Page 88 of Storms of His Wrath

He let the murmur rise from the crowd—confusion bleeding into something darker—before lifting his hand again. Silence fell like a blade, absolute and immediate. Naya watched in horrified fascination.

“But my crimes run deeper than mere kidnapping,” he said, his voice roughening with self-loathing that made the desert air itself seem to recoil. “I tortured her. I carved into her flesh with thennol ttaehh mael—yes, from the rumors—believing pain would break her spirit and bend her to my will.”

The crowd’s intake of breath was audible, a collective gasp that seemed to steal oxygen from the very air. Naya’s hand moved instinctively to where the faint scar still marked her skin, phantom pain echoing through her body as he laid bare the darkness they had shared.

“I discovered,” and now his voice cracked with emotion so raw it seemed to bleed into the stones beneath their feet, “that she was my mate. The other half of my soul, gifted by the Voices themselves. And still I tortured her. Still, I carved into the one person the universe had chosen for me.”

He let the horror of that revelation settle, watching as understanding arrived on thousands of faces.

“The woman destined to complete me,” he continued, each word a dagger thrust into his own chest, “and I repaid that sacred bond with cruelty. With the arrogance of kings who believe themselves above the laws that govern other souls.”

The crowd was completely silent now, held captive by the magnitude of his confession.

“When she escaped,” he said, and now his voice roughened with carefully controlled emotion that made her breath catch, “wild magic followed her path. It tore through our streets like the wrath of the Voices.”

He looked around at the crowd.

“Children died.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Families were destroyed. Blood stained our stones.” Then, building in power like gathering thunder, he confessed, “Because I chose conquest over the protection I swore to provide.”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate and visceral—gasps, cries of recognition, the stirring of anger. Tears burning Naya’s eyes as the magnitude of his performance became clear. He wasn’t just confessing—he was conducting his own political execution with the same masterful oratory that had once inspired armies.

“He’s destroying himself,” Prillu whispered, horror and admiration warring in her voice. “But he’s doing it so brilliantly that they’ll remember every word forever.”

“I chose conquest over safety,” Akoro continued, his voice building to that resounding power that could shake stone. “I chose ambition over service. I chose my desires over your welfare.”

Each phrase struck like a hammer blow, the rhythm hypnotic and damning.

“I became exactly what I swore to destroy—a Sy king who takes what he wants and lets others pay the price.”

But then his voice shifted. Softer, saturated with an emotion that seemed to reach across the distance and caress her skin like physical touch. The crowd felt it too, their anger hesitating as he drew them into a different rhythm.

“But the woman I captured,” he said, and every person in the square leaned forward as one, “Princess Naya of the Lox Empire, proved herself greater than the king who held her prisoner.”

He let the silence stretch again, building anticipation with masterful control.

“Despite every cruelty I inflicted,” his voice grew stronger with each word, building like rising tide, “despite the scars I carved into her perfect skin, despite the mate bond I desecrated through my actions—she chose mercy over vengeance.”

The rhythm of his words became hypnotic, weaving truth and redemption.

“She could have fled.” His voice grew stronger, each word like a rising tide. “Could have returned to her empire when the storm threatened our kingdom. Could have left us to face destruction alone.”

He paused. “Instead,” and now his voice rang with fierce pride that resonated through stone and bone alike, “she chose to stand beside us.”

The crowd was completely still now, held captive by his oratory as he painted her heroism with words that blazed like fire.

“She forged alliances with our very precious Omegas that we, that I, had abandoned. She shared knowledge hidden for generations. She sacrificed everything—her freedom, her safety, her very life—to save a kingdom that had shown her only suffering.”

His voice built to thunderous power, each word carefully chosen for maximum impact: “Thennin-eellithistorm that would have reduced everything you cherish to ash—your homes, your children, your dreams—was stopped not by your king’s strength, but by her courage.”

He paused, letting the weight of that revelation land.

“Princess Naya channeled forces that could have torn her apart,” he declared, his voice ringing with such fierce pride that it seemed to echo off the very heavens. “She became a living conduit for wild magic so powerful it could’ve never been contained. She stood in the heart of magical fire so that your children might wake in safety.”

Another pause, letting them absorb the magnitude of her sacrifice.

“She saved every life in this city,” he said, and now his voice cracked with the kind of vulnerability that made even the strongest warriors weep. “Every child who laughs today, every family that remains whole, every dream that continues to flourish—all of it exists because she chose to risk everything for people who had given her nothing but suffering.”

The crowd was completely silent now, thousands of souls held captive by his masterful weaving of truth and emotion. Naya could see tears on many faces, could feel the shift in the air as anger transformed into something deeper.

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