A month had passed since the signal fires had first lit the sky, and the liberation network was no longer just a theory—it was alive.
At every checkpoint, shadows moved with purpose. The once silent fort ruins manned by Jelani and Simba now echoed with the murmurs of the rescued and the quiet commands of their protectors. They rotated their schedules with military discipline—one shadow always watching the horizon, the other tending to logistics and safety. The ruins had become more than stone and ash—they were hope forged in secrecy.
At the old farmland, Zuberi and Kiprop adapted with surprising ingenuity. They developed a visual language using colorful fabrics tied around tools or woven through abandoned crop lines. The open air exposed them, but Kiprop had transformed the old irrigation trenches into escape routes and hidden compartments. Slaves arriving here were passed along swiftly and quietly, with barely a word spoken between handler and refugee.
Faida and Onyango, perhaps the most daring of the shadows, managed the most discreet checkpoint of all—the temple catacombs. It was both sacred and dangerous. Beneath the cracked idol of a long-forgotten deity, they created a labyrinth of chambers, corridors, and escape holes. With the help of five loyal Abyssinian soldiers, they turned even the darkness itself into a weapon. No sound escaped the temple walls without permission.
And still, no checkpoint operated in isolation. Between them, local runners moved like ghosts. Every ten kilometers, one would pick up where another left off, none aware of the full message or the broader network. A chain of whispers, carved sticks, coded cloth, and subtle signs all funneled back to the beating heart of it all—Assab.
Back at Assab, Khisa stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the port, now alive with hammering, shouting, and laughter. Ships were being built faster, more efficiently, thanks to the influx of new workers. And not just any workers—freed men and women who had crossed rivers of blood to stand on free soil.
They were liberated the moment they stepped into Assab’s sands. There were no chains here. No overseers. Prince Tadesse and Princess Azenet led the integration efforts, guiding each new arrival into housing, medical care, and eventually, work. There was confusion at first—many didn’t understand if this was real or another stop on the long road of torment. But over time, they began to believe.
Khisa felt a weight lift from his shoulders—but only slightly.
In the war room, he spoke to Tesfaye, maps spread before them, pebbles marking enemy ports, routes, and ships.
"I’m concerned about the silence from Massawa," Khisa said grimly. "After our battle at sea, I thought they’d retaliate."
Tesfaye nodded, eyes shadowed by memory. "The silence is definitely concerning. It’s been months." Follow current novᴇls on novel✦fire.net
"What do our spies say? The merchants have been going in and out of Massawa and Zeila. Have they noticed anything?"
"Just the usual," Tesfaye replied. "Slaves being sold. Soldiers strutting about like kings. No unusual movement. Nothing... new."
"That is suspicious," Khisa said, eyes narrowing. "We have to prepare for an all-out confrontation. Increase the range of our patrols—land and sea. If they move even a finger toward us, I want to know."
"I’ll relay the order," Tesfaye said. He hesitated, voice dipping. "But do you think we have enough soldiers for that? If it comes to war... a real one, do we stand a chance?"
Khisa met his gaze. "No. Not if we aim for total victory. That isn’t our goal."
Tesfaye looked surprised.
"We cannot overwhelm them outright," Khisa explained. "But we can drain them. Make this war so costly, so frustrating, that they decide it isn’t worth expanding here. That’s the key. Not conquest—attrition."
Tesfaye frowned. "Will that even work? They’ve already sunk so much into this. Why would they stop now?"
"They’ll stop," Khisa said. "We’re cutting their supply lines. Stealing their goods. Sinking their ships. The Emperor is already cleansing the camps from the inside. Their hold on Abyssinia is cracking. Tensions are rising on their side... and we must be ready when it explodes."
Tesfaye fell silent. His mind drifted.
He could still smell the smoke and salt of that day. Could still hear the screams when the line collapsed. The Ottomans had come in fast and brutal, wave after wave, cutting down every defense. He had fought to the last man... and still, it had not been enough. Zeila had fallen. Because of him.
He clenched his fists. "Can we survive another Zeila?"
"We can if we prepare," Khisa said firmly. "We’ll use traps. Explosives in the sea. Anything it takes. The Emperor will handle the land battles. Our duty is here. And it’s working—every slave we free weakens them. Many of the men are joining our navy. Training hard. Learning fast. Our numbers grow stronger with every ship that lands here."
He moved a stone on the map—Assab, now surrounded by an ever-expanding circle of influence.
"If they come, we’ll be ready. And if something stirs in Massawa or Zeila, our runners will know long before they mobilize."
Tesfaye nodded. "But there’s one thing we’re forgetting—the Portuguese."
Khisa’s jaw tightened.
"We know they’ve made some kind of deal with the Ottomans," Tesfaye continued. "But we don’t know how deep it goes. Or what they really want."
Khisa exhaled slowly. "The Portuguese care about one thing—profit. They’ll play both sides if they can. If they help the Emperor defeat the Ottomans, they become the saviors. If they side with the Ottomans and Adal, they gain powerful allies. Each of those options earns them more trade, more influence... and more slaves."
"We wait," Khisa said. "Until the emissary arrives. Only then will we understand their real intentions. If we can strike a fair deal, it could tip the scales. But it’s a dangerous path."
He looked out toward the ocean, the wind tugging at his cloak.
"In the meantime, we keep training. Keep building."
He turned to Tesfaye, eyes sharp with purpose.
"You and I need to plan a visit to Gondar."