The Wrath of the Unchained

Massawa was still days away.

Musyoka and the Abyssinian scout pressed hard through the rugged highlands, the weight of their message heavier than the packs on their backs. But here in Shewa, time had already begun to thin out. The knives were already unsheathed.

Commander Tesfaye had wasted no time. After sending a pigeon to the capital—urging the Emperor to act on the news of Khisa and the Shadow Guard—he took matters into his own hands. He sent out covert riders to neighboring towns, letters sealed not with royal wax, but his personal blade’s blood.

"This is the moment," he had told Khisa. "If we fail now, Abyssinia will remain blind. But if we root them out today—tonight—we might just live to see a kingdom worth fighting for."

Khisa sat cross-legged with the last twelve Shadows. Beside him was Faizah, the wind in her eyes now still—calculating.

"I have been mapping out all the major information hubs in the town. You will scatter across Shewa," she said, her voice cutting clean. "You’ll sleep in brothels, play drunks in taverns, pretend to be thieves in alleys. Every corner, every whisper, every shadow—they’re all yours now."

Khisa leaned forward, meeting each of their eyes. "Disguise yourselves. Blend in. Look beneath the skin of this town. Into the merchant stalls with no wares. Into inns where no one sleeps. Into questions asked by the wrong mouths. Into sudden wealth, sudden silence. Into alleyways where breath doesn’t belong."

"This isn’t a mission—it’s a reckoning. They’ve hidden among us for too long. Spies. Traitors. Men who would poison children and enslave our women." Tesfaye said gritting his teeth.

He looked to Musimbi, who clenched her spear tighter. "They won’t get the chance."

They nodded, one by one, then melted into the night like vapor.

Khisa stayed behind—but not as himself.