They led the newly rescued won back to the village.
The morning sun cast golden rays over the horizon, but it could not wash away the horror of the night before. The villagers watched in stunned silence as the Shadow Guard returned, silent and graceful like wraiths. The rescued won—battered, dirty, and hollow-eyed—walked with shaky steps, clinging to each other for strength. So wept silently. Others simply stared forward, numb.
But their eyes—oh, their eyes held a strange mix of fear and awe when they looked at the warriors in black.
The mory of the previous night’s battle was still fresh. The way the shadows moved with terrifying precision, how they slipped through darkness like whispers, and how their weapons found flesh with absolute certainty—it felt like watching the impossible.
The n the won had once feared—those Adal monsters with guns and twisted grins—had been slaughtered with terrifying ease.
Guns ant nothing in the face of sheer will and mastery. The monsters who once seed untouchable had died like dogs.
As the group approached the edge of the village, many of the rescued won hesitated. Not all of them were from here, but even so, the smoke curling from warm hearths and the scent of maize flour stirred tears. It was a step away from ho. A promise of safety.
The villagers rushed forward, bringing water, food, wraps, and first aid. They took the won in their arms and held them like family. There was no judgnt. Only pain, and the quiet beginning of healing.
"They’ve been broken," whispered an elderly woman, tears trailing down her cheeks as she handed a scarf to a young girl. "They had given up on life. But these warriors... they ca like angels in the dark."
Near the village center, Khisa stood quietly, surveying the scene. His axe rested on his back, but his eyes burned with fury held in check. The toll of the mission hadn’t been just physical—it had cracked his heart open.
A sudden movent drew his attention.
A young woman stumbled toward him, her steps uneven but determined. Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails had drawn blood from her palms. She knelt before him, her fra trembling.
"Please..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please teach how to fight."
Her na was Faizah. Her voice quivered, but her spirit had not shattered.
Tears stread down her face as she looked up at him. Her skin was bruised, her lips chapped, and her clothes torn. She had been a prisoner for weeks—used, beaten, and discarded like livestock. Night after night, her body had been stolen from her. Her soul barely clung to life.
But when she saw Khisa swing his mighty axe beneath the pale moonlight, sothing deep inside her stirred.
A fire.
"What would it feel like," she choked out, "to cut down the n who destroyed ?"
She bowed her head, fists in the dirt. "When I prayed, God didn’t answer. When they ca for my family and slaughtered them like goats—God didn’t answer. I stopped believing. But then... you ca. You cut them down. You ended my hell."
Khisa’s breath caught.
The villagers, quiet now, stood around the scene. Mothers clutched children. Old n wiped their eyes. So looked uncomfortable; others nodded in quiet understanding. A few whispered prayers.
"What is your na?" Khisa asked softly.
"Faizah," she said. "Please... take under your wing. I want to be strong."
Khisa crouched beside her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You don’t need to kneel before ," he said.
"I don’t want to be weak again," she cried. "I’ll do anything. Even if it ans warming your bed..."
The village let out a collective gasp. A few turned away, others stepped closer protectively.
Khisa’s jaw tightened. Fury boiled under his skin.
How dare they do this to her?
[Calm down, Khisa. Steel your heart. You are a prince now.] Ayaan’s voice echoed in his mind.
"Never lower your head again. And never offer your body in exchange for strength. You owe that to no one—not even ."
"You’ve been through enough," Khisa said. "Your body and life are your own. No one—no warrior, no king—has the right to demand that of you. You want to fight? Then fight for yourself. Not as an offering, but as a warrior."
Faizah looked up, eyes wide and wet with tears.
"There are others like us," she whispered. "How many more camps? How many more girls? We can’t save them all... not if I stay weak."
Khisa lowered his gaze, haunted by mories from his old world. Of docuntaries about slavery. Of photos of young black n and won gunned down in Arica. Of his continent stripped bare, its blood turned to gold by foreign hands.
"Too many," he murmured.
"I want to be their answer," Faizah said. "Just like you were mine."
Khisa stood and offered his hand. "My path is not easy. So of us will die. We’ve trained since childhood. Are you ready for that?"
"I’ll beco whatever is needed. Even the devil."
"No," Khisa said firmly. "You don’t need to beco the devil. You just need to beco a warrior."
He turned toward the elders and walked to the village chief’s hut.
The chief stood by the doorway, watching silently.
"She’s serious?" the chief asked, still in disbelief.
Khisa nodded. "She’s not the only one. There will be more like her."
"You intend to train her?"
"My job as a leader is to bring out the best in my people," Khisa said. "If I deny her the chance to reclaim her strength, then I am no better than the n who took it."
The chief lowered himself slowly onto a stool. "You truly believe won can beco warriors?"
"In my kingdom," Khisa replied, "they already are. When our enemies outnumbered us, our won picked up swords beside the n. They didn’t ask for permission—they fought, bled, and died for our future. And because of them, we are still here."
The chief stared into the fire pit, lost in thought.
"Your kingdom," he said quietly. "It sounds like a dream."
"All great kingdoms do, at first," Khisa smiled. "But Nuri is more than a kingdom. It is an idea—one that anyone brave enough can carry."
He grew serious again. "How many of these Adal camps are out there?"
"I’m not sure. We’re too far from the heart of the war. The army might know more, but the nearest base is in Shewa, to the north."
"How many villages between here and Shewa?"
"Maybe twenty. We’re scattered—isolated. That’s why the Adal soldiers move freely. They’ve boxed us in."
Khisa looked northward. "So of these won are from those villages. We’ll return them to their hos—and take care of any Adal camps we find on the way."
The chief sighed. "I wish I could help you fight. But I’m old, and my legs are not what they used to be."
"Your people need you here," Khisa said, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. "But if you ever find yourself in danger again, head south. Seek out Nuri. We’ll always welco you."
The old man smiled faintly. "Thank you, young Prince. May your axe never dull."
Khisa nodded.
That night, they rested in the village. The won slept together in one large communal hut, guarded by a circle of Shadow Guard. Faizah lay in the center, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she would walk the road north—not as a victim, but as a blade being forged.
And Khisa? He knew that this was just the beginning.
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