The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 148 - The Ink and the Flame

The council hall of Buganda stood tall, woven from thick reeds and beams of aged timber. Shafts of light poured through gaps in the roof, striping the floor with golden veins. Outside, rain clouds threatened the afternoon, but within, the air was warm with tension.

Khisa stood before the Kabaka and his council of elders—each seated on carved wooden stools, wrapped in barkcloth and layered robes, their expressions guarded but curious. Mugwanya, the eldest among them, tapped his flywhisk absently against his knee. Ssebugwawo, sharp-eyed and lean, watched Khisa as if weighing every breath. And beside them sat Kato, younger than the rest, his beaded armband glinting as he leaned forward.

The Kabaka nodded at Khisa. "With the disease under control, we must look ahead. Let us discuss the terms of the trade agreement."

There was a low murmur of assent. One elder—a broad-shouldered man named Mugwanya, chieftain of the Buziga hill clans—nodded stiffly but didn’t smile.

The Kabaka continued, "Now, we must return to why we welcomed Prince Khisa in the first place. A trade agreement—so our futures may be bound not just in gratitude, but in shared purpose."

He gestured toward Khisa. "You may proceed."

Khisa bowed slightly. "Our people are safer now. And our friendship deserves foundation."

He unrolled a blank scroll onto a smooth plank of wood, dipping his reed pen in ink. The sight of the pen alone stirred murmurs from the council.

"You insist on trapping words with ink?" Mugwanya asked, eyes narrowed. "What happens when your scrolls rot? Or fall into the wrong hands?"

Khisa offered a patient smile. "We do not trap words. We preserve them—so the next generation doesn’t lose the wisdom of the past."

Ssebugwawo hummed. "Even the oldest baakisimba drums lose their voice in time. But we still dance. Still remember."

"I’m not here to bury your traditions," Khisa said gently. "I’m offering a tool, nothing more. Let your children decide how far they carry it."

He paused as the final strokes dried. Then he looked up.

"I will write an official copy for your records. I can also teach your scribes this script if you wish. Your people should be able to preserve their words in stone and leaf, not only in song."

Mugwanya frowned. "Words trapped in ink are not living. Our ancestors taught us that memory lies in the blood. Stories told, not caged."

Another elder, Ssebugwawo of the inner lake clans, stroked his beard. "And yet a ledger remembers what a tired tongue may forget. Especially with so many mouths to feed."

Laughter—tight, cautious—broke the tension, but the air remained taut.

Kato finally spoke, his voice youthful but firm. "What are the terms, Prince Khisa? Let’s begin."

Khisa nodded. "Nuri proposes the following: we open trade routes between our borders. Your kingdoms are rich in hardwoods, rare dyes, and fine cloth. We offer refined iron, medicines, and salt in fair exchange."

Ssebugwawo added, "We also have skilled weavers and drummers. Your people may seek them out, but we expect equal sharing."

"Agreed," Khisa said, writing as he spoke. "And more: We invite Buganda to send young artisans, scholars, and royal children to Nuri for education. They’ll learn reading, writing, map-making, and strategy. And we welcome Nurians to learn music, dance, and woodwork from your finest."

Mugwanya snorted. "And what use does a blacksmith’s son have for scrolls?"

Kato smiled. "He might forge better iron with written records of flame temperatures and techniques. Knowledge sharpens more than blades, old father."

The Kabaka gave a subtle nod. "And if they return as wiser men, they’ll serve us better."

Khisa continued, "We will also open a seasonal market at the border. No taxes for the first two years, only shared protection by our joint guards."

The council fell quiet for a moment. Outside, a soft wind stirred the reeds above, letting in a single shaft of sunlight that fell directly onto Khisa’s ink-stained hand.

"You write with a shadow," Mugwanya said. "And shadows can lie."

"Only if the hand lies with it," Khisa replied calmly. "You have my word that these agreements serve peace, not domination."

Ssebugwawo’s eyes narrowed. "And yet, you write alone. No Bugandan hand guides the pen."

"I invite one of you to learn," Khisa said, offering the reed pen. "Or send someone you trust. This agreement can bind us—but only if we both hold the thread."

No one reached for the pen.

"Then I will write it," Khisa said after a beat, "but you will read every word aloud before we seal it."

The Kabaka stood. "That is fair."

Khisa’s hand moved quickly, the ink gliding like thought turned physical. Names, resources, obligations, and timeframes—each line carefully formed under the watchful eyes of the council.

When he finished, the Kabaka read each clause aloud. The elders nodded, murmured, or whispered comments to each other. Mugwanya remained stone-faced. Kato asked for clarity on the education clause. Ssebugwawo proposed rotating the young envoys every season—accepted by all.

The agreement was done by late evening. A ceremonial gourd of wine was passed. It tasted of sour berries and soil—like history, Khisa thought.

As the council dispersed, Mugwanya lingered near the doorway. "Tell me something, Nuri prince. Why are you really here? You speak of peace, but your people are growing fast. Too fast."

Khisa met his gaze. "We grow because the world left us bleeding for too long. Now we build for those who have nothing left. That includes you—if you choose."

Mugwanya gave a noncommittal grunt and turned away.

Khisa remained alone in the hall, the night settling around him. The ink on the scroll shimmered faintly in the lamplight. He looked down at his hand, stained deep black from writing.

For a moment, he felt a strange weight. Power made visible. Truth made vulnerable.

He exhaled.

"If the pen is a weapon," he whispered, "then let me wield it carefully."

A sudden gust fluttered the reed walls, and a faint voice echoed in his mind—Ayaan again, steady and certain:

[You’re doing what they never dared. That’s why they fear you.]

Khisa smiled bitterly. "Let them. As long as the people benefit, I’ll carry their fear."

He rolled up the agreement and tucked it beneath his arm.

Tomorrow, they would seal it.

Tomorrow, the ink would harden.

And tomorrow, the game would deepen.

****

In a candlelit room hundreds of miles away, a man in foreign robes poured wine into a brass cup.

Another figure entered, hooded.

"Is it done?" the robed man asked.

The hooded figure nodded. "The disease spreads as planned. Buganda blames itself. Nuri hasn’t made a move—yet."

"Good. Keep pressing the clans. The more they fight, the easier it becomes to buy their loyalties. When the Kabaka falls, we step in."

He raised the cup.

"To chaos... and conquest."