The year was 1556.
Khisa was now twenty-four years old.
The capital of Nuri was finally taking the shape of the dream once etched in his mind—a sprawling city nestled at the crossroads of rivers and forested hills, now alive with the hum of human motion and ingenuity. From dawn till dusk, the sound of progress was unmistakable: hammering, chiseling, bricks being laid, laughter, and the constant chatter of workers exchanging ideas.
The air carried the scent of sawdust, fresh earth, and wet stone. Caravans rolled in and out along smooth gravel roads, and the smell of grilled maize and groundnuts followed the footsteps of passing merchants.
The Nuri-Abyssinia Highway, still incomplete, stretched like a great vein northward, bringing movement, trade, and small towns that seemed to rise from the soil as naturally as trees.
