The Nuri and Kilwa armies faced each other across the vast battlefield, the air thick with tension. The sun beat down upon their armor, glinting off the steel as each side stood in formation. Nuri soldiers, clad in iron-plated leather, gripped their swords and spears tightly, their shields firm in their hands. Across from them, the Kilwa warriors, donned in iron armor, stood resolute, with Portuguese mercenaries among them, muskets at the ready.
King Lusweti, atop his black warhorse, stared down Malik, his expression unreadable but his presence unwavering. Malik, adorned in gold-trimmed armor, regarded him with disgust, his lip curling at the sight of the young king.
"You don't belong on this battlefield, boy," Malik sneered. "Nuri should have surrendered when they had the chance. I will make sure your kingdom burns."