The Wrath of the Unchained
Chapter 165 - The Last Descent

Chapter 165: Chapter 165 - The Last Descent

M’banza-Kongo did not sleep.

Not truly.

Even beneath its quiet streets and incense-sweet air, the palace never stilled. Guards paced in pairs. Torches flickered in timed rhythm. The shadows held secrets—and tonight, they also held war.

Zara crouched beneath a stone arch near the royal gardens, heart pounding beneath her ribs. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade. Above her, the western palace loomed—stone and wood gilded in gold, now nothing more than a cage for a king who didn’t know he was a prisoner.

The others moved in silence across the grounds.

Faizah slipped through the kitchens. Taban lingered by the bathhouse corridor, scanning the guards’ routes. Kiprop was already inside.

No one spoke.

They didn’t have time for words.

The first target was the king.

According to the intelligence, he slept alone now—isolated under the guise of "illness." His personal guards had been reassigned. No advisors. No family. It wasn’t house arrest, not openly—but it was close enough.

Zara slipped through the side passage, stepping over a half-swept trail of bougainvillea petals. She found the corridor dim, its lanterns burning low. Her boots made no sound on the polished floor.

The chamber door was slightly ajar.

Inside, Kiprop stood over the king’s bed, blade drawn—but lowered. Tense. Alert.

The king was awake, eyes wide in terror. His voice rose in alarm.

"Guards!"

Zara moved fast.

She crossed the room and pressed a cloth against his mouth just as his shout pierced the air. Kiprop cursed and locked the door behind her.

The king struggled hard, fists swinging. Zara took a hit to the jaw. Kiprop caught the second punch and forced him back down.

"We don’t have time!" Zara hissed.

His eyes screamed betrayal.

"We’re not here to kill you," Kiprop muttered, voice low but strained. "But if you keep shouting, someone will."

Zara’s voice was flat. "You can believe us or not. But staying here means dying."

She bound his wrists. Not tightly—but enough to control the panic. They dragged him upright and shoved a servant’s robe over his head.

He thrashed, still trying to yell, but Faizah burst in with a whisper of footsteps. "Hall’s still clear. Move now or we’re dead."

They hauled the king through the washroom passage, forcing him into the service tunnel beyond. The sounds of footsteps echoed faintly behind them.

One down.

The queen and her youngest son were next.

Sarai entered the eastern wing dressed as a nursemaid. Taban waited near the servants’ lift, a blade hidden in the basket of fresh linens. This part of the palace was awake now—early rituals, incense offerings, shift changes.

They had minutes.

Sarai entered the queen’s chamber with a calm smile and an herbal bowl in hand. The queen rose from prayer with tired grace, her son asleep beside her.

But the moment Sarai stepped forward, the queen stiffened.

"You are not one of my women."

The scream began in her throat.

Sarai lunged.

She clamped a hand over the queen’s mouth while Taban slipped inside, catching the child before he could wake and cry out.

The queen kicked hard, teeth sinking into Sarai’s palm.

"Forgive me," Sarai muttered, breath sharp from pain.

Taban drew a blade and pressed it to the queen’s throat—not cutting, but close enough to silence her.

"We’re not here to kill you," he said coldly. "But if you scream again, you’ll force us to act like we are."

Tears welled in the queen’s eyes. Her arms stiffened. But she nodded—once, barely.

They wrapped her and the prince in cloaks, rushed them through the candlelit halls, down a steep stone stairwell, and out into the back courtyard.

The city bells began to chime in the distance.

Dawn was rising.

Last target: Lord Mvemba.

He was being led to a "meeting" in the council chamber. Two guards accompanied him, silent, stiff. Mwinyi watched from the balcony above. Something felt off.

He didn’t wait.

He leapt from the ledge, crashing onto one guard’s shoulders. The other went for a horn...

—but Faizah was already there, blade slicing clean through his hand.

Mvemba reeled back, stunned. "What in the—"

"No time!" Mwinyi shouted. "Come with us or die in this hallway!"

Mvemba looked between the blood, the blades, and the fire in Faizah’s eyes.

He chose to run.

They reached the chapel just as the sun began to spill gold across the rooftops.

Father Nzuzi was already waiting, the chapel doors half-open. He motioned them in, silent as a gravekeeper. One by one, the Shadow Guard forced their charges down into the catacombs—into the dust and darkness beneath the city.

The king fought until the very last stair.

"You’ll never get away with this," he hissed.

Zara turned to him, her face half in shadow.

"We already have."

She locked the gate.

And for the first time in generations, the blood of Kongo’s royal line vanished beneath the altar of their ancestors.

A single covered carriage waited in the alley behind the palace, its horses already restless, steaming in the chill morning air.

Zara pushed open the rear door, motioning sharply to Kiprop and Faizah. "Load them."

The king, still disoriented, blinked as he saw the others—his wife, her eyes red-rimmed and clinging to their young son; Lord Mvemba, pale and still shaken from the bloodshed; two other nobles, silent as stone, pressed into corners. All crammed into the narrow wooden cart like stolen relics.

The queen gasped when she saw her husband, crawling toward him with arms outstretched. "They took us. I thought you—"

"I’m here," he whispered. "I’m here."

Zara shut the carriage door hard behind them.

The king looked from face to face—his people, his blood—then at the silent, hooded figures now boarding the horses.

The cold realization crept in like fog.

"You’re not Kongo," he said slowly. "None of you. Who sent you?"

No one answered.

The wheels lurched into motion, creaking over stone and mud. The guards had been neutralized or rerouted. The paths chosen were obscure, winding through side roads and old pilgrimage lanes. Yet still, the king pressed on:

"Are we being handed to Lumingu?" he asked, voice cracking. "Is this his retribution? He promised mercy, I—"

He looked at his queen. "He lied."

The prince began to sob softly.

"Please," the queen whispered, looking to Sarai. "Just tell us what will happen to my children."

Still—no answer.

The Shadows didn’t speak. Not until it was safe.

They rode through the final stretch, dipping beneath an old aqueduct and turning onto the weather-worn track that led toward the abandoned Southern Chapel, its bones rising pale in the gray dawn.

Father Nzuzi waited there, cloaked and calm beside the chapel gate, a key glinting in his hand.

The moment the wheels halted, Zara was off her horse. "Unload them."

Faizah opened the carriage door.

The king refused to move.

"I demand to know where we are," he said. "Who you serve. Where you’re taking us."

Zara met his gaze for the first time since snatching him from his chamber.

"We serve a kingdom that believes your life is worth saving."

He blinked. "What?"

"We are from Nuri. You don’t know us. And we’re not asking for your trust. But know this: your enemies had your name etched in blood. You were days from death."

The queen stared at her. "Why us?"

"Because if Kongo falls with you at the bottom of a river, no one will rise to stop it."

Father Nzuzi stepped forward, face calm. "Your Highness. I am the last priest in this city who still prays for your soul instead of Lumingu’s ascent. Please. There is no time."

The king looked to his son, now clinging to the queen’s skirts. He took a breath, and nodded once.

The Shadows led them into the chapel. The carved doors shut behind them. Downward they went—through dust-choked steps, past old ossuaries and forgotten tombs, into the belly of the kingdom’s sacred dead.

The catacombs were cold. Dry. Dark.

But they were safe.

And until the city burned or the tide turned, the heart of Kongo would beat in silence—hidden beneath the altar of its ancestors.