In a dim chamber of carved stone deep within the port fortress of Massawa, General Qasim the Iron Hand paced like a lion behind bars. His fingers drummed against the hilt of his scimitar, the sound echoing softly as the sea wind hissed through the shutters.
Scrolls and missives littered the desk beside him—torn open, reread, and cursed over. He glanced at the latest one, his upper lip curling.
"The Abyssinians have blocked all communications inland," came a voice from the far end of the room. Vizier Harun, draped in cream silk and smelling of clove and musk, approached slowly. "Our agents in Gondar haven't sent word in over a month. We fear the Emperor has discovered our spies."
Qasim scowled. "Discovered or exterminated? Every day without word confirms it."
