Khisa had fought many battles, but this... this was a war against sothing he couldn't stab, couldn't outmaneuver, couldn't intimidate.
Cholera took who it pleased.
His hands trembled as he pressed wet cloth against a dying child's forehead. He had boiled water, isolated the sick, built crude purification systems—and still, it wasn't enough.
Every morning, more bodies.
At night, his mind was haunted by faces he could not save. He barely slept, barely ate. His warriors, hardened by war, were shaken as well.
Yet they buried their grief, just as they buried the dead.
When the last wave of death finally passed, Khisa stood before a field of graves, his heart weighed down by failure.
The villagers gathered, silent in their grief.
An elder woman, one of the few left, stepped forward. A Kikuyu elder.
"We must send them off properly," she murmured.
Khisa had read about it before—the Kikuyu burial rites.
A sacred farewell.
The villagers lit torches as the elders chanted, calling upon their ancestors to guide the spirits of the fallen. The fire danced, flickering against the night sky, as they buried the dead with soil, with prayer, with mory.
Khisa stood among them, gripping a handful of dirt. When his turn ca, he let it slip through his fingers, whispering under his breath:
"I am sorry."
When the last grave was sealed, the villagers sang a mourning song—a song of rembrance and loss.
Khisa had been many things in his life, but in that mont, he was simply a mourner.
The survivors—only 300 remained—were no longer the sa. They did not rejoice. They did not weep. They simply existed, hollow and exhausted.
Khisa gathered them, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.
"Co with . Co to Nuri."
The villagers exchanged hesitant glances. They feared abandoning their land, the graves of their dead.
Khisa understood.
"This is still your land," he reassured them. "Nuri does not take from its people. It gives. We will plant our flag here. This will always be yours."
Then, he drove the Nuri flag into the earth, marking their land as protected territory.
Still, doubt remained.
Until one woman, her face lined with grief but her eyes still sharp, spoke.
"What will Nuri give us?"
"A future," Khisa said. "A place to rebuild. To learn. To grow stronger, so this never happens again."
It was not hope that moved them—it was exhaustion. They had nothing left. Staying ant death.
One by one, they chose to follow him.
And so, the long journey back to Nuri began.
Leading 300 weakened, grieving people through the wilderness was a new kind of battle.
The group moved slowly, exhaustion heavy in their steps. Children clung to their mothers. The elderly leaned on sticks. They had already survived so much.
And the wild knew it.
At night, lions lurked at the edges of their camp. During the day, hyenas followed them, watching, waiting.
One night, as Khisa sat by the fire, sharpening his sword, a sudden scream shattered the silence.
A warrior rushed in, his face pale.
"They took soone," he gasped.
Khisa grabbed his sword and ran. The bushes trembled with movent.
Then—a shriek. A struggle. Silence.
By the ti they found the body, it was already torn apart.
The next day, Khisa made a decision.
"We move in tight formation. Warriors on all sides. We will not lose another soul."
That night, when the hyenas ca again, they were t with fire and spears. The beasts fled, and the ssage was clear—they were not prey.
After weeks of struggle, they finally saw the flag of Nuri.
They were ho.
anwhile, in Nuri...
As Khisa battled disease and the wilderness, Nuri faced a different kind of war.
A war of order.
Nanjala sat before Lusweti, the elders, and the spiritual leaders, her voice steady.
"We need laws," she declared before Lusweti, the elders, and the spiritual leaders.
The room fell silent.
"Matenje grows stronger," she warned. "He and his faction do not respect the way we do things. Without laws to keep them in check, he will spread like disease."
"We cannot rely on one man to settle every dispute," she continued. "Nuri is growing. With growth cos chaos. We need order."
Lusweti frowned. "We have always solved our problems as a people. Why change now?"
"Because we are no longer just a village," she countered. "We are a kingdom."
The elders muttered among themselves. Laws were for foreigners, for people who did not trust their own kin.
But Nanjala was relentless.
She described what she had seen—how n were reduced to animals in the slaver camps because there were no laws protecting them.
"If we do not shape our kingdom now, it will shape itself," she warned. "Without laws, there will be chaos. And chaos will destroy everything we have built."
The reaction was imdiate.
Murmurs. Frowns. Disbelief.
Lusweti leaned forward. "You want us to put rules on paper and force people to follow them?"
"Yes," Nanjala said firmly.
"Laws are for those who do not trust their own kin," an elder scoffed. "We have lived without them."
She exhaled slowly. "And Nuri is not just a village anymore."
They did not see the danger.
But she did.
Silence.
Lusweti fell into deep thought.
Finally, he nodded.
"Then let us write these laws."
It was the first step toward sothing greater.
The first draft of the Nuri Constitution was born.
A set of rules, of justice, of punishnt—to ensure that Nuri did not just survive, but thrived.
A younger warrior crossed his arms. "What kind of laws do you suggest?"
Nanjala pulled out a parchnt, the beginnings of Nuri's first constitution.
The First Laws of Nuri
1. Murder is punishable by exile or death.
2. Theft is punishable by labor for the kingdom.
3. Land disputes must be settled by council ruling.
4. All children must be taught to read and write.
5. No one may be enslaved within Nuri's lands.
Simple. Clear. Unbreakable.
Lusweti stared at the parchnt for a long ti.
Finally, he nodded.
"We will start with these."
It was the first step toward true order.
And just in ti.
Because Matenje had been waiting for chaos.
And now, he would have to find another way.
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