The royal court of Buganda was quieter now.
Not because peace had returned, but because too many had died to fill the room with their usual pomp and thunder.
Gone were the grand drums, the women in flowing barkcloth, and the warriors who once lined the great hall with spears raised in salute. What remained were ministers in layered robes, stiff with tension, and a king whose silence was more dangerous than his rage.
Kabaka Nakibinge, draped in deep red and crowned in gold, sat on his elevated stool beneath the royal leopard-skin canopy. His face was calm—too calm—but the veins in his hands bulged slightly as they gripped the carved armrests.
Before him, his chiefs and advisors knelt in respectful distance. But respect was not what brought them here. This was a test.
And the traitors knew it.
Muwanga, sleek as an otter and always with a mocking gleam in his eye, was the first to rise and speak.
