The Wrath of the Unchained

The morning sun had just begun to crest over the stone terraces of Nuri’s rising capital, casting golden light through the mist-veiled streets. From the palace balcony, the world looked almost still. Below, preparations were in motion—teams assembling, carriages readied, weapons secured.

But in the private chamber above the great hall, two men stood alone.

King Lusweti poured the tea himself—an old habit from simpler times. He handed the cup to Khisa with steady hands, though his eyes betrayed the storm within.

"I have seen you grow from a boy who asked too many questions," Lusweti said softly, "into a man who gives the answers others need. I do not say this often—but I am proud of you, Khisa."

Khisa accepted the cup, silent for a moment.

"You raised me to believe in people," he replied. "Even when they disappoint us."

Lusweti gave a faint smile, but it quickly faded.

"I worry," he admitted, "that we are showing too much of our hand. These weapons, these ideas—too many eyes are watching. We are not the only ones building something. There are forces on this continent who would rather burn the future than be left behind."

Khisa set his tea down.

"I know. But that’s why I have to go."

Lusweti looked at him sharply.