M'banza-Kongo did not sleep.
Not truly.
Even beneath its quiet streets and incense-sweet air, the palace never stilled. Guards paced in pairs. Torches flickered in timed rhythm. The shadows held secrets—and tonight, they also held war.
Zara crouched beneath a stone arch near the royal gardens, heart pounding beneath her ribs. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade. Above her, the western palace loomed—stone and wood gilded in gold, now nothing more than a cage for a king who didn't know he was a prisoner.
The others moved in silence across the grounds.
Faizah slipped through the kitchens. Taban lingered by the bathhouse corridor, scanning the guards' routes. Kiprop was already inside.
No one spoke.
They didn't have time for words.
The first target was the king.
According to the intelligence, he slept alone now—isolated under the guise of "illness." His personal guards had been reassigned. No advisors. No family. It wasn't house arrest, not openly—but it was close enough.
