The morning after the execution was unusually quiet. The cheers that had echoed through Mengo's streets the previous night were gone, replaced by the heavy silence of a kingdom still licking its wounds. A somber pall hung over the palace halls — servants moved slower, conversations were whispered, and even the birds perched on the palace roofs seemed hesitant to sing.
Kabaka Nakibinge stood at the balcony of his chamber, gazing out over the capital with tired eyes. The weight of leadership pressed heavier than ever on his shoulders. He had delivered justice, but it had not healed the wound — if anything, it had revealed how deep it truly was.
Khisa found him there, hands clasped behind his back, the wind stirring his cloak.
"It's time," Khisa said quietly. "We must begin preparing for what's coming. Call your commanders — Buganda needs to be ready."
The Kabaka nodded wearily. "So soon?"
"There's no such thing as 'soon' anymore," Khisa replied. "Only too late."
