The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 141- The Hands That Shape the Future

The year was 1556.

Khisa was now twenty-four years old.

The capital of Nuri was finally taking the shape of the dream once etched in his mind—a sprawling city nestled at the crossroads of rivers and forested hills, now alive with the hum of human motion and ingenuity. From dawn till dusk, the sound of progress was unmistakable: hammering, chiseling, bricks being laid, laughter, and the constant chatter of workers exchanging ideas.

The air carried the scent of sawdust, fresh earth, and wet stone. Caravans rolled in and out along smooth gravel roads, and the smell of grilled maize and groundnuts followed the footsteps of passing merchants.

The Nuri-Abyssinia Highway, still incomplete, stretched like a great vein northward, bringing movement, trade, and small towns that seemed to rise from the soil as naturally as trees.

Clusters of homes, trading stops, and military posts had begun to emerge. The road connected not just places, but people. Towns like Wendo, Matete, and Kilore became hubs for freed slaves, merchants, and settlers. Some had fled inland to escape the sea, others came seeking opportunity. Each town was a bloom from the seed Khisa had planted years ago.

Wendo, once a nameless stop along a dusty trail, now buzzed with life. At its center was a circular market square where vendors sold everything from woven Abyssinian scarves to Nuri-style clay pots. The scent of roasted goat and tamarind chutney danced in the air as women traded gossip over baskets of fresh produce.

At the edge of town, a former slave named Dawud—freed by Lusweti’s navy—now ran a forge with his teenage apprentice, crafting elegant tools and sharing tales of the sea he never wished to see again. A wooden sign above the forge read: New Flame, Old Hands.

That spring, the mint opened its doors, its presses humming with copper and silver. The coins bore the crest of Nuri—a sun rising over waves, a strong tree engraved behind it. Trade became easier, and a new class of merchants and craftsmen began to thrive.

"Eh, Bwana Khisa!" a merchant called out, spotting the prince amid a team of carpenters. Khisa wore a simple cotton shirt and trousers smudged with clay. He turned, smiling.

"Juma, how goes trade today?"

"Busy! My donkeys are exhausted. We sold all the salt and honey before midday! People here eat sweet now, eh?" the man chuckled.

"Only good things in sweet times," Khisa replied warmly. "Make sure your animals are watered—there’s a new well near the southern gate."

The merchant tipped his head in gratitude and moved on, calling instructions to his sons.

Children ran past with dusty feet, giggling as they chased a bouncing coconut husk shaped like a ball.

Nearby, a group of children staged their own battle, wooden spoons clashing.

"I’m General Lusweti!" one cried.

"No fair! I wanted to be him!"

"Fine. You be the crocodile he rides into battle!" ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Near the east wing of the capital, a group of apprentices hoisted a wooden beam under the guidance of a Watcher, their coordinated movements a sign of the training that blended discipline with construction.

"Hold it steady!" the Watcher barked. "You there—keep your back straight. Good—again!"

Khisa paused to observe, nodding to himself. They were learning fast.

The Watchers, army recruits, and the Mkono wa Giza had all been assigned to construction squads during their training rotations.

"Strength is more than swinging a sword," Khisa had told them. "It’s shaping a future you’ll be proud to defend."

They worked shoulder to shoulder with artisans and masons, learning teamwork, stamina, and precision. Even now, three squads were digging out a drainage trench, chanting rhythmically to stay in sync.

"You dig like you’re planting cassava, not building a kingdom!" one older mason barked, before winking.

"And you talk like you think you’re Khisa himself," a younger soldier shot back, grinning as mud splashed his boots.

The capital’s main road was now paved in flat gray stone, lined with small trees just beginning to bud.

Along the sides, open ditches channeled rainwater into gardens and farmland beyond the city. The government offices, built from dark red bricks and clay mortar, stood firm and functional. They weren’t tall, but their uniformity, the careful geometry of their roofs, and the crests of Nuri carved into every lintel made them feel timeless.

A block away, a woman sat beneath a jacaranda tree, weaving fabric while her husband hauled timber.

"You see the way they build now?" she whispered to her neighbor.

"Even the palace! My cousin says it shines when the sun rises. Says Khisa himself lays the bricks."

Khisa still worked with his hands when he could. Most days, he could be seen shirtless in the sun, carving beams or laying bricks. The palace he promised Azenet was almost complete, shaped with a blend of Abyssinian elegance and Nuri’s earthy strength. Every piece of wood he touched bore intricate detail—patterns of fire lilies and eagle feathers, etched with a chisel made by his own hand.

"You going to marry that palace, Khisa?" one of the carpenters teased.

Khisa grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Maybe. At least it listens more than Azenet when I change the plans last minute."

The palace rose from the western quarter like a monument to love and care. Its foundation was stone, but the upper levels were made of beautifully sanded wood, each carved beam bearing intricate floral designs. Khisa had chiseled many himself, often spending his evenings in the quiet hum of carpentry.

"You sure you’re not a carpenter pretending to be a prince?" teased old Mrefu, a carpenter with missing teeth and a beard like tree bark.

"I’m whatever the kingdom needs, Mrefu," Khisa replied, chuckling. "But you better watch out. I might take your job."

"Let me see you build a chair that doesn’t wobble first!" Mrefu cackled.

One night, a young carpenter approached him.

"Prince Khisa, where did you learn that pattern on the chair leg?"

"From the memory of a river," he replied, smiling. "The way it twists and carves the land."

"Can you teach us?"

And so he did. That night became the first of many where the carpenters of Nuri sat together with the prince, blending the traditions of their forebears with the curves and spirals Khisa introduced. Soon, Nuri furniture was known for its elegance across regions—an artistry all its own.

The Mkono wa Giza helped expand the city walls. They worked like shadows—efficient, focused, their training now part of the very foundation of Nuri’s progress. They were proud, though they rarely said so.

Meanwhile, Lusweti still held the waters of Malindi, commanding the navy with calm precision. Freed slaves were rescued from port after port and taken inland to newly built centers where they could transition into new lives. They were taught the language, given medical care, and offered choices: settle, work, travel, or train. Many chose the hills or plains far from the sea, building new lives in towns like Wendo.

Wendo, once a tiny gathering of huts, was now full of light. Children played with wooden dolls carved in the Nuri style. A baker had set up shop, and a teacher had been appointed to teach numbers and letters.

"This town smells of promise," one traveler said. And it did.

Everywhere, life buzzed.

Merchants passed by construction sites with carts of goods. Children played with hand-carved toys in the dust, their mothers bringing lunch wrapped in leaves to tired workers.

"Khisa!" one merchant called, waving a piece of cloth dyed crimson. "We finally mastered that Abyssinian color you like! You promised me a seat in the marketplace for it!"

"If it doesn’t bleed in the rain, you’ll get two seats," Khisa laughed. "And a better roof."

Each day was filled with moments like that—small jokes, shared bread, teaching, building. The capital breathed.

Despite the joy, Khisa never neglected his duties. Food and water reached every site. Every project had a plan. Every town had a watchful eye. The people saw him not just as prince, but as a brother, a builder, a man among them.

"Nuri is alive now," Khisa said one evening as he stood on the palace balcony, Naliaka beside him.

She wore a dress made from Wendo cotton, her hand resting gently on her spear. She had come to oversee the Mkono wa Giza aiding with construction.

She nodded. "You’ve built it from nothing. But you’re right—it must be guarded. Not just with armies. But with kindness, law, and stories."

As the year’s harvest drew near, a few elders began whispering about starting a new tradition—The Day of Rising, a celebration of freedom, construction, and unity. Some wanted music, others dancing, and one enthusiastic baker swore he’d make the biggest honey cake in the kingdom. Khisa simply smiled and said, "Let the people build it. I’ve built enough for now."

The stars above were gentle that night. Peace reigned.

But as history has taught us, peace never sleeps without dreams—and dreams often attract those who would tear them apart.

Still, for now, Nuri shone like a promise kept.