The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 131 - The Silent Siege

Khisa stood at the edge of the Assab port, the salty breeze brushing against his skin as ships creaked gently in the harbor behind him. The scent of ocean wind mixed with firewood and roasted lentils from a nearby cookfire. It reminded him of home—of Nuri—and the long journey that had brought him here.

Khisa had begun the process of pulling back his influence in Abyssinia. He no longer attended strategy meetings unless requested, and even then, he deferred to Tesfaye and Prince Tadesse. It was no longer his war. He had planted the seed, grown it, and now it was time to return to Nuri to ensure its roots did not rot in his absence.

He had drafted a formal handover of responsibilities, sealing it with the royal seal of Abyssinia. Tesfaye had accepted the scroll with solemn honor, his expression unreadable but his voice firm.

"I will not disappoint you, Prince Khisa. You’ve shown me what our nation can be. I’ll see it through."

The Shadow Guard had orders to start training solders to leave at the checkpoints. A new navy unit from Nuri, trained but untested, had arrived to maintain the alliance and offer support for ongoing operations against the Adal resistance. They were to remain in Assab under the command of Commander Chumo.

That night, Khisa made one final round through the port to ensure everything was in place. He walked alone, cloaked, but without guards—a decision he would soon regret.

It began subtly.

A fisherman dropped a basket of eels at the edge of the dock, cursing under his breath as Khisa passed. Nothing unusual. Then, a child ran past him with a stolen mango, laughing while a vendor shouted behind. Again, nothing strange. But then came the sharp flick of movement from the shadows behind a stack of crates.

Khisa’s instincts screamed.

He spun just as a dagger hissed toward his throat—only barely grazing his neck before he ducked low and swept the assassin’s legs from under him. Another figure dropped from above—this one with curved Adal daggers in both hands.

The clash was swift, brutal.

Khisa rolled aside, pulling the twin blades from the small of his back—the ceremonial ones gifted to him by the Emperor himself. The second assassin lunged, blade slicing toward his gut. Khisa deflected it with a parry and twisted, plunging his own dagger into the attacker’s ribs. Blood spurted. The man gurgled and dropped.

The first one—wounded but not dead—attempted to run. Khisa hurled his second blade with deadly precision, striking the man in the back. He collapsed in a heap by the fish barrels.

From the shadows, his personal guards—two members, Faizah and an Abyssinian soldier who had kept their distance—rushed forward, too late to assist.

"Secure the bodies. Quietly," Khisa ordered, breath steady despite the fresh blood on his tunic.

Tesfaye arrived minutes later, fury etched across his face. "You shouldn’t walk alone anymore."

"I’m leaving soon. I thought we were past this. Apparently someone thinks it wise to eliminate me. This proves that we definitely have enemies among nobles. That is why I insist you have to stand on your own, then they can’t credit your successes to a foreigner"

"You are right. Prince Khisa. Now i can clearly understand your motivations." Tesfaye said.

"I have to assume they will follow me back to Nuri. I can’t let them do that. I have to speak to the Emperor before I leave. He needs to root everyone out as soon as possible. I won’t put my own family in danger from assassins. This is just the first attack. I definitely expect more."

By morning, an interrogation of one of the wounded assassins confirmed what Khisa already suspected. The men were mercenaries from Harar, hired not by the Adal Sultanate, but through a discreet channel traced back to one man: Wossen, the Emperor’s own younger brother.

Wossen had always eyed Khisa with distrust, believing him a foreign manipulator with far too much influence over Abyssinia’s leadership. With Khisa gone, he hoped to stir discontent and potentially reclaim what he saw as "pure Abyssinian rule."

When the report reached the Emperor, his expression turned cold.

"My own brother..." Gelawdewos whispered, shaking his head. "To repay peace with blood. I have allowed this to go on for too long."

Far from Assab, beneath the cover of moonless nights and crowded bazaars, shadows moved with silent precision.

In Massawa, two Abyssinian soldiers, disguised as local dockworkers, crouched beneath a rotting wooden platform near the Ottoman-controlled docks. One of them, Sergeant Getu, held a small scroll in his hand—ink slightly smudged but still readable. A message from the hidden network. The order was clear:

"Begin disruption. Burn Ottoman ships. Sever supply lines. Do not be seen. Khisa returns home soon, we strike before he leaves Abyssinia."

Getu passed the message to his partner, Private Alemayehu, who merely nodded and began preparing the oil-soaked cloths and wrapped fire-bundles hidden inside crates of salted fish.

"We light three ships tonight," Getu whispered. "Spread them apart. Make it look like sabotage from within."

Across the Red Sea coast in Zeila, another team moved with the same deadly focus. Lieutenant Mulu adjusted his headscarf, blending in with the caravan traffic that fed into the port. With the help of local sympathizers, they had mapped every Ottoman storage facility, every guard rotation.

The objective in Zeila wasn’t fire—it was silence. They were to poison wells, replace stored grain with sacks of infested rice, and intercept letters between commanders.

A small bottle of spoiled fish oil was passed from hand to hand. Soon, the Ottomans would be eating themselves into illness.

Inside the command tent in Massawa, General Qasim paced furiously. His long robes dragged across the floor as aides brought in reports—each worse than the last.

"Three ships gone in a single night! Burned clean through the hull!" a harried logistics officer exclaimed. "And two others are compromised—their cargo holds were doused with oil. We don’t know how the fires were even started!"

General Qasim’s thick brows furrowed beneath his steel-plated helm. His voice was gravel and rage.

"We have security patrols every hour. How does this happen under our noses? You think the Adal dogs did this?"

"No sign of their fighters in the port, sir. We believe... internal sabotage. Possibly Abyssinian spies."

"Spies?" Qasim spat. "If the Abyssinians are breeding rats, then we burn the nests. Double the patrols. Interrogate every merchant and dock worker within fifty miles."

Another officer entered the tent, face pale.

"Zeila is reporting illness among the troops. Contaminated food stocks. Someone replaced our rations with spoiled grain."

Qasim’s fists clenched. His war machine was breaking down—not from battlefield losses, but from the slow rot of sabotage. It was maddening.

"Who leads this ghost army?" he growled. "This... foolish Emperor! Who does he think he is? He will not win this war with fire and whispers."

But even as he shouted, his aides exchanged nervous glances. Abyssinia was no longer bleeding—it was sharpening its blade.

Meanwhile, in the Shadows

Sergeant Getu watched from a nearby rooftop as another Ottoman supply ship burned, smoke curling into the night like a signal to the heavens. He didn’t smile. He merely whispered the same words he had each night since arriving.

"For Abyssinia. For Africa."

Below, Ottoman soldiers screamed and scrambled to put out the fire. But the oil burned too hot, the fire too fast.

The Abyssinian networks, first built by Khisa, now ran deeper than anyone imagined.

And for General Qasim, the war was no longer fought in open fields—but in alleyways, poisoned bread, and the flicker of flame in the dark.

Assab – Khisa’s Quarters, Just Before Sunrise

The knock came just before dawn. Sharp. Coded.

Khisa sat up from his bedroll instantly. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling between Azenet, Gondar, and home.

Colonel Nyoka stepped in, her cloak damp with early morning sea mist. She gave a sharp salute, then handed Khisa a sealed scroll with a red stripe—the mark of the covert Abyssinian unit in Massawa.

He broke the seal with one hand, eyes scanning quickly. His lips tightened into a thin smile.

"Success."

Three Ottoman ships destroyed in Massawa. Two more crippled. Supplies disrupted in Zeila. Illness spreading among Ottoman troops. All operatives escaped and are in hiding, awaiting new orders.

Khisa exhaled slowly, then looked to Nyoka.

"Send a message to Emperor Gelawdewos in Gondar. Let him know the pressure on Adal and the Ottomans will increase within the week. This is our window. Tell him to move."

"Yes, Prince," she replied. "Should I also alert the Assab handlers about our departure?"

Khisa nodded.

"It’s time."

Later that Day – Assab Port

The Shadows had gathered silently in the early morning fog. Their black traveling cloaks bore the faint symbol of Nuri—a rising sun —stitched just beneath the collar. It was subtle. Deliberate. A sign that they were still watchers in the dark, even in victory.

Each checkpoint in the region had been successfully transferred to Abyssinian control. The communication relays, safe houses, and escape routes were now in the hands of Emperor Gelawdewos’ operatives. The transition had taken weeks—but there had been no bloodshed, no mistakes.

It was Khisa’s final stamp of respect to Abyssinia: leaving them with tools, not dependency.

As they began their overland journey to Gondar, Khisa looked back at the port one last time. The salty wind tugged at his cloak. Ships creaked gently in the harbor.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

They were leaving Assab in stronger hands than when they arrived.

Massawa – Ottoman Encampment

The flames had not yet died. General Qasim stood at the docks, the orange glow reflecting in his furious eyes. The broken hull of a third cargo ship still smoldered beside him.

He kicked an oil barrel, sending it clanging across the planks.

"These aren’t accidents," he growled to his second-in-command. "This is war in shadows."

"Sir, if we don’t locate the saboteurs, our men will starve before battle."

Qasim spat over the railing.

"This Emperor," he muttered, "hasn’t even shown his face. And yet, he cuts deeper than any blade. They reacted a bit too fast, no matter. I will crush them when the time comes."

On the Road to Gondar – Nightfall

The journey was silent at first. The terrain grew more familiar as they moved inland. Dry hills, distant mountains, and old caravan trails marked the path home. The Shadows traveled in silence, their senses sharp, eyes alert for any threats. But so far, none had dared challenge them.

Khisa rode in the center, surrounded by the men and women he had trained and trusted with his life. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

They crossed through a narrow valley at dusk, and for a moment, Khisa slowed his horse.

A cool breeze whispered through the rocks.

"This might be my last mission outside Nuri for a long while," he said softly.

Ndengu, beside him, raised an eyebrow.

"And how do you feel about that, Prince?"

He looked ahead. The outline of Gondar’s eastern hills was just visible in the distance.

"Relieved... and ready," Khisa replied. "It’s time to build, not just fight."