The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 85 - The Weight of Paper and Steel

The air in Massawa reeked of salt, sweat, and sorrow. Musyoka coughed as the thick humidity pressed against his chest like a burden he couldn’t throw off. It had taken days to arrive here disguised as beggars, worn sandals scraping over burning sands, their bodies cloaked in dirt and fatigue to blend into the shadows of the suffering.

But nothing had prepared Musyoka for the stench of grief in this place.

Massawa was a city carved in contrast—glittering domes in the distance for nobles and foreigners, while slaves lay hunched like broken tools near the harbor’s edge. The whip cracked more than once as they passed, and no one flinched. Not even the children.

"Monsters," Musyoka muttered under his breath.

He and the scout had moved silently until word reached them from whispers in back alleys. Naliaka and Ndengu had taken shelter in a crumbling storage house, surrounded by crates rotting with age. They looked thinner, hardened, their eyes sharp like blades dulled by constant slicing.

"Did you get our message?" Naliaka asked the moment he slipped through the back.

Musyoka, face drawn from the journey, didn’t answer. He simply reached into his tattered tunic and pulled out a roll of papers bound with cord, a sealed letter tucked alongside it.

"Your orders," he said hoarsely, "are to find passage to Nuri. Get this to King Lusweti. They’re the key to this war."

Naliaka’s fingers trembled as she undid the cord. Her eyes scanned the pages—blueprints for ships unlike any they’d seen before, sketches of rigging systems, designs for curved hulls, even basic artillery mounts. But it didn’t stop there—there were training regimens, compass designs, wave-current maps, wind analysis charts.

"Prince Khisa drew all this?" she asked in disbelief.

"He’s a prince, but he works like a man possessed," Musyoka replied. "He believes this war will be decided at sea as much as on land."

Ndengu rubbed his neck. "And how, exactly, are we supposed to get to Nuri with this?"

Naliaka closed the scroll, wrapping it carefully in oil cloth. "We leave before nightfall. Time is against us. We board a merchant vessel, anything headed south. The pirates are preparing to move on Nuri, but it’ll take them time to organize. We can beat them there and warn the King."

Ndengu glanced through the cracked wood slats of the warehouse, watching the silhouettes of chained children led away toward the ships.

"Are we really going to leave them?" he asked softly.

A long silence stretched between them. Naliaka’s jaw clenched, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

"I want nothing more than to gut every slaver in this cursed port," she whispered. "But if we don’t leave now, there’ll be no one left to save next time. We bring them hope by surviving."

"What about you?" Ndengu turned to Musyoka.

"I’ll stay. Blend in, listen. Every scrap of intelligence counts. Maybe this war will take years. Maybe we’ll lose a thousand battles before the one that matters. But we don’t stop. Not ever. I have a pigeon to report any new development, currently Prince Khisa is busy building the navy, he will make his move soon enough. I just have to do my part here."

They embraced quickly—no fanfare, just a mutual understanding born of fire.

As dusk fell, Ndengu shed his pride and walked among the merchants, dressed in rags, face smeared with soot. He approached vessel after vessel, bowing low, speaking in broken phrases.

"I beg... sir. My sister. Sick. Please. We work. We clean. Just take us."

Most shoved him away with insults or laughter.

"Another parasite," one man spat.

But Ndengu swallowed it all. For every rejection, he simply moved to the next.

I can’t punch my way through this. Not yet. Not now. Let them jeer. Let them spit. My fists can’t build navies, but that scroll might.

At last, an Arab merchant, bearded and haughty, stopped to observe.

"You clean deck?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Strong. Can carry. My sister—just quiet. No trouble. We work until our bones give."

A brief exchange among the crew. Then a grunt. "Fine. One journey. No pay. No food. You’re our rats now."

"Thank you, thank you," Ndengu bowed repeatedly.

He returned to Naliaka, who had wrapped herself in dirty shawls and caked her face with ash. She looked convincingly fragile, her back hunched, her eyes dull and unfocused.

They hid the scrolls beneath their layered clothes, the most precious weapon in this hell.

As they boarded, some sailors scoffed. "Look at that one. Probably die before we leave port."

Another tossed a rotting fruit at Naliaka. She didn’t flinch.

Let them laugh. Let them mock.

The storm’s coming, she thought. And we carry the thunder.

While the storm gathered at sea, in Shewa...

The scent of ink and parchment filled the royal study. Khisa spread out the same blueprints before Emperor Gelawdewos, who leaned over with furrowed brows and growing amazement.

"You should make a career in shipbuilding," the Emperor commented, tapping one diagram of an oar-powered cutter.

Khisa chuckled, rubbing his ink-stained hands on a cloth. "This is just the beginning. My kingdom needs me to be the best at everything—whether that’s war, ships, or digging latrines. I don’t have the luxury of failure, if I die now all my knowledge dies with me."

The Emperor leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "That’s admirable, young Prince. And... I have a proposition for you."

Khisa raised an eyebrow. "Please don’t tell me you want to invade another country."

"No," the Emperor smirked. "I want you to marry my daughter."

Khisa blinked. "What?"

"Marry her. She’s bright, educated, and prettier than any royal painter could capture. She’d give you strong sons and good counsel."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Khisa asked, flustered. "We’re in the middle of planning a war."

"Exactly. Which is why we need strong alliances. Marrying into my house would bind us together even more."

Ayaan’s voice rang in Khisa’s mind: [Perhaps... a marriage of alliance? Strategically sound]

Khisa shook his head. "No. No, no, no. I told you—I’m here because if we don’t stick together, foreigners will bleed us dry. That doesn’t mean I need to marry anyone."

"But you think like a ruler," the Emperor pressed. "You’re young, but your mind is sharper than my entire council."

"That’s your council’s problem," Khisa muttered. "I’ve already risked my neck, delivered plans, trained your soldiers, and basically gifted you blueprints for a modern navy. Isn’t that enough for an unshakable alliance?"

The Emperor laughed, belly shaking. "I like you more with every word."

"Good. Now leave me alone so I can go back to my experiments," Khisa huffed, turning back to his cluttered workbench.

"Very well," Gelawdewos said, chuckling. "I rejected many proposals myself when I was your age. Men need to wander before they settle."

"Shut up," Khisa said, ears pink. "And don’t send her to visit me either. I have sawdust in my hair, and I smell like goat oil."

As the Emperor left, still laughing, Khisa muttered, "What is with rulers and trying to marry off their daughters like festival fruit?"

He glanced back at his blueprints.

No time for love. Not yet.