen with precision and fury. Sparks flew. Blood spattered. konnen took a cut to the arm, but parried a killing blow, ducked low, and drove his sword into Idris’ gut.
Idris gurgled, dropping his weapon, and fell to his knees.
"For the children," konnen whispered, before driving the blade deeper.
Hana’s unit moved with deadly silence, blades and short rifles clearing a path to the cages. They found them chained under a crude wooden canopy—n, won, children, so naked, others barely clothed, skin torn, bones too visible. The sll hit first—waste, rot, blood.
"Gods..." one soldier whispered, covering his mouth.
Another stood frozen. "They kept them like animals."
Hana forced open the first cage. "Get them out. Now."
So captives backed away, too broken to believe rescue. Others wept openly. A boy clung to Hana’s leg, trembling.
"We’re here to take you ho," Hana said, his voice cracking.
A woman reached for her child’s corpse in the straw. "He... he died two days ago. No food. No water."
Another prisoner, her face swollen from beatings, hissed, "They made us kneel while they laughed. They pissed on our dead."
The soldiers, hardened as they were, faltered.
"Move!" Hana roared. "Get them out! Cover our flanks!"
A young boy, no more than ten, had broken away from the group of freed captives. His body was gaunt, his hands trembling, but in them he gripped a rusted dagger likely stolen from a guard. An Adal soldier, unaware, stumbled backward toward him in the chaos.
The boy struck.
Once. Twice. Again.
The soldier scread—a choked, surprised sound—before collapsing, clutching his side. Blood darkened the soil beneath him. The boy stared, wide-eyed, then fell to his knees, sobbing and shaking, the dagger still clutched tight.
Nearby Abyssinian soldiers froze at the sight. One woman knelt and wrapped the boy in her arms, whispering words he was too broken to hear.
Hana saw it too, and his face hardened.
"They turned our children into killers," he said. "Let none of them leave this valley alive."
Despite him being in the army for so long, this sight was ingrained into his mind.
They broke these children and they will pay, he thought.
Lieutenant Eyob fought near the central corridor of tents, flanked by his unit. They advanced swiftly until an explosion flung him backward. He hit the dirt, ears ringing.
Three Adal soldiers sward him.
He fired once, dropping the first.
Then a sword cut across his chest.
He scread, scrambling back, trying to reload, but blood blurred his vision.
The second ca down with a roar—only to be gunned down by a soldier from Eyob’s unit.
"Get up, Eyob!" he yelled.
The third attacker lunged—Eyob raised his bayonet in ti, skewering him through the gut.
Breathing hard, he stared at his bloodied hands. "I thought I was dead."
"You almost were," he said. "But not today."
Smoke rolled thick across the battlefield. The Adal resistance shattered. Prisoners were led through the trees—carried, supported, guarded like treasure. konnen, arm bleeding but still standing tall, surveyed the wreckage.
The Abyssinians had lost nearly a hundred. Bodies lay in tangled heaps. But the captives were free. And the Adal camp burned.
Hana returned with the last group—his face hardened, eyes sunken.
konnen nodded to him. "You did well."
"We’re not done," Hana replied. "But they’ll never take another village. Not while we breathe."
The sun sets behind them, washing the valley in crimson light, as if the land itself wept—and healed.
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