The Weight of Victory

Njuwa stood over his fallen opponent, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His arms ached from exertion, the sting of the cut on his shoulder reminding him that this was no simple training exercise.

This was real.

Blood had been drawn, and for the first time, he had won against an enemy who truly sought to harm him.

Jengo, who had barely managed to keep his opponent at bay, let out a sharp whistle. "Damn, Njuwa," he muttered, rubbing his sore arms. "You actually did it."

Nyoka smirked as she walked up, her eyes filled with rare approval. "Better than I expected," she admitted. "Maybe you're not a lost cause after all."

Njuwa wiped the sweat from his brow, looking at his fallen opponent. The young warrior groaned, slowly pushing himself up. His eyes met Njuwa's, dark with frustration but also with something else—respect.

"You fight well," the warrior muttered, spitting a bit of blood onto the ground.

Njuwa said nothing. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to respond.

The tension in the air still hung thick when the scarred soldier from before stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "The Baron will be pleased with this progress," he said gruffly. "But a single victory means nothing. You will fight again. Harder battles await."

Njuwa stiffened. Harder battles?

Jengo groaned. "Is this your way of saying we don't get to rest?"

Nyoka chuckled darkly. "Rest? You just won your first fight. That means your real training starts now."

Jengo slumped. "I hate this place."

Njuwa wasn't sure how he felt. His body was exhausted, his muscles burned, but something inside him thrived on this challenge. He had spent weeks being beaten down, feeling like a mere pawn in someone else's world.

But now?

For the first time, he felt like he could claw his way out of the chains that bound him.

A New Training Regimen

The moment their fight ended, Nyoka wasted no time. The training that followed was more brutal than anything they had endured before.

Every morning, they ran until their legs felt like stone. Every afternoon, they sparred, their bruises growing thicker by the day.

Weapons training became relentless. Njuwa's body adapted to the weight of the spear, each movement becoming sharper, more refined. Jengo, after struggling with the wooden club, switched to a short sword, finding his rhythm in quick, unpredictable movements.

They trained under the unforgiving eyes of Nyoka, the soldiers, and the Baron's overseers.

There was no praise, no congratulations—only expectations. Do better. Be stronger. Survive.

As the days passed, the camp whispered of something looming on the horizon.

"The Baron is planning something," Jengo muttered one evening as they sat near the barracks, their bodies sore from another grueling session. "The soldiers have been more tense than usual."

Njuwa nodded. He had noticed it too.

More patrols. More whispers. Even Nyoka seemed more focused, as if preparing them for something bigger.

"What do you think it is?" Njuwa asked.

Jengo shrugged. "Don't know. But if it means we're getting thrown into something worse than training, I don't like it."

Njuwa remained silent. A part of him agreed.

But another part?

It felt restless.

He had fought. He had survived. But he needed more than just training.

He needed a purpose.

The Baron's Summons

Their answer came sooner than expected.

Late one evening, as the sky bled red with the setting sun, a soldier approached them at the barracks. His armor was polished, his face cold and emotionless.

"The Baron has summoned the new trainees," he announced.

Jengo groaned. "Great. Just what I needed—more work."

But Njuwa felt his heartbeat quicken. The Baron himself?

They were led through the camp, past rows of training warriors and hardened soldiers. The deeper they went, the more luxurious the surroundings became.

The Baron's war tent was massive, made of rich fabric and adorned with banners of deep crimson. Gold-threaded embroidery reflected the flickering torches, making the entire space feel like it belonged to a ruler rather than a mere noble.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning incense. A long table stretched across the tent, covered with maps, battle plans, and what looked like territory markers.

And there, standing at the head of it all, was Baron Taziel.

Njuwa had only seen him from a distance before—a powerful, ruthless man with a presence that commanded silence.

Tonight was no different.

The Baron's gaze swept over them like a hunter surveying his prey. His eyes lingered on Njuwa for a moment longer than the rest.

"You fought well in your trials," he said, his voice smooth but filled with authority. "You have proven that you are not mere slaves."

Njuwa felt something stir inside him—pride. But he quickly crushed it.

The Baron was not a man who handed out compliments without reason.

"But strength alone is meaningless," the Baron continued. "Loyalty… that is what determines a warrior's fate."

Jengo swallowed hard. "Uh… what exactly are we being summoned for?"

The Baron's lips curled into a faint smile. "A test," he said.

A shadow moved from the far end of the tent. Njuwa turned, and his stomach tightened.

A man was dragged forward, his hands bound in chains. His face was battered, bloodied—yet his eyes still burned with defiance.

"This man," the Baron said, "betrayed me. He sold secrets to my enemies. He thought himself clever."

The prisoner lifted his head, spitting blood onto the floor. "I regret nothing," he snarled.

The Baron ignored him, turning back to Njuwa and Jengo.

"You have trained. You have learned to fight," he said. "Now, you will prove your loyalty."

A soldier stepped forward, handing Nyoka a blade. She took it without hesitation before turning to face Njuwa.

"You," she said, holding out the dagger.

Njuwa's breath caught.

Jengo stiffened beside him. "Wait… you're not saying—"

The Baron's gaze pierced into Njuwa.

"Kill him," he ordered.

Silence fell over the tent.

The prisoner stared at Njuwa, his breathing ragged but his expression unafraid.

Njuwa felt the weight of the blade in his hands. The air seemed thicker, pressing down on him like an invisible force.

He had fought before. He had drawn blood.

But this?

This was different.

This was murder.

His grip tightened. His mind raced.

What was he supposed to do?

To Kill or Not to Kill

The moment stretched endlessly.

Jengo was frozen beside him, not daring to speak. Nyoka watched, her expression unreadable.

And the Baron?

He was waiting.

For Njuwa's decision.

Would he obey?

Or would he refuse?

The answer would determine everything.

His fate.

His future.

And whether he was still the same boy from the burned village…

Or something else entirely.