Page 74 of Storms of His Wrath

Two hours from camp, they reached the edge of the Isshiran Sands where the landscape solidified into stable ground. Theendless golden dunes gave way to rocky outcroppings, and it was in the first of these passes that death found them…

The crossbow bolt lanced Akoro high in the shoulder without warning, spinning him sideways with brutal force. Pain exploded through his chest as steel punched through leather and muscle, hot blood immediately soaking his robes. He fought to stay mounted as hisnniraereared in alarm, his arms instinctively tightening around Naya’s arms to keep her secure to him.

“Ambush!” Nrommo’s roar echoed off stone walls as mounted warriors emerged from concealed locations on both sides of the canyon.

“Akoro!” Naya’s cry cut through the chaos, her arms tightening around his waist as theirnniraereared again in alarm.

“Hold on,” he snarled, drawing his sword with his good arm while his injured shoulder screamed in protest. Blood soaked through his robes, but he moved his free arm and locked it around Naya’s thigh, keeping her secure. “Defensive formation! Protect the princess!”

Otenyo appeared from behind a boulder, flanked by perhaps fifteen men—fewer than Akoro had expected, but positioned for maximum surprise. The Soge’s face held grim satisfaction as he studied their group.

“King Sy,” he called over the clash of steel, “your reign ends here!”

But the ambush had been poorly planned. Nrommo’s battle cry urged the twenty-five soldiers Akoro had brought from the sand drift to respond with the deadly efficiency of seasoned warriors. What Otenyo had meant as a killing blow became a brief, brutal engagement as superior numbers and training overtook the soge’s weak troop.

Akoro fought to control hisnniraewith his knees, his sword arm moving in deadly arcs while Naya pressed tight against his back. Her staff hummed with restrained power, but in close quarters combat, steel would serve them better than magic.

“Take him alive!” Akoro called as his men swarmed over the remaining attackers.

Within minutes, it was over. Otenyo was kneeling in the dust with his hands bound behind him, blood trickling from a split lip where Nrommo’s pommel had found its mark. He had no idea that this irritating incursion could destroy the kingdom he thought he could overtake. His men lay dead or dying around him—the price of treachery against the crown.

“You should have stayed in your district for I doubt the king will allow you to ever return, much less live,” Nrommo said coldly, hauling the Soge to his feet.

But Akoro swayed dangerously in his saddle, the crossbow bolt still protruding from his shoulder. Blood loss was taking its toll, the world beginning to blur at the edges. Only Naya’s arms around his waist kept him upright.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” she said, her voice tight with concern as she examined the wound over his shoulder. “The bolt has to come out.”

“Let’s do it,” Akoro gritted through clenched teeth.

He slid off thenniraeand Naya slid down after. Her hands moved to his shoulder with steady precision, snapping the wooden shaft close to the wound and leaving only a stub protruding from torn flesh. Fire shot through his chest, but he didn’t cry out—not with his Omega pushed up against him, her fingers gentle as she worked. Her cloak pressed against the wound to slow the bleeding that threatened to drain his strength.

“Secure the prisoners,” he ordered Nrommo, his voice hoarse but commanding. “We continue to the ritual site.”

“My king,” Nrommo said eyeing his wound, “perhaps we should return to?—”

“No.” Akoro’s voice was resolute despite his weakened state. “The storm approaches. We finish what we came to do.”

The ancient ruins of Kessarok rose from the desert like the bones of some long-dead giant. Crumbling towers reached toward the cloudless sky, their broken walls telling stories of glory and devastation. Once this had been the jewel of the Vos Dynasty—a city of scholars and architects whose innovations had shaped the known world. Now it stood empty, haunted by memories and the faint hum of a dormant magical infrastructure.

Nrommo and the remaining soldiers that didn’t escort the prisoners back to Onn Kkulma, stationed themselves around the city perimeter. Akoro slumped forward in his saddle as they passed through the ruined gates, blood loss finally claiming its due. Only his iron will and the desperate need to protect Naya kept him conscious as theirnniraepicked its way through rubble-strewn streets.

“Let’s stop,” Naya said. “I need to look at Oshrun’s maps.”

They dismounted near the plaza’s edge, and Akoro’s legs nearly buckled as his boots hit ancient stone. Naya was beside him instantly, her arm sliding around his waist to steady him. Her warmth pressed against his uninjured side, and he found strength in her proximity despite the fire burning through his shoulder.

“Sit,” she commanded, guiding him to a fallen column. “Let me examine the wound properly.”

She knelt beside him, her brown eyes sharp with worry as she studied the injury. “The bolt missed major vessels, but you’velost significant blood. This needs proper treatment before you attempt the ritual.”

“There’s no time,” Akoro said, though the world swayed alarmingly around him. “The storm?—”

“We’ll wait another hour,” Naya said firmly, her hands gentle but insistent as she helped him lie back against the stone. “You’re no good to anyone if you collapse during the binding.”

She worked with swift efficiency, cleaning the wound with water from their supplies and applying healing salves from their packs that numbed the worst of the pain. The broken bolt shaft came free with a wet, sucking sound that made Akoro’s jaw clench, but her ministrations were skilled and sure.

“This will hold,” she said finally, binding his shoulder with strips of clean cloth torn from her cloak. “But your arm will be weak. Can you still perform the ritual?”

Akoro flexed his left hand, testing the range of motion. Pain shot through the joint, but his fingers obeyed his commands. “I can manage.”

---