Page 96 of Sins of His Wrath

As Akoro continued, his voice rose and fell like music, drawing his people into the rhythm of his words. Naya found herself mesmerized not by the translation Prillu provided, but by the man himself—the conviction in his voice, the fluid movement of his hands as he emphasized certain points, the way his people watched him with expressions of reverence and love.

This was not the harsh captor who had taken her from her forest, nor the brooding presence that haunted her nights. This was a king, beloved by his people, bearing the weight of their future on his shoulders.

The realization settled in her chest like a stone.

When Akoro finished speaking, the crowd responded with a harmonious chant that raised goosebumps along Naya’s arms. The sound swelled, filling the courtyard with its powerful resonance before fading into reverent silence.

Servants appeared, carrying elaborately woven mats that they placed in rows throughout the courtyard. The crowd moved, each person finding their place on a mat, kneeling with practiced ease.

Prillu guided Naya to a mat near the front, close enough to the throne that she could see the intricate details of Akoro’s ceremonial crown. “Kneel,” Prillu instructed quietly. “We honor the Voices now.”

Naya hesitated only a moment before lowering herself onto the mat. Around her, the entire assembly had taken the same position, heads bowed, palms resting on their thighs.

Akoro descended from the throne, moving to a mat positioned it. Even in prayer, he remained elevated above his people—a living bridge between them and the divine. He knelt with surprising grace for a man of his size, his back straight, his posture one of dignity mingled with humility.

The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle splash of the waterfall. Naya closed her eyes, unsure what to do with herself in this unfamiliar ritual. She wasn’t praying—she had no connection to these “Voices” the ssukkurian people revered—but the quiet reverence of the moment settled over her nonetheless.

After what felt like an eternity, a single voice rose in song—a woman’s voice, clear and strong, singing words in a language Naya didn’t recognize. It was beautiful, haunting, filled with emotion that transcended the barrier of understanding. One by one, other voices joined, weaving a tapestry of sound that filled the courtyard.

When Naya opened her eyes, Akoro was watching her, his dark, hungry gaze intense even across the distance that separated them. In that moment, something passed between them—an acknowledgment, a need.

Then the song ended, and the spell was broken. The crowd rose to their feet, the solemn atmosphere giving way to renewed conversation and movement.

Akoro descended into the crowd, moving among his people with surprising ease. They approached him without hesitation—old women reaching to touch his arm, children tugging at his robes, men clasping his forearm in greeting. He spoke to each one, his expression attentive, his stance open.

Gone was the rigidity she’d seen in him during their strategic meetings, the barely contained fury that seemed to always simmer beneath the surface. Here, among his people, he was transformed—still commanding, still powerful, but approachable in a way she hadn’t witnessed before.

Oppo appeared beside her, speaking to Tshel, who had rejoined them.

“He says Akoro is an excellent king,” Tshel translated, her voice quiet but firm. “Despite everything, despite the burden he carries. These people are his life.”

Naya turned to them, finding Oppo’s expression solemn. “You all seem very dedicated.”

Tshel conferred briefly with Oppo before translating his response. “We see the toll it takes on him, more than most.” Oppo’s smile was sad as he continued, his gaze returning to his brother, who was now crouched to hear the words of an elderly man. “He would burn himself to ashes to keep our people warm. It is both his greatest strength and his deepest flaw.”

Before Naya could respond, a flurry of movement caught her attention. A high-ranking servant approached Akoro, leaning close to murmur something in his ear. Immediately, Akoro straightened, his expression shifting to focused intensity.

He raised a hand, and several council members moved toward him immediately—Prillu, Nrommo, Ranin. They conferred briefly, then turned as one toward the palace.

Prillu broke away from the group, moving swiftly to where Naya stood with Oppo. “Come,” she said. “There has been a development.”

Within minutes, they had left the peaceful reverence of the Throne Court behind, hurrying through corridors toward the familiar strategy room. The contrast was jarring—from celebration to crisis in the span of heartbeats.

When they entered the strategy room, Naya found the council members had already shed the relaxed demeanor they’d displayed in the Throne Court. They stood around the table, tension evident in their postures, speaking rapidly in their native tongue.

Akoro looked up as she entered, his eyes lingering on her ceremonial attire before returning to the matter at hand. “Prillu,” he said, nodding toward Naya. “Explain.”

Prillu stepped forward, her formal robes rustling as she moved. “We’ve made a breakthrough regarding the signet mentioned in the scrolls.” Her voice was crisp, professional—the diplomat once more. “It appears the reference wasn’t to a physical sigil as we initially thought, but to the magical signature embedded in our artifacts.”

She gestured to the table where several objects had been laid out—a small stone similar to the one Akoro had used when taking Naya from her forest, a metal bracelet etched with intricate symbols, and what appeared to be a decorative dagger with a crystalline blade.

“Each magical artifact created by the Sy Dynasty bears a unique energetic signature,” Prillu continued. “A pattern woven into its very essence that determines how magic behaves. We believe this is what the ancient texts referred to as the ‘signet’—the key to controlling the flow of wild magic.”

Naya stepped closer to the table, examining the objects without touching them. “This aligns with what Mother Freya told me,” she said slowly, her mind racing. “She spoke of weaving patterns into magic, creating symbols that function as instructions.”

Ranin nodded. “Yes, exactly. Our ancestors must have discovered the same principle, using these ‘signets’ to control and direct magical energy.”

“But if that’s true,” Naya said, frowning, “how can your artifacts impact the nnin-eellithi in the first place? The instruction is internal, isn’t it?”

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