The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 111 - Flickers of Hope

Outside the command tent, the valley buzzed with quiet activity. The sun had risen over the blood-soaked hills, casting golden rays upon the soldiers who moved slowly, stiff with exhaustion but alive. A few survivors, despite their trauma, joined in small tasks—boiling water, gathering cloth for bandages, sorting through salvaged supplies. Laughter was rare, but not absent. A young boy who had been rescued ran between the tents with a stolen soldier’s helmet too large for his head, eliciting tired chuckles. Another survivor, an old man missing most of his teeth, told terrible jokes as he tried to sharpen knives, bringing a moment of levity to a group of watching soldiers.

Inside the tent, General Mekonnen sat with Eyob, Lieutenant Hana, and the rest of his inner circle. Laid out before them were scrolls, letters, and maps, pulled from the Adal commander’s chest. They told a grim story: the Adal, in coordination with the Ottomans, intended to march even further south, spreading destruction and slavery in their wake.

"Sir, what should we do about this?" Eyob asked, his brows furrowed in concern. "If we don’t stop them here, that means other kingdoms might suffer the same fate as Abyssinia."

Mekonnen sighed deeply and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We don’t have much of a choice right now. Our own kingdom is barely hanging on. Our focus must remain on Abyssinia and its people. Once we’ve done our part, once we’ve secured our borders and our homes, then we can turn to the others."

Eyob hesitated, then said, "You know what’s happening at the coast, right? You’re the closest to the Emperor. If the Ottomans are expanding, they’re likely doing it at sea too. Please, General, we deserve to know what’s happening."

Mekonnen looked around at the men in the tent. "If I tell you, you must not repeat this outside these walls. Understood?"

They all nodded solemnly.

"When we visited Shewa, we encountered men who moved like shadows. They’re from a kingdom called Nuri, farther south. Their prince, Khisa, came to Abyssinia seeking an alliance, but as you know, our state was dire. Still, he offered to help us—no conditions, no demands."

He leaned back. "To stop the invasion, they need control of the sea. Prince Khisa is attempting to reclaim the ports. I don’t know his full plans, but we should remain hopeful. Perhaps, with his help, we can pull this off."

Lieutenant Hana frowned. "Are we sure he’s truly on our side? We have so little to offer."

Mekonnen didn’t hesitate. "He is. He’s saved our people more than once. He did what we couldn’t, without asking for anything in return. That is worth trusting."

Eyob leaned in. "Do his soldiers really move like shadows?"

A rare smile tugged at Mekonnen’s lips. "Yes. I saw them train in Shewa. They move with lethal efficiency. No wasted movement. If we can learn even a fraction of their discipline, our army will be reborn."

They all sat in silence for a moment, digesting the weight of it all.

Mekonnen straightened and rolled up the letters. "But that’s enough for today. The coast is not our concern for now. Focus on your duties. Rest, regroup, and prepare."

Outside, the dying light of day stretched across the valley. One soldier carved a crude wooden grave marker, tears in his eyes as he muttered a prayer. Another helped a woman fashion a doll from torn cloth for her surviving child. Among the ashes of horror, hope began to smolder—small, flickering, but defiant.

Far to the east, the sun dipped low over the red-dusted hills of Assab, casting golden rays across the harbor. Here, Prince Khisa stood atop a newly fortified watchtower, wind whipping through his cloak, eyes surveying the ever-shifting coast. He had not slept well for weeks, but he didn’t mind. The one-month training had nearly concluded. His Shadows, the elite fighters of Nuri, had returned from their secret assignments with wounds, stories, and resolve.

The checkpoints along the slave escape route were secured. Even the oldest fortress ruins, buried and forgotten, were now breathing again with the disciplined silence of shadow operatives. The network they had built—runners, codes, signal fires, and mirrors—had been tested, broken, and tested again. It worked now. Smoothly. Reliably.

There was only one thing left to do: deploy.

Flashback – Two Weeks Ago

The moon sat high when Jelani and Simba approached the old fortress ruins just north of Assab. Cracked stone and gnarled roots curled along the gate, but the place reeked of fresh blood and something worse—commerce. Slave commerce.

Jelani, broad-shouldered and steady-eyed with a steel-framed shield and dagger, cracked her knuckles.

"We go silent or loud?"

Simba, tall and wiry with arms like coiled rope, spun his obsidian war club slowly.

"They already smell like dead men. Let’s just confirm it."

They moved like fog, slipping past two distracted guards at the rear. But their cover was short-lived.

Shots rang. A musket ball clipped Jelani’s shoulder. She hissed, not from pain but irritation. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

"Great. Loud it is."

Jelani charged first, shield smashing through the door. Inside, chaos: four Adal soldiers and two Ottoman slavers. One tried to flee—Simba cracked his spine mid-sprint with a single swing. Jelani blocked a sword strike and jammed her dagger into the attacker’s gut, twisting until the man screamed.

The final Ottoman raised his hands in surrender. Jelani pulled him close, eyes burning.

"How many children did you sell here?"

The slaver stuttered. Jelani didn’t wait for the answer.

"That’s what I thought."

The dagger struck once—clean, final.

By dawn, the fortress was theirs.

Present Day

Back in Assab, Princess Azenet walked the corridors of the administration building, sleeves rolled up. Her grace never faltered, but it was matched now by a steady will. She managed supply chains, healed diplomatic wounds, and ensured refugee coordination ran like clockwork. She had become Khisa’s right hand.

They shared quiet tea most nights. At first, it was formality. But lately, it had become something else. A warmth neither fully acknowledged, but both welcomed. He found her laugh unexpectedly disarming.

Elsewhere in the compound, Prince Tadesse barked orders at a squad of recruits.

"No, no, like this—your feet, dammit, lift your heels!"

He groaned, wiping his brow with an exaggerated sigh, then noticed a young girl watching.

"...What’re you looking at? Go grab water. Wait, no, that was rude. I’m sorry."

He scratched his head. "I’m still working on tone."

He had changed. He still complained—loudly, dramatically—but now he did so while hammering wood, mapping routes, or training recruits. He had been broken and rebuilt by reality. Now, he was learning to lead.

At last, the day came. Every checkpoint manned. Every Shadow in position. The survivors were ready to be moved—safely, silently, and swiftly.

Khisa stood before his operatives, map in hand, wind catching the banners of Abyssinia.

"This is it. We do this right, we cripple their entire eastern trade. We give people their lives back."

Jelani grinned, freshly bandaged.

"Time to make ghosts of them."

Simba cracked his neck.

"Let’s give them a nightmare."

Khisa smiled faintly, eyes narrowed with resolve.

"Let’s begin."