Night settled heavily over the capital of Buganda, its streets slick with mist and moonlight. The torches that lined the palace gates hissed faintly in the damp air, casting long shadows across the cobbled path.
A lone rider approached, cloaked and silent.
The chief guard at the gate stepped forward, hand on spear—until his eyes caught the face beneath the hood.
He stiffened in recognition. "Onyango."
The name carried weight here. Whispers of Nuri's eyes. The one who had disappeared into the shadows of Abyssinia and returned with fire.
The gate opened without a word.
The Kabaka's private residence was quiet at this hour, but he was still awake. There had been no peace in Buganda for weeks—court factions bickered endlessly, the air thick with accusations and suspicion. It was not a kingdom at war, not yet—but one misstep, and it would be.
