Page 6 of Storms of His Wrath

"Akoro?" Oppo's voice broke through his stupor. "Why have you stopped?"

For a moment, words failed him. Akoro held up the now-cool blade. "Thennol ttaehh. It burned. Her wound has been removed."

Oppo stared at the dagger, his eyes wide. He dragged a hand across his face. "That would mean?—"

“Who the fuck would know how to do that?” Akoro asked, his voice low and sharp. "No one outside our family knows how to remove it."

Prillu and Nrommo had caught up but held their mounts back, sensing the tension in the air.

Oppo's gaze remained fixed on the blade. "Could Otenyo have found a way?"

Akoro shook his head sharply. "The knowledge is guarded more closely than any other secret of the Sy Dynasty. It's impossible."

"And yet, someone knows how." Oppo gestured toward the dagger.

Akoro didn’t answer. A cold certainty settled in his bones. This was no longer just about Naya disappearing. This was about power shifting in ways he hadn’t foreseen.

"At least she won't bleed to death," Oppo said finally, relief flooding his tone.

It was a thought Akoro should’ve found comforting but the idea someone else could remove her connection to him, no matter how dangerous, alarmed him.

"This does complicate things though." Oppo's tone dropped to low murmur. "Whoever removed thennol ttaehh maelpossesses knowledge from the height of our dynasty's power. They're potentially hostile to our rule."

“Yes,” Akoro said slowly, a different thought dawning. "This could have nothing to do with the districts at all."

Oppo made a noise in the back of his throat. “Your instincts to retrieve your mate are strong, Akoro. And that’s normal. But we have to be careful. We don’t know what or who we’re dealing with.”

Heat surged through Akoro’s veins, rage threatening to overwhelm rational thought. Then, with visible effort, he reined in his fury, forcing clarity into his mind. Oppo spoke the truth.

"Something isn't right," he agreed, sheathing the dagger with care. "We need to approach with more caution. Draw them out. Follow solid information—anything that might lead us to her."

Oppo nodded. “We need intelligence.”

Akoro twisted in his saddle. "Nrommo."

The battle chief directed hisnniraealongside Akoro's mount. "Change of plan. I'll continue with a smaller contingent of our men. Take the rest of the troop back to the nearest outpost and await my orders."

Nrommo nodded without hesitation. “As you command, my king.”

“Oppo, Prillu, come with me. We’ll approach Otenyo’s district with caution.”

As Nrommo departed with the bulk of their forces, Akoro turned hisnniraeback toward their destination. His mind had cleared, though determination burned no less fiercely. He needed results more than he needed destruction.

At least for now.

Within hours, the gates of Ntorkkan district came into view. The massive stone archway bore the district's insignia: a hawk with outstretched wings, clutching wheat in its talons. A symbol of prosperity and vigilance. They guided their mounts to a stop, the small contingent of soldiers moving to a protective formation at their rear.

The central town sprawled before them—a cluster of red and brown buildings jutting out like jagged cliffs against the pale sky. Unlike Onn Kkulma’s orderly streets and towering architecture, Ntorkkan had grown organically, structures pressed against each other in haphazard clusters, narrow alleys snaking between them. Still, there was wealth here, evident in the polished stone facades of the larger buildings and the gleaming metal adornments that caught the harsh sunlight.

Of course, this wasn’t a normal day in the district. Colorful banners hung from windows and doorways, their rich fabrics stirring in the breeze. The scent of spiced food drifted from open doorways, and soft melodies floated on the air, voices raised inreverent songs. People moved through the streets with purpose, but their steps carried the unhurried grace of sacred observance. Many wore their finest garments, the deep jewel tones and metallic threads catching the light as they passed.

The Day of Voices. Even here, in a district he suspected of treachery, Otenyo's people honored the sacred observance.

As they approached, guards rushed forward, weapons half-drawn, but their movements seemed reluctant, torn between duty and the solemnity of the day. At their center strode Soge Otenyo, his tall frame moving with fluid power. Otenyo's sharp features remained impassive—heavy brows set in their natural scowl, jaw locked in perpetual sternness. Dark eyes assessed Akoro with calculation, revealing nothing. Unlike most soges who carried the soft roundness of comfortable living, Otenyo maintained a warrior's hardened physique. Scars marked his arms—old blade wounds that spoke of genuine combat experience.

"King Sy." Otenyo's voice carried no surprise or shock at their unexpected arrival. The words were measured, controlled. "I trust you're well. Though I confess surprise at your visit on this most holy of days."

"Soge Otenyo." Akoro remained mounted, a subtle reminder of their difference in status.

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