Inside a crumbling colonial warehouse on the outskirts of Hargeisa, the Somali Youth League rebels gathered under the jittery glow of torchlight. The air hung heavy with the reek of sweat, spilled liquor, and the coppery tang of blood drying on stolen goods. Loot from their latest raids—scarred rifles, crates of crumpled cash, tarnished medals, and splintered boxes—sprawled across rickety tables, some still smeared with the grime of battle. The room thrummed with raw laughter, bitter triumph, and the gnawing tension of men and women who knew every victory was a blade’s edge from ruin.

  Mahad, a hulking fighter from the Ogaden, slammed a splintered crate down, the thud echoing off the cracked walls. “Fifty rifles from Berbera, and nearly a dozen trucks!” he roared, his voice a bellow of pride. His blood-crusted hands flexed, knuckles popping as he grinned wide, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “We hit their convoy at dusk—smashed through their guards like they were nothing. Left the road a graveyard.”

  Farah, lean and sharp-eyed, leaned in, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “My crew took Merca—moved like shadows. Slit their throats before they could scream. One bastard tried to run; I pinned him to a crate with my dagger, watched him twitch till he bled out.” He traced a finger along a looted blade, its edge still dark with gore, his eyes glinting with a predator’s thrill.

  Ayaan, wiry and quick, rifled through a dented tin box, her fingers brushing over yellowed papers stained with British ink. “Documents from Kismayo,” she said, her tone sharp and conspiratorial. “Troop plans, supply routes—if we crack these, we’ll dance circles around their next move.” She glanced at Mahad, smirking. “While you’re busy smashing, I’m thinking ahead.”

  Mahad laughed, a rough bark. “Thinking’s fine, Ayaan, but blood’s what wins wars. You should’ve seen their captain—begged like a child before I cracked his skull.”

  “Blood’s loud,” Farah cut in, his grin sly. “Silent kills scare them more. My boys left no trace—just bodies and empty tents. They’ll wake up wondering where their empire went.”

  Across the room, Leyla, the scout with a spear slung over her shoulder, snorted as she sharpened a looted knife. “You’re all braggarts,” she said, her voice dripping with scorn. “I crept into their camp near Burao—cut three sentries’ throats before they blinked. Left their maps soaked red for their officers to find. That’s terror, not noise.”

  At the center stood Abdi, the one-eyed leader, his presence a quiet storm amid the chaos. His scarred face was a testament to battles survived, his single eye a piercing ember. Raising a hand, he silenced the clamor. “Brothers and sisters,” he rasped, voice rough as desert stone, “tonight we feast on defiance. This loot isn’t just spoils—it’s proof we can bleed the Empire dry.”

  He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd. “But every rifle, every coin, came at a price. We honor the fallen by fighting on—by turning their blood into our strength.”

  Mahad clapped a fist to his chest. “To the dead! They’d be proud—watching us strip the bastards bare.”

  Ayaan nodded, her voice softer now. “My brother died in Kismayo two raids back—took a bullet so I could grab those papers. This is for him.”

  Farah’s grin faded, his tone turning grim. “Lost two of mine at Merca. Good men. Their wives won’t forgive me, but I’ll make the British pay double.”

  The chatter stilled as the warehouse door slammed open with a splintering crash. A group of women and children stormed in—wives and orphans of the askaris killed in the raids. Amina led them, her gaunt frame shaking with fury and grief, her voice a jagged wail. “You dare celebrate? My husband’s blood stains your hands, and you laugh like thieves!”

  The room froze, the air thick with guilt and tension. An older woman, her face etched with loss, jabbed a trembling finger at Abdi. “You took my son—left me nothing but his boots! Give us something, not your cursed cheers!”

  Leyla’s grip tightened on her knife, her voice low. “They chose the wrong side—what did they expect?”

  Mahad scowled. “They wore British colors. Traitors get no tears.”

  “Traitors?” Amina snapped, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “He fed us with that uniform—kept our boys alive! Now they starve while you gloat!”

  Abdi raised a hand, his voice cutting through the rising storm. “Enough!” His eye locked on Amina, unyielding yet softened by a flicker of understanding. “Your pain is ours. We fight for you—for all Somalia. Tonight, I swear: twenty-five percent of this loot goes to the families of our fallen. Not as pity, but as their due.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Amina’s tears welled, anger clashing with fragile hope. “You mean it? Or is this more empty words?”

  “I swear it,” Abdi said, his tone ironclad. “Your sacrifice fuels us. We’ll turn it into strength—for you, for them, for our future.”

  The rebels shifted, murmurs rippling through them. Farah muttered, “Fair’s fair,” while Leyla shrugged, unconvinced but silent. Amina nodded, her sobs quieting as Mahad piled supplies—bread, bullets, a blanket—into her trembling arms. She and her group faded into the dark, leaving a heavy silence behind.

  Hundreds of miles away, in a British outpost near Berbera, fury seethed behind polished walls. Colonel Reginald Tishworth—“Tish”—paced a grand room of dark wood and sprawling maps. His boots thudded like war drums, his face a mask of cold disdain.

  Tishworth’s fist slammed the oak table, crumpling a map. “These vermin raided our camps!” he snarled, his voice a whipcrack of rage. “Stole our rifles, our honor—and they think they’ll walk away?” His eyes burned, his lip curling as if tasting vengeance.

  An administrator, hands trembling, spoke up. “Sir, it’s anarchy. We can’t let this insult stand.”

  “Stand?” Tishworth’s laugh was a jagged shard, humorless and cruel. “Tomorrow, we crush it. I’m invoking the Rowlatt Act—full reprisal. We’ll burn their hovels, drag every rebel into the dirt, and make their kin pay in blood and terror.”

  A young officer hesitated, his voice tight. “Sir, the families—do we really strike them too?”

  Tishworth’s gaze snapped to him, venomous. “They breed traitors. We end this at the root. My troops are moving—tomorrow, we unleash hell.” His grin was all teeth, a predator’s promise. “Villages razed, loot torched—their screams will teach the rest.”

  Another subordinate, voice low, added, “They’ll suffer, sir.”

  “Suffer?” Tishworth’s eyes gleamed. “They’ll burn. I’m coming for them.”

  The next dawn broke over a village near Berbera, a quiet cluster of huts soon shattered by British boots. Rifles spat death, cutting down men who leapt to defend their homes, women shielding their children, elders too slow to flee. Huts blazed, their roofs collapsing in showers of sparks, the air thick with gunpowder and charred flesh.

  Tishworth strode through the carnage, his pistol smoking from a shot that had blown open a boy’s chest—a child who’d charged with a stick. “No quarter!” he roared. “Wipe them out—every last sympathizer!” A trooper bayoneted a fleeing man, pinning him to the earth as he gurgled, blood pooling beneath.

  Soldiers swarmed, kicking down doors, smashing pots, hacking at livestock with gleeful brutality. A woman screamed as a trooper slit her husband’s throat, blood spraying her face as he fell. Tishworth’s eyes landed on a young woman—barely 18—cowering with a toddler in her arms. “You,” he snarled, wrenching her free. The child shrieked until a soldier smashed its skull with a rifle butt, the crack silencing it forever. Her cry was cut off by Tishworth’s fist, splitting her lip bloody.

  “Quiet,” he growled, dragging her into a smoldering hut, the door thudding shut.

  Inside, dust swirled as Tishworth flung her to the ground, her skull thudding against the packed earth. She scrambled back, nails clawing at the dirt, but he pinned her beneath his bulk. “No—please!” she gasped, her voice fracturing.

  His hand cracked across her face, a ring gashing her cheek, blood welling in the cut. “You don’t speak,” he hissed, tearing at her dress. The fabric shredded, exposing her trembling form. She thrashed, nails raking his arms, drawing thin red lines, but he slammed a fist into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs in a choked wheeze.

  Helpless, she lay gasping as he unbuckled his belt, his breath hot and sour against her neck. “This is your rebellion’s reward,” he spat, prying her thighs apart with brutal force. Her screams erupted as he thrust into her, each movement a calculated act of violence, his weight crushing her into the dirt. His hands clamped her wrists, grinding them until they bruised, her bones creaking under the pressure.

  The assault dragged on, relentless. He took his time, relishing her pain—her cries weakening to ragged sobs as blood trickled from her torn lip and nose, her body shuddering with each violation. His fingers dug into her hips, leaving purple marks, his boots scuffing the earth as he shifted for leverage. Her strength faded, her eyes glazing over, a broken shell beneath him.

  Finally, he stood, adjusting his uniform with cold precision. She lay sprawled, motionless but alive, her breathing shallow, her dress in tatters. “Tell your rebels I’m coming,” he said, his voice a blade. “I’ll bury them all.” He stepped out, leaving her amid the dust and ruin.

  Outside, the village was a slaughterhouse—bodies piled among smoldering huts, the ground slick with blood and entrails. Soldiers hauled their loot—grain, jewelry, weapons—over the corpses, their boots leaving crimson prints.

  *Back in the warehouse, the night thinned as dawn loomed. The rebels’ chants grew hoarse, their bravado shadowed by Amina’s grief and Abdi’s vow. Ayaan sat with Mahad and Farah, her voice a whisper. “Tishworth’s coming—they say he’s a butcher.”

  Mahad gripped a rifle, his chuckle dark. “Let him try. We’ve faced worse.”

  Farah’s grin was sharp. “We’ve got pride, loot, and blood to spill. His cruelty just fuels us.”

  Leyla spun her spear, her tone grim. “He’ll regret waking this beast.”

  Yet the room’s edges held dread. The families’ anguish clung like smoke, and every rebel felt the storm brewing. As torches flickered out, whispers of vengeance mingled with the weight of the fallen.

  Tishworth’s orders sharpened into a blade of retribution, the village’s ruin a mere prelude. The rebels braced for a dawn that promised fire and fury—a clash that would scar Somalia’s soul.