The forest pressed in like a secret, heavy with heat and silence.
Their boots sank into damp soil, thick with decay and fallen leaves. Mist coiled low along the ground like breath held too long. The jungle pulsed with life—chirping cicadas, rustling lizards, and the occasional screech of a hornbill.
Faizah halted, raising a clenched fist. The others stopped at once, weapons ready but relaxed.
They were deep in Kongo now—alone, unwatched, but never truly unseen.
Behind her, Kiprop knelt beside a broken twig, scanning the faint disturbance in the dirt. Zara stood back, near the young operatives: Mwinyi, Sarai, and Taban—the newest shadows, still learning the dance of survival.
Their lead was a name: Lumingu Mbemba. A noble. A ghost. A whisper behind the storm that had nearly consumed Buganda.
