The air in Massawa reeked of salt, sweat, and sorrow. Musyoka coughed as the thick humidity pressed against his chest like a burden he couldn't throw off. It had taken days to arrive here disguised as beggars, worn sandals scraping over burning sands, their bodies cloaked in dirt and fatigue to blend into the shadows of the suffering.
But nothing had prepared Musyoka for the stench of grief in this place.
Massawa was a city carved in contrast—glittering domes in the distance for nobles and foreigners, while slaves lay hunched like broken tools near the harbor's edge. The whip cracked more than once as they passed, and no one flinched. Not even the children.
"Monsters," Musyoka muttered under his breath.
