The wind that swept over Shewa carried with it the scent of pine, steel, and quiet dread. In the fortified heart of the town, Khisa and Tesfaye stood side by side on a rising hill as rows of exhausted soldiers trained below them. There was no formal parade, no elegance in their stance—only sweat, bruises, and determination. The clang of wooden weapons echoed across the field, punctuated by sharp cries of correction from the Shadow Guard.
Khisa watched silently, a faint breeze tugging at his robes. "Bring me anyone who can sail," he had ordered the night before. "Fishermen, smugglers, retired navy officers—I don't care if they've only ever paddled a canoe."
