CHAPTER 194: CHAPTER 194 - THE MEASURE OF A PRINCE

The fires burned low that night, the sky painted with smoke and tired stars. The wind carried the smell of iron and damp ash through the camp, a battlefield’s silence, uneasy and alive.

Inside the command tent, the generals of Buganda and Nuri gathered around the map table once more. Their armor was still streaked with mud and dried blood; their faces drawn tight from sleepless nights.

Khisa stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, his voice calm but firm.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I want our soldiers to take as many Kongo men alive as they can. Those who surrender are not to be killed. They’ll be treated, fed, and kept separate from our own."

The statement hung in the air for a long moment — until one of the Bugandan generals scoffed loudly.

"You want us to save them?" he said, incredulous. "Feed them, even? Prince Khisa, we barely have enough for our own. Why waste resources on men who would gladly slit our throats if given the chance?"

Another general leaned forward, voice sharp. "These are the same men who spread that cursed sickness. Hundreds dead! Mercy for them is mercy for our own executioners."

Khisa looked up, his expression steady. "I understand your anger. But listen well, this war is not just about victory. It’s about survival. If we slaughter every Kongo soldier we capture, we leave their kingdom crippled and vulnerable. Kongo will still need its soldiers after this war is done."

The tent stirred with low mutters and disbelief.

"Why do we have to care about their soldiers?" one of the younger commanders demanded. "They’ll only raise their blades against us when this ends!"

Khisa’s tone did not rise, but something in his presence made the tent still. "Because if we destroy them," he said quietly, "we destroy our future allies. You think this is about revenge, but revenge ends empires. I need Kongo strong, because once this war ends, Portugal will still be there, waiting to divide us. We must hold together, or we’ll all fall separately."

A Bugandan general slammed his palm against the table. "You speak like a politician, not a soldier. We’re not builders of kingdoms, Prince, we’re men of war. You think this is a game?"

Khisa’s eyes hardened. "You’re right, General, you are a soldier. And I don’t expect you to see the world as I do. It’s my duty as Prince of Nuri to see beyond the battle. I must think of what comes after — of rebuilding, of protecting our borders, of securing a future where our children aren’t born into endless war."

The general glared, his jaw clenched.

Khisa stepped closer, his voice low but unwavering. "Your duty, General, is to bring your men home. Mine is to make sure there’s still a home for them to return to. I will never send you into an unnecessary battle. But I will demand you fight with honor. That means showing mercy when you can."

Silence followed, broken only by the flutter of the tent’s fabric in the night wind.

Finally, the general exhaled through his nose. "I may not understand, but fine. I’ll do as you say. I’ll make sure my soldiers survive."

Khisa nodded once. "That’s all I ask."

***

The next two days were a blur of mud, smoke, and exhaustion.

The war dragged on, neither side able to rest. Men fought until their arms trembled, then fought again. Every inch of ground gained was paid for in blood.

But Nuri’s discipline held. And slowly, as the Kongo ranks faltered, their soldiers began surrendering, some from fear, others from sheer fatigue.

Those captured were brought back to camp under heavy guard. Their wounds were treated, their water pouches refilled.

At first, there was panic.

The Kongo men flinched at every movement, expecting the blow of an executioner’s blade. Some refused food, believing it poisoned. Others lashed out, screaming that it was a trick.

A medic, her hands steady though her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, knelt beside a trembling prisoner. "You’re safe," she said gently, pressing a damp cloth to his head. "No one will harm you here."

He stared at her as if she’d spoken witchcraft. "Safe?" he croaked. "After what we’ve killed so many of your soldiers?"

"You’re soldiers," she said softly. "Not monsters. War is not kind to anyone."

Nearby, two Bugandan warriors stood watching, their faces twisted with disbelief. One spat on the ground.

"Look at this," he muttered. "We patch them up so they can kill us tomorrow. After everything we went through, we still have to see them everyday."

His companion grunted. "Orders are orders. We will protect them, but I’ll be damned if I share my meal with one."

The first man shook his head, bitterness dripping from his tone. "Maybe the Nuri prince’s heart is too soft for war."

The Nuri guards nearby heard, but said nothing. They kept their distance, disciplined, silent, unwilling to let the tension boil over.

"They have no idea what they are talking about. Prince Khisa has been at war since he was only 10 years old." A Nuri soldier murmured to the others.

"Don’t forget his achievements in Abyssinia, he fended off two powerful countries with a barely functioning navy, this battle with kongo is nothing to him." Another answered.

"He really is the pride of Nuri." The rest nodded in agreement, pride filling their hearts.

That night, the camp was divided not by walls, but by mistrust.

The captured Kongo soldiers huddled together under torchlight, whispering among themselves.

"Why do they feed us?" one asked. "Are they waiting to use us?"

"Maybe they need something from us," another replied.

"I heard their prince said Kongo must survive. I don’t even understand how it got to this point. All I know is we were told to prepare for war."

A nervous laugh followed. "I just heard rumours that the king was dead and Lumingu is taking over. If we survive, Kongo is in for a very hard time."

Across the field, the Bugandan soldiers sat in circles, their food untouched.

"They fight beside us," one said bitterly, "but protect our enemies. What kind of alliance is this?"

Another replied quietly, "Maybe it’s the kind we need if we ever want peace."

The first scoffed. "Peace is a story for kings and dreamers. My anger will never be sated if I don’t kill them as they have killed us."

"That will never lead to peace. We owe it to our people to make sure there are no more deaths."

Later, Khisa sat alone in his tent, the candlelight flickering across his weary face.

Ole Samoei entered quietly, carrying a mug of water. "They’re restless," he said. "Both sides. The Bugandans think you’ve lost your edge. The Kongo prisoners think it’s a trick."

Khisa nodded slowly. "That means neither side understands, not yet. I haven’t made any moves yet they think I’ve lost my edge. No matter, they will understand once everything falls into place."

"Then why do it?" Ole asked. "Why risk the trust of your allies for men who’d never show you mercy?"

Khisa looked up, eyes distant. "Because someone has to break the cycle. If we fight hate with hate, we’ll become the very thing we claim to destroy."

Ole stared at him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You speak like a man who’s already seen the future."

Khisa’s voice dropped to a whisper. "You don’t have to see the future to know how it ends Samoei, without unity and strong allies our future is full of graves."

Outside, the wind rose, carrying with it the quiet moans of the wounded — friend and foe alike. The firelight danced, casting shifting shadows over the tents, as if the night itself wrestled with the weight of mercy.

The morning air was thick with smoke and damp earth. The cries of the wounded had dulled into tired murmurs, the kind that clung to the soul more than the ear.

***

A horn sounded from the eastern ridge, sharp, urgent, and unfamiliar. Scouts came running through the camp, mud splashing at their ankles. Baraka stood near the forward line when he caught sight of them.

"Report!" he barked, one hand still on the hilt of his sword.

"A convoy, sir," one scout panted. "Small. Bearing Kongo banners but they fly a white cloth of truce."

Baraka narrowed his eyes toward the horizon. The faint shimmer of armor and banners moved between the hills — not an army, but an escort. "Get the archers ready. If it’s a trap, I want them ash before they cross the ridge."

Minutes later, the group halted at shouting distance. A man stepped forward, proud but clearly worn by travel. His cloak bore the royal markings of Kongo, though the fabric was dulled and stained with road dust.

"I am King Nzinga," he called out, voice carrying across the wind. "Here to see the Prince of Nuri."

The Nuri soldiers exchanged wary glances. Baraka’s brow furrowed. "Prove it," he said, hand still resting on his blade.

One of Nzinga’s guards produced a sealed letter, held high for inspection. Baraka motioned for one of his men to retrieve it. The seal bore Nuri’s emblem — unmistakable, untouched.

Baraka broke it open, scanning the contents quickly. His expression softened only slightly before turning to the King. "Wait here," he said curtly. "You will have your audience."