Chapter 18 - A Kingdom is Born

The battlefield was long behind them, but the war for unity had only just begun.

At dawn, the village gathered under the vast sky to bury their fallen.

Mothers wept over sons who would never return. Fathers stood silent, hands clenched in quiet grief. Warriors mourned their brothers-in-arms, their gazes heavy with loss.

Lusweti stepped forward, his voice solemn.

"We honor those who fell so that we could stand here today. Their names will not be forgotten. Their sacrifice will not be in vain."

The crowd murmured in agreement, some nodding, others whispering prayers to their ancestors.

Twenty-four cows were slaughtered in their memory, their blood returning to the earth in tribute. That night, a great fire was lit, and the people feasted—not in joy, but in remembrance. Songs were sung, not of sorrow, but of warriors whose names would be carried through generations.

Yet, even in this moment of unity, the weight of what was to come loomed over them.

The next morning, as the sun cast its golden glow over the land, Lusweti and the elders gathered before the people. Khisa stood beside him, his presence steady.

Lusweti raised his hand for silence.

"The time for division is over," he began. His voice was strong, unwavering. "From this day forward, we are no longer Abakhore or Angwenyi. We are one."

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Some nodded in agreement, but others stiffened.

Elder Amisi, his expression guarded, stepped forward. "You ask us to cast aside our ancestors' names? To erase who we are?"

"No," Lusweti replied. "Your ancestors remain with you. Your roots do not vanish. But we cannot remain as separate people and expect to survive."

Another elder scoffed. "You speak as if we have no choice."

Lusweti's gaze sharpened. "We don't."

Silence.

He gestured around them. "Look at our numbers. Look at the warriors who fought beside you. Did you ask them what clan they came from when they bled for you? Did you care if the hands that freed your kin belonged to an Angwenyi or an Abakhore?"

A heavy pause. The tension in the air was thick, but cracks were forming.

"We share land, we share blood, and now, we share a future," Lusweti continued. "It is time we share a name."

Another elder frowned. "And what name do you propose?"

Lusweti let the silence stretch before answering.

"Nuri."

The name carried in the wind, settling over them like an unseen force.

Khisa stepped forward. His voice was calm but firm.

"We are not erasing the past," he said. "We are building something that will last beyond us. A kingdom where no one is left behind. A people who stand as one."

The elders exchanged glances. Some still looked skeptical.

Then, from the crowd, a voice rang out.

"Hail Nuri!"

It was Ndengu, his voice carrying over the uncertainty.

"Hail Nuri!" another voice echoed.

Slowly, hesitantly at first, others joined in. The murmur grew into a chant.

"Hail Nuri! Hail Nuri!"

Lusweti breathed deeply. They weren't all convinced yet, but the tide had turned.

And then, the final words were spoken.

"Hail King Lusweti!"

It came from the people—not from Lusweti himself, but from those who had fought, those who had suffered, and those who had chosen to believe.

That night, the celebration was different. It was not just a feast for the fallen but a declaration of a new era.

The people gathered again, eyes fixed on the wooden platform where Lusweti stood. The firelight cast his silhouette in sharp relief, making him seem larger than life.

Nanjala stood beside him, regal in her quiet strength.

Khisa, standing at the edge of the platform, felt the weight of history pressing down on them.

Elder Amisi stepped forward, holding a ceremonial spear. He looked at Lusweti for a long moment before speaking.

"This is not the way of our fathers," he said. "But perhaps… our fathers would not have survived these times."

With a slow nod, he placed the spear in Lusweti's hands.

The people watched, breath held.

Lusweti stepped onto a raised stone—the highest point in the gathering. He lifted the spear high, and his voice rang out.

"I stand before you not as an Abakhore. Not as an Angwenyi. But as your king."

The crowd erupted.

Some cheered. Some bowed. Some, still hesitant, watched in silence.

Lusweti knew—acceptance would not come all at once. But it had begun.

Nanjala was declared the Queen Mother, a figure of wisdom and unity.

And Khisa—named Prince of Nuri.

The future did not belong to the past. It belonged to those who could build it.

The people feasted, danced, and sang beneath the stars. Yet, not all celebrated. Some of the older generations stood at the edges, watching, uncertain. They did not refuse this new kingdom, but neither did they fully embrace it.

It would take time.

And time was something they finally had.

As the embers of the celebration still glowed, Khisa sought out Lusweti. He found him alone, sitting by a dying fire.

Lusweti's expression was unreadable, his grip tight around the ceremonial spear.

"You should rest," he said without looking up.

Khisa sat beside him. "I will. But first, I need to ask you something."

Lusweti raised a brow. "You have my ear, Prince Khisa."

Khisa exhaled. "You are king now. And I… I want to stand beside you, not just as your son, but as a leader of Nuri."

Lusweti watched him carefully. "Why?"

Khisa clenched his fists. "Because I have ideas that can make us stronger. I can bring change—not just in war, but in how we grow, how we sustain ourselves. You lead the warriors. Let me lead the future."

Lusweti was silent for a long moment. Then, he smirked. "You are bold."

"I am serious."

Lusweti nodded slowly. "Then prove it."

Khisa didn't hesitate. "Tomorrow, I will."

The next morning, Khisa gathered parchment, ink, and a handful of trusted men.

"We are going to count every person in Nuri," he announced.

The men looked confused.

"Every warrior, every elder, every child. We need to know who lives in this kingdom, where they will stay, and what they need to survive."

For the first time in history, Nuri took record of its people.

Khisa walked among them, listening to their concerns. Some still refused to call themselves Nurian. Some still whispered of old names, old ways.

But Khisa saw something greater.

He saw warriors who had once fought each other now working side by side. He saw freed slaves finding a home. He saw people daring to dream.

As Lusweti stood as King, and Khisa carved the future with ink, one truth became clear—

The Kingdom of Nuri had begun.