The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 115 - The Journey to Assab

The heat in Zeila’s market clung to the skin like a curse. Even the flies, too fat on blood and rot, buzzed lazily above the auction yard. Baran’s wrists ached from the iron manacles as he stood, bare-chested, in a line of trembling men. He didn’t flinch when the slaver’s whip cracked across the back of an older man next to him—he had learned long ago not to react. Still, his eyes burned with restrained fury.

"Ayyo! Look at this one!" a merchant shouted, gripping Baran’s chin roughly. "Strong legs. Broad back. Could haul a wagon full of grain."

Baran yanked his head away, earning a cuff across the ear.

On the other side of the market, Amani sat slumped in the dust. Her eyes, once brilliant with resistance, were dimmed now. She didn’t bother to hide her scars anymore—one curled along her collarbone, another wrapped around her wrist. She had been passed from one master to another across three regions, and this was her third market. Hunger had long gnawed her strength. Hope was an old wound.

Sobs and murmurs echoed from the pens. A girl, no older than fifteen, cried for her mother. A man screamed that his wife had just been sold separately. When a slave lunged at a guard, the guard didn’t hesitate—he drew a sword and cut the man down in front of everyone. Blood soaked the sand.

"They die easy," a merchant laughed cruelly. "Worthless when they get ideas."

"Hey! Stop killing the merchandise you idiot." Another shouted angrily.

Buyers came and went. Some poked the slaves with sticks. Some tasted their teeth, checked their nails, asked degrading questions about their obedience or virility. Baran and Amani were eventually purchased together by scrawny merchant.

"You’re in luck,"The merchant told a guard with a sneer. "We’re moving a fresh shipment north. Real quiet types."

Their journey began that same evening, shoved into a cart covered with burlap, the scent of sweat and fear thick in the air. There were five others with them, and none were allowed to speak. If someone whispered, the guards barked threats. The silence was unbearable.

Amani’s thoughts turned back to the crossing—a nightmare aboard a creaking dhow, chained ankle to ankle. She had vomited every day for a week as the sea battered the vessel. A sailor once offered her extra water, only to demand a price she refused to pay. That refusal earned her a whipping that nearly fractured her ribs.

Now, her captors, with no regard for their lives or opinions taunted them.

"Target practice later," A sailor said to the merchant as they passed a dusty ravine. "Might be time to see which of these runts can dodge a spear."

The merchant chuckled darkly. "Nah, let’s sell them first. We have a buyer that pays triple."

"Triple? For these worthless goods?" A sailor exclaimed.

"It’s not our business, as long as they pay, we will bring them slaves as many as we can get our hands on." He laughed loudly.

The slaves said nothing. Eyes lowered, lips pressed tight.

They reached an outpost—a crumbling fortress wedged into the hillside. Here, they stayed for three days. The checkpoint guards never dropped the act. Whips hung from their belts. They barked orders, tossed stale bread, shoved anyone who stepped out of line.

Baran caught Amani’s eye once. There was no recognition. No spark. Just fatigue and dread. They weren’t allowed to speak, weren’t told what was happening. The checkpoint had a schedule, rotations, and guards who whispered only to each other at night.

It wasn’t until a week had passed and the coastal winds turned sharper that the ship arrived—a flat-bottomed vessel painted in dull tones, bearing no flag. The guards shoved the slaves aboard with practiced cruelty.

As the ship pushed off, Amani whispered, "Do you think this is the end?"

Baran didn’t respond. He didn’t know if it was an end—or just another beginning of pain.

The ship docked at Assab under the light of a pale dawn, the sky painted in quiet hues of orange and grey. Baran and Amani were ushered off with the others, her legs weak beneath her and his jaw clenched tight. No one said a word—not the guards, not the other slaves, not even the wind.

They expected beatings, barking commands, a line of shackles waiting to march them deeper inland.

Instead, they were met by silence.

Prince Tadesse and Princess Azenet waited at the edge of the dock with a small escort of uniformed soldiers—no whips, no gags, no chains. Only stern eyes and calm voices. Azenet stepped forward, tall and regal, her tone firm yet kind.

"You are free."

A few slaves gasped. One man fell to his knees, hands trembling. Another woman burst into sobs, clutching at her rags. Someone shouted, "What trick is this?" and backed away, nearly toppling into the sea.

Amani remained still, her fingers clenched at her sides. Free? It didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like another game. Another cruel test.

Baran looked around, eyes narrowed. The chains on their wrists and ankles were being unlocked by strangers with gentle hands. No blows came. No jeers. One young girl flinched at the touch, tears streaming down her face. "Don’t hurt me," she whimpered. "Please, I’ll be good."

Tadesse knelt beside her, removing her cuffs with practiced ease. "You’re safe now," he said softly. "You don’t have to be good. Just... be."

Still, confusion reigned.

A man cried out, "I want to go home!" over and over, collapsing to the ground when no answer came. Two young boys clung to each other, muttering prayers in a language no one else understood. Some refused to move even after their shackles fell. Others tried to run—only to freeze, expecting punishment.

They didn’t trust the open air. They didn’t trust the kindness. They didn’t trust the freedom.

Baran found Amani’s hand. She didn’t pull away—but she didn’t squeeze back, either.

Azenet’s voice rose above the murmurs. "You’ve survived hell. We won’t ask you to trust us today. Just let us feed you. Give you rest. We will explain everything."

Stillness followed her words.

It was the stillness of people too broken to hope. But it was also the stillness before the first tear of a wall. A thread unraveling. A beginning.