The Monday morning bell didn't just signal the start of a new week; it sounded like a funeral toll. The air in the Great Hall was thick with a tension so palpable it felt like a physical weight. Students whispered in frantic clusters, their eyes darting to the empty seats where Zazu and Leya should have been.
Mrs. Mulenga sat in her usual place among the faculty, her hands folded primly on her lap. She looked the picture of scholarly grace, but her eyes were fixed on the double doors at the back of the hall.
"Silence!" the acting Headmaster commanded, his voice cracking. "Before we begin our lessons, we must address the... disturbances of the weekend."
"The only disturbance," a voice rang out from the balcony, "is the lie sitting on this stage."
Leya stepped into the light of the upper gallery. She was still covered in the dust of the chapel basement, her school uniform torn at the shoulder, but she held the cassette deck like a scepter. Beside her, Zazu stood with his arms crossed, his gaze locked onto Mrs. Mulenga.
The hall erupted. Teachers stood up, shouting for order, but Leya didn't wait. She hit the *Play* button, and her mother's voice—amplified by the hall's acoustic design—boomed over the crowd.
The recording of Lombe Kapiri's confession filled the space. It detailed the 2012 audit, the offshore accounts, and the specific role of the "Librarian" in fabricating the evidence that sent Leya's family into exile. As the tape played, Leya walked down the grand staircase, step by step, until she was standing at the edge of the faculty dais.
Mrs. Mulenga didn't flinch. She stood up, her face a mask of disappointment. "Leya, child. You are confused. That recording is a forgery, a desperate act by a woman who couldn't face her own greed."
"Is the signet ring a forgery too?" Zazu asked, stepping down behind Leya. He held up the photograph from the manila envelope—the one showing Mulenga with the Consortium's Counsel.
The students in the front row gasped. The image was clear, undeniable.
"You didn't do it for the money," Leya said, her voice shaking but clear. "You did it because you thought you knew what was best for Zambia. You thought we were too 'messy' to own our own history. So you sold it to people who promised you order."
"Order is the only thing that keeps a nation from bleeding!" Mulenga snapped, the mask finally slipping. Her voice was no longer the parchment-dry whisper of a librarian; it was the sharp, cold steel of a zealot. "Look at you! You've brought chaos into this school. You've destroyed the Tembos. You've bankrupted the Trust. For what? For a 'truth' that will leave everyone hungry?"
"We'd rather be hungry and free than full in a cage you built," Leya countered.
Outside, the sound of sirens began to wail—not the school's security, but the national police. Musi had done more than just run; he had gone to the one person who still had the power to override the Board: the Minister of Justice.
As the police burst through the doors, Mrs. Mulenga reached into her bag. For a terrifying second, the hall went silent, expecting a weapon. Instead, she pulled out a small, black remote.
"If I go," she whispered, her eyes bright with a frantic light, "the school's digital endowment goes with me. I have a kill-switch for every scholarship, every pension, and every deed in the ZIA database."
"Don't," Zazu warned, taking a step forward.
"The history of this country belongs to those who can protect it!" Mulenga cried.
But before she could press the button, a hand reached out from behind her. It was Sarah, the quiet scholarship student from the Heritage Society. She had been sitting directly behind the faculty row. With a swiftness no one expected, she snatched the remote and threw it to Zazu.
The spell was broken. The police moved in, and the "Librarian of ZIA" was led away in handcuffs, her head held high, still muttering about the "necessity of guardians."
Leya slumped against the dais, the adrenaline finally leaving her body. Zazu caught her, his arms wrapping around her as the students began to cheer—a raw, chaotic sound that wasn't about grades or status, but about the truth.
"It's over," Zazu whispered into her hair.
"No," Leya said, looking at the black car still idling at the gate—the Consortium's car. "The truth is out. Now we just have to survive the consequences."
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