The Miireey basin pulsed with anticipation as dawn crept past the ridges, the faint glow of the sun filtering through the mist. Rows of rebels and Miireey cavalry stood assembled, spears upright, rifles strapped, blades gleaming. Armored chariots lined the foothills like beasts of war held on taut reins. The beat of war drums echoed faintly across the valley, a reminder that peace was a fading scent. Ahmed, half-dressed in worn leathers and carrying his rifle, slipped away from the encampment. His boots crunched over terraced paths, past rows of drying herbs and clay stoves where old women brewed bitterroot tea. He wanted one last look at the Miireey town—this place might be ash tomorrow.

  The town rose organically from earth and wood: circular huts with curved bone roofs, carved totems with clan sigils, blacksmith sheds burning from pre-dawn hours. Vine-covered trellises crowned homes, and wind chimes fashioned from old spear-tips clinked in the morning breeze. Ahmed passed a ring of children sparring with wooden sticks under the bark of an elder. In the distance, two men sheared goats in complete silence. The Miireey’s ways were ancient and ironclad, a labyrinth of tradition that Ahmed, an outsider, could only glimpse.

  In a shadowed corner near the main hall, Ahmed paused. A low grunt caught his ear. Behind a half-drawn curtain near the cedar granary, Duubow Haruun, the sovereign himself, stood half-draped, lips pressed hungrily to a young woman’s neck. Her bare arms trembled, but she did not resist. She obeyed. Ahmed looked away instantly, heart thudding, shame knotting in his gut. It wasn’t just the act—it was the girl. So slight. So quiet. Her movements weren’t of passion, but duty. He retreated down the steps, giving them space.

  Later, as he crossed a vegetable stall, he turned to a Miireey elder woman kneeling in prayer. “The young woman with the sovereign… do you know who she is?”

  The woman glanced at him, eyes knowing. “Fatima. Our medic. And Duubow’s sister.”

  Ahmed’s brow furrowed. “Sister?”

  The woman sighed. “They were married two years ago. Duubow believes the blood of Miireey leadership must remain pure. Fatima’s hands heal us—her herbs cleanse the rot from our bodies and our line. She bears much to keep us whole.”

  Ahmed’s chest tightened. “And no one speaks against it?”

  “No one dares.” She gave him a sad smile. “We obey the old ways—even when they rot us.”

  Before he could speak further, a trumpet blew from the Kaaraan Hall. Duubow Haruun stood atop the outer steps, flanked by his co-sovereign Balwo Baido and guarded by armored warriors. His braided silver hair glinted like threads of steel. Abdi, now clad in layered hide armor, moved to stand among the front ranks. Ahmed joined her.

  From the crowd, Kush stepped beside them. “He’s about to speak. I’ve heard Duubow talk men into madness and glory with the same breath.”

  The drums fell silent. Duubow’s voice rolled across the valley. “We are Miireey. Sons and daughters of iron and flame. When the winds carried away our cattle, we forged new blades. When salt merchants burned our homes, we stood unbent.” He paused, letting the crowd breathe. “Now the British draw near. They think us tribal, scattered, ancient. Let them come. Let them taste the teeth of warriors born under mountain smoke.”

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  A roar rose. Duubow raised his hand. “Tonight, we do not ride for pride or plunder. We ride to end the hunger of submission. We ride because the earth we walk is ours. And I swear—before ash or glory—that Miireey shall never kneel.” He raised his war axe high. “To Mogadishu!”

  The army echoed back: “TO MOGADISHU!”

  ---

  Meanwhile, at the British Somali Headquarters in Mogadishu, Tishworth stormed across the tiled war room, blood seeping faintly through the bandages across his ribs and forearm. His face was pale, his eyes burning. Shattered maps and翅

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  Meanwhile, at the British Somali Headquarters in Mogadishu, Tishworth stormed across the tiled war room, blood seeping faintly through the bandages across his ribs and forearm. His face was pale, his eyes burning. Shattered maps and glasses littered the floor.

  “How long?” he bellowed. “How long until those blue-blooded cowards in the embassy give me clearance to flatten these rebel insects?!”

  Captain Alden, his longtime comrade, stood stiff by the doorway, his gaze lingering on Tishworth’s tense form a moment too long. “Sir, your wounds—”

  “Damn my wounds!” Tishworth hurled a chair across the room. “I’m tired of playing games. We give those backwater clans food, roads, security. And this rebel filth? They spit in our face and piss on the flag.”

  Alden stepped forward, his voice softening. “You can’t burn your strength on anger alone, Charles. Sit. Breathe.” He reached out, his hand brushing Tishworth’s arm briefly, a gesture that carried a quiet weight.

  Tishworth grabbed the table, knuckles white. “Why do they resist me, Alden? Not the Empire—me!”

  “Because others cooperate. The Isaaq barter, the Darod negotiate. But Abdi and her rebels? They answer bullets with blades.”

  Tishworth’s voice dropped, bitter. “They humiliate me.”

  He turned away, hands trembling, gaze falling on a painting of Queen Victoria above the fireplace. “Do you know why I fight for the Empire, Alden?” he said, more quietly now.

  Alden tilted his head, his eyes steady on Tishworth’s profile.

  “When I was fifteen, my village in Ireland was razed by raiders—drunken deserters. My mother died screaming in a fire. I was beaten, left in a ditch. The British patrols found me. Gave me food. A name. A purpose.” Tishworth turned back, his voice hardening. “The Empire’s my family now—cleaner than the filth I came from. I owe it my soul.”

  Alden moved closer, his tone almost tender. “You’re loyal. But they’re making you wait. Let me help. You’re not alone.” His gaze softened, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes as he stepped nearer.

  Tishworth didn’t notice how close Alden was until their faces were inches apart. Alden whispered, “I’ll comfort you.”

  Tishworth’s eyes widened—then turned cold. In a blink, he grabbed Alden by the neck and slammed him into the wall. “You dare,” he hissed, eyes venomous.

  Alden gasped, “I—”

  Tishworth punched him. Once. Twice. A third time. Blood splattered. He drew his sidearm. Fired. Once. Twice. Again. The silence after was unbearable. Alden’s body crumpled.

  Tishworth stood still, chest heaving, covered in blood. He muttered, “How the fuck did I let myself be weak? That... thing thought I was something else…” He turned, washed the blood off in the basin. The water ran red. Then he lit a cigar, expression blank.

  A knock. “Sir?”

  An officer peeked in. “We have clearance. The embassy has approved your movement order.”

  Tishworth nodded slowly. “Then get the men ready. I want three battalions—at least 1,200 troops. I don’t care if it leaves our posts exposed. We march at 0400.”

  “But sir—”

  “I said,” he exhaled smoke, “get them fucking ready.”

  Chapter 6: Quiet Before Fire

  Chapter 6: Quiet Before Fire

  The officer saluted and left quickly. Tishworth slumped into his chair, wine in one hand, cigar in the other. The smoke curled toward the ceiling like a funeral prayer.