Chapter 87 - Blood, Salt and Steel
Assab Port reeked of brine and broken dreams. The wooden dock planks creaked under every step, a symphony of decay and neglect. It was exactly how the reports had described it—underdeveloped, chaotic, and tucked far from prying eyes. For Khisa, that made it the perfect hiding place.
But it was still a gamble. The kind that could either tip the scales of war or bury them beneath the Red Sea.
Secrecy had always been their sharpest blade. If they lost it now, the Ottoman retaliation would be swift and merciless. But if they succeeded...
If they succeeded, then the very waters of the Red Sea would echo with their names.
If they succeed, it would mean more battles ahead. More wars against even stronger enemies, but..it would still be better than failing. Failing meant, Nuri will be swallowed whole.
By day and night, Khisa drilled his soldiers without mercy. They fought on the stolen ships like wolves circling a wounded bull—learning to swim with armor, to leap from one vessel to another, to fight atop slick decks as waves threatened to pull them under. They bled in training so they wouldn’t bleed in battle.
Three days left. The Ottoman vessel would arrive then. They would have only one shot.
It was time to move.
Khisa boarded the lead ship with the Shadows, Faizah, Biruk, and a tight unit of elite soldiers. Tesfaye captained the second, his dark eyes scanning the horizon like a hawk. Both crews wore ragged, mismatched clothes and covered their faces with scarves, their skin smeared with grease and charcoal. Pirates. Filthy, desperate, unpredictable. Just the kind of people who wouldn’t be questioned too closely.
As they slipped away from port under the cover of dusk, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Soldiers clutched their spears and bows like lifelines, knuckles white, eyes wide. The salty air bit at their faces, and every gust of wind felt like it carried whispers of death.
Khisa leaned against the wooden rail, the spray of sea mist kissing his skin. His eyes flicked across the deck—archers checking their explosive arrowheads, others handling molotovs with trembling fingers. The ships now carried more than brave hearts—they were war machines, outfitted with functioning cannons and grappling hooks along their sides.