The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 83 - Flames in the Dark

The wind that swept over Shewa carried with it the scent of pine, steel, and quiet dread. In the fortified heart of the town, Khisa and Tesfaye stood side by side on a rising hill as rows of exhausted soldiers trained below them. There was no formal parade, no elegance in their stance—only sweat, bruises, and determination. The clang of wooden weapons echoed across the field, punctuated by sharp cries of correction from the Shadow Guard.

Khisa watched silently, a faint breeze tugging at his robes. "Bring me anyone who can sail," he had ordered the night before. "Fishermen, smugglers, retired navy officers—I don’t care if they’ve only ever paddled a canoe." ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Now they came in droves. Sun-worn fishermen with calloused hands, grizzled former Abyssinian navy officers with haunted eyes, and the wild-eyed sons of pirates—all stood shoulder to shoulder. There were no uniforms, no banners—only the unspoken understanding that they had to fight for their homeland, even if it meant dying nameless in some foreign bay.

Tesfaye had worked tirelessly, reaching out to nearby towns and commanders. Through grit and loyalty, five towns under Shewa’s influence had launched covert sweeps, unearthing deep-seated networks of Adal and Ottoman spies. With help from Shewa’s garrison, they dragged out the informants from their holes, confiscating letters hidden in carved wooden icons and beneath floorboards.

The stolen letters were damning. Detailed maps showing secret mountain passes. Trade routes long forgotten by official records. Even diagrams pointing toward hidden mineral deposits, long considered legend. Tesfaye’s hands shook as he spread the parchment before Khisa.

"They’ve been bleeding us from the inside," Tesfaye muttered, his voice low and tight with fury. "We were blind."

Khisa’s eyes were hard. "Now we see. And now we act."

Training intensified.

The Shadow Guard—clad in simple black tunics, their faces unreadable—took personal charge of Abyssinian units. Men stood in the dirt at dawn, bleary-eyed and aching, only to be thrown to the ground again and again by the relentless drills.

"Move like water. Strike like thunder!" shouted a Shadow named Kipkosgei, sweeping a soldier’s leg from under him. "Again!"

Sweat fell like rain. Soldiers repeated strike-and-block routines, practiced ambush formations, learned to fight in confined terrain. They simulated street battles with wooden crates, practiced scaling cliffs with rope, and even learned how to move through thick fog.

Despite aching limbs and gritted teeth, they improved.

One soldier, bruised and breathless, whispered to another, "We’re not just learning to fight. We’re learning to win."

"This is so much harder than our usual training," he panted.

"Those people are monsters, even the women in their ranks are just as strict, if not stricter." Another added.

"They are definitely younger than us, what kind of training have they undergone, I wonder." Another commented.

In a makeshift stone workshop, Khisa crouched before a cluttered table. The room reeked of sulfur, oil, and something bitter and metallic. In the candlelight, his face was a mix of soot and wild intensity. Scattered around him were broken pottery shards, coils of hemp rope, and sharp iron nails.

His fingers moved quickly. He tied off a pouch of oil-soaked cloth, inserted sharp rocks and small iron fragments, then carefully packed it around a stolen handful of gunpowder.

Next to him lay a row of prototypes—explosive arrows, crude grenades, even hollowed bamboo tubes meant to mimic hand cannons. They were ugly, inconsistent, and unpredictable—but they worked.

A loud bang startled the guards outside as one of his Molotov-like devices exploded in a test pit behind the shed.

He grinned through the smoke. "Good."

Days later, under the light of a flickering torch, Khisa sat across from Tesfaye in the old town council chamber.

"We move to the coast," he said firmly. "Not with the full army—just a strike team. Enough to crew a small ship."

Tesfaye frowned. "Marching would expose us."

Khisa nodded. "We don’t march. We scatter. Travel disguised—merchants, pirates, wanderers. We regroup at Assab."

"That place is crawling with Ottoman and Portuguese informants," Tesfaye warned.

"All the more reason to blend in. If we can take the port with minimal force, the main invasion can follow. Right now Assab is unguarded poor and in a bad state, we take advantage of that fact. If anything those informants will be useful."

Khisa unrolled a map and pointed at a red X. "We don’t just need the port. We need to hold it while we build ships—fast, powerful ones. That means raiding enemy supply lines, disorienting their fleets. We’ll need a team posing as pirates. Specialists."

Tesfaye leaned back and sighed, rubbing his temples.

"This war... it’s going to take years."

Khisa didn’t flinch. "Then we fight for years. We buy time for Nuri to finish its navy. Once they join us, we take the whole coast. And then we push them all back. Ottomans. Portuguese. Adal. Every last one."

Tesfaye gave a tired laugh. "Three empires. And we’re still standing."

Khisa smiled. "Because we outsmart them."

Meanwhile, far to the north, in the ancient capital of Gondar, Emperor Gelawdewos sat hunched over a map-strewn table. His face, once youthful and vibrant, now bore the weight of despair. Deep bags hung under his eyes. His beard, streaked with gray, remained uncombed. He wore no crown—only a dusty robe soaked in spilled ink.

Outside, muffled voices chanted prayers for deliverance.

His father had died in his arms. "Protect the kingdom," he had whispered.

And yet, here they were—Adal pressing in from the east, traitors within, and a crippled fleet scattered like leaves in the wind.

Suddenly, the door burst open. General Mekonnen, his loyal military commander, stood panting in the threshold.

"Sire!" he cried, his eyes wild. In his hand he held a small, hastily folded note. "We have a fighting chance!"

He handed it to the emperor.

The emperor read quickly, his fingers trembling.

After a moment, he stood straighter. His voice, cracked and hoarse, whispered:

"Tesfaye, he is still fighting..."

He turned to Mekonnen, his eyes alight for the first time in weeks.

"Summon the court. We ride to meet them. If they have lit a fire in the south, then we must be the wind that spreads it."