Eastern Cape, South Africa – January 2027
The summer rain came down in sheets, turning the red dirt roads into rivers of mud. Thunder rolled over the hills like distant artillery. Jax stood on the porch of their small house, watching the storm lash the peach grove they had planted in Umkhonto's memory. The trees were heavy with fruit now, branches bowing under the weight.
Two years.
Two years since Dubai. Since the tower fell. Since they crawled out of the rubble mortal, bleeding, and—against all odds—alive.
Kenji was inside, sharpening tools with methodical precision. Elias—still strange to hear him called that—was in the village, helping Nomsa with the school lessons. The kids adored him. Called him Bhuti Eli. He had a gift for it, turning old war stories into fables about clever fox
