The Poisoner's Dilemma

The air in Mourning Moss Swamp was thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and something sharper—venom. Chisangalalo Zulu knelt in the muck, his calloused fingers pressing into the damp earth. The marsh's black water rippled around his knees, reflecting the sickly green glow of his own breath as he exhaled slowly. A tendril of toxic mist curled from his lips, dissolving a patch of moss into bubbling sludge.

*Again.*

He clenched his fists. The poison always came too easily.

"Still trying to undo what you've done?"

Zulu didn't turn. He knew that voice—dry, mocking, laced with the same exhaustion that gnawed at his own bones. Mwansa Nkalamo leaned against a twisted cypress, his shadow stretching unnaturally long, swallowing the faint moonlight.

"Someone has to," Zulu muttered.

Nkalamo snorted. "And you think choking on your own fumes will bring her back?"

Zulu's throat tightened. His wife's face flashed behind his eyelids—her smile, the way her hands had trembled as the fever took her. The same fever *he* had spread through their village years ago, back when his power had been a weapon, not a curse.

"Shut up."

Nkalamo pushed off the tree, his shadow slithering ahead of him. "Zhang Wei's men are moving. They're burning villages north of the Silent River. Women. Children. The usual."

Zulu wiped his hands on his tunic, leaving streaks of mud. "And?"

"And Kalima's already gone after them." Nkalamo's grin was all teeth. "You know how *that* ends."

A cold weight settled in Zulu's gut. Kalima Chileshe, the walking inferno, didn't *save* villages. He turned them to ash.

Zulu stood, the swamp water dripping from his clothes. "We're supposed to be better now."

Nkalamo shrugged. "Tell that to the flames."

---

The Silent River Gorge was anything but silent.

Screams echoed off the cliffs as Zhang Wei's Iron Fist Legion torched the thatched huts of a borderland settlement. Soldiers in lacquered armor laughed as they herded villagers into the square, their spears glinting in the firelight.

Then the air *rippled*.

A golden explosion tore through the ranks, sending bodies flying. John Mwanabeti landed in the center of the chaos, his fists wreathed in fire. His aura burned so bright it hurt to look at.

"Who's next?" he roared.

The soldiers hesitated—just long enough for the shadows at their feet to *move*. Nkalamo's laughter slithered through the dark as blades of solidified night impaled three men from below.

Zulu arrived last, his breath a swirling emerald fog. He didn't want to fight. But the scent of blood and burning flesh was too familiar, too much like the past he'd sworn to outrun.

A child whimpered near the smoldering ruins of a hut. Zulu moved without thinking, his miasma coiling protectively around them both. The soldiers who charged him choked as the poison hit their lungs, their skin blistering.

He hated the ease of it.

Across the square, Mwanabeti was a storm of fire and fury, his laughter wild. "Come on! Is this all you've got?"

A crossbow bolt grazed his shoulder. He barely flinched.

Zulu's stomach turned. This wasn't redemption. This was just another massacre.

Then the ground *shook*.

A boulder the size of a horse hurtled through the air, crushing a watchtower. Timothy M'hango stood atop the gorge, his hand outstretched, his expression grim. Gravity bent to his will, pinning a dozen soldiers to the earth like insects.

"Enough," he said, his voice quiet but carrying.

Mwanabeti scowled. "They started it!"

"And we'll finish it *cleanly*," M'hango countered.

Zulu exhaled, forcing his mist to thin. The child in his arms coughed but didn't die. Small mercies.

A soldier, half-crushed under debris, groaned. Zulu approached, his hands trembling. He could end the man's suffering—with a breath. Or…

He knelt, pressing his palm to the soldier's chest. His power writhed inside him, hungry. But he focused on the memory of his wife's voice: *"You're not a monster."*

The soldier's ribs knit together with a sickening crack.

Nkalamo materialized beside him, his shadow twitching. "Waste of time."

Zulu didn't answer.

---

By dawn, the village was a graveyard.

The Ghost Tigers gathered at the gorge's edge, their silence heavier than M'hango's gravity. Kalima was last to arrive, his hands still smoldering.

Mwanabeti punched a boulder, splitting it in half. "We should've wiped them all out!"

"And become what?" M'hango asked. "Zhang Wei?"

Kalima wiped ash from his face. "They'll just come back."

Zulu stared at his hands. The soldier he'd healed had run. Would he return with a sword? A torch?

Nkalamo stretched, his shadow merging with the rising sun. "Face it. We're killers. No amount of pretty morals changes that."

The words hung in the air, poison without an antidote.

Then, from the trees—a rustle.

A figure stepped into the light: a woman in White Lotus robes, her arms laden with scrolls. The Ghost Tigers tensed.

"You're wrong," she said softly. "Redemption isn't about what you were. It's about what you *do* next."

Zulu's breath caught. He knew her.

Hana. The swordsmith. The woman who'd forged blades for Zhang Wei—until she'd seen what they were used for.

She unrolled a scroll, revealing a map. "Zhang Wei's fortress. His weapons. His *weaknesses*." Her gaze swept over them, lingering on Zulu. "If you want to be more than ghosts… here's your chance."

The wind howled through the gorge, carrying the scent of smoke—and something sharper.

Hope.

---

**Hook for Next Chapter:** The White Lotus Society's plan hinges on infiltrating Zhang Wei's fortress, but the Ghost Tigers aren't the only ones hunting redemption. A familiar face from Kalima's past lurks in the shadows—and *she* hasn't forgiven him.