The Clash of Flags
The morning air was heavy with tension. Smoke from the campfires hung low over the wagons, curling like a warning through the grasslands. Rumors had turned to certainty: British forces were advancing to enforce annexation of the nascent republic. Pieter van der Merwe stood atop a low hill, the wind tugging at his coat and hair, eyes sharp and unblinking as he scanned the horizon. Koen rode beside him, lips pressed tight, eyes cold with resolve. “They come with soldiers now,” he said. “Not envoys. Not words. Guns and authority in the hands of men who think it can bend us. Pieter… this is no longer a threat in ink. It is a threat in iron and powder.” Pieter’s jaw tightened. “Let them come,” he said quietly, yet each word carried a fire. “We have chosen our path. They will find not submissi
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