The Wrath of the Unchained

As Khisa pushed the limits of innovation on the docks of Assab, overseeing the expansion of Nuri’s naval forces, storms brewed quietly in distant corners of the region. While he charted blueprints and supervised the fitting of steel-hardened hulls, the enemies of progress began stirring, blind to the force that now gathered against them.

Back at the Massawa Port

Ottoman General Qasim, known among his ranks as The Iron-Hand, scowled at the parchment clenched in his grip. His weathered fingers tightened with frustration. The letter was stamped with urgency, ink smudged by hasty hands—details of a missing Ottoman war vessel bound for Massawa. It had vanished without trace, carrying both weapons and slaves meant to fuel the coming invasion.

"Delayed. Again," he growled, pacing the length of his stone chamber. His armor clinked with each determined step. The delay had thrown off their timeline, and worse—his superiors in Constantinople were breathing fire down his neck. The empire’s wrath, once aroused, was relentless.

He snapped his fingers. "Commander Bashir!"

A nervous man rushed in. "Yes, General?"

"Find out what happened to our vessel. Now."

Hours later, Bashir returned, pale and sweaty beneath his turban. "General... the reports say the ship was... attacked. By pirates."

"Pirates?" Qasim’s voice rose dangerously. "You mean to tell me we have sea scum interfering with my fleet?"

Bashir swallowed. "Y-yes, sir. They’ve hit multiple vessels, all carrying weapons or slaves. They bear no flags. No allegiances. What should we do General?"

Qasim slammed his fist against the stone wall. "What kind of stupid question is this?" he barked when Bashir asked for instructions. "Take our fastest ships. Find them. Sink them. But leave one of them alive—I want our weapons back. And I want answers."