The Wrath of the Unchained

The sun hung low over the port city of Assab, casting long golden rays over the docks that now bustled with life. Once a ghost town choked by foreign exploiters, Assab now pulsed with renewed purpose. Fishermen shouted cheerfully over the splash of nets hitting the ocean. Children played with sticks and laughter. Ships bearing the crest of Nuri glided into the harbor like proud birds coming home.

Princess Azenet moved through the market, the scent of spiced lentils and dried fish wafting around her as she listened to the people’s stories. A group of refugees sat near the shade of a torn sail converted into a makeshift tent.

"My son... they took him," a gaunt woman said, tears catching in the lines of her face. "But this prince... Khisa... he said he would find him. He gave me food and said I still mattered."

Another, an older man with missing teeth and cloudy eyes, nodded. "When no one would help us, he did. He doesn’t walk like a prince. He walks like a brother."

Azenet felt her throat tighten. Each voice echoed the same thing: hope. He gave us hope. He gave us purpose.

A former slave, now helping to mend fishing nets, looked up as Azenet passed. "Princess," he said, bowing awkwardly. "We would follow Khisa into the storm if he asked. He made us feel human again."

The admiration for Prince Khisa stretched across every stone of Assab.

But not all hearts rejoiced.

---

The training grounds rang with the clash of steel and the rhythmic chants of breathwork. Musimbi, Zuberi, Faizah, Jelani, and Nia led rows of women through formations—swords arcing in unison, dust kicking under disciplined feet. The women’s bodies were scarred, strong, and graceful. They moved like wind and thunder—lethal yet composed.

Then came him.