Page 23 of Sins of His Wrath (Myth of Omega: Wrath #2)

Naya woke to sunlight streaming through the latticed windows, painting golden patterns across her bed. For once, she had slept deeply, without dreams or restlessness. Stretching languidly, she noticed a servant had already slipped into her room and laid out a garment across the foot of her bed—unlike anything she’d seen since arriving in Akoro’s land.

The gown cascaded in folds of rich sapphire blue, with intricate gold embroidery woven into complex geometric patterns along the neckline and sleeves. When she rose to examine it, the fabric caught the light, shimmering like water beneath a noon sun. It was beautiful—regal, even.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked when the servant entered with her breakfast.

The servant shook her head, unable to understand her, and set down the tray laden with fruits, flatbread, and kkermo .

After bathing and eating, the servant helped her into the elaborate gown. The fabric settled against her skin like a cool embrace, surprisingly lightweight despite its ornate appearance. The cut differed from the styles she’d worn in the Lox Empire—more flowing, with a high collar and wide sleeves that narrowed at the wrists. When she caught her reflection in the polished metal mirror, she barely recognized herself.

The blue deepened her skin tone, making it glow with warmth, while the gold accents highlighted the amber flecks in her eyes. Her copper-colored hair, usually bound back for practicality during their research, had been arranged in an elaborate style with strands woven with thin golden threads. She looked every inch a princess—though not of her own land.

A knock at the door announced Prillu, who entered with a formality that matched Naya’s attire. The diplomat was dressed in robes of deep burgundy, with gold patterns that complemented Naya’s own. Her usual severe expression had softened into something almost serene.

“You look magnificent, Princess,” Prillu said, smiling. “The color suits you well.”

“Thank you,” Naya replied, still studying her reflection. “Though I don’t understand the occasion.”

“The Day of Voices is our most sacred observance,” Prillu explained, leading her toward the door. “Even in times of crisis—perhaps especially then—we honor the traditions that bind us together.”

They walked through corridors that seemed transformed. Gone was the tense, harried atmosphere of the past days. Instead, a peaceful quiet had settled over the palace, broken only by the soft murmur of distant voices and occasional gentle laughter. Even the air felt fresh—infused with subtle fragrances of food and spices. Naya realized she had never asked Tshel about her faith or tried to understand it. She needed to do that so she could appreciate days like this.

As they neared their destination, the sounds grew louder—not chaotic or frenzied, but the harmonious hum of many voices in animated conversation. Prillu led her toward a massive set of doors Naya had never seen before, intricately carved and inlaid with precious metals.

“The Throne Court,” Prillu said, her voice dropping to a respectful murmur as the doors swung open.

Naya’s breath caught at the sight before her.

She entered an enormous courtyard with high walls decorated with the biggest artworks she’d seen in the palace so far—sprawling mosaics depicting landscapes and battles and rituals, all rendered in vibrant colors and precious metals that caught the morning light. In the central space, people meandered, murmuring to themselves or in silence. Plants, cushions, and low chairs lined either side of the space, but no one used them.

Dominating the courtyard was a giant ornate throne, so high that it reached the top of the courtyard wall. Pillars sat behind either side of it, and on the ground, it was guarded by golden animal head sculptures, their gaze eternal and unwavering. To the left, a waterfall spilled over a rocky wall, sending echoes of running water throughout the space.

Despite the recent devastation that had ravaged Onn Kkulma, the people gathered here seemed transformed. They wore their finest garments, rich fabrics in jewel tones complemented with gold and silver adornments. Children darted between groups of adults, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Elders sat in places of honor, surrounded by attentive youth. The atmosphere was one of communal joy, of celebration despite hardship.

As Naya moved further into the courtyard, she spotted members of the council dispersed throughout the crowd. They looked starkly different from their usual demeanor in the strategy room—relaxed, engaged, almost radiant.

Tshel, usually so reserved, was surrounded by a group of children, her hands weaving patterns in the air as she told them what appeared to be an animated story. Her red robes had been replaced by flowing garments in shades of amber and gold that made her seem to glow in the morning light.

Ranin stood conversing with a group of elders, his usual serious expression replaced with genuine warmth. Even Nrommo, forever scowling in their meetings, appeared at ease, his massive frame less intimidating as he bent to hear the words of a tiny, wizened woman who barely reached his chest.

Oppo approached through the crowd, resplendent in robes of deep forest green embroidered with gold. His face split into a wide smile that transformed his features as he spoke in his language, bowing slightly.

Tshel appeared at his side, translating smoothly. “He says you honor us with your presence,” she explained. “And he asks what you think of our Throne Court. It is the heart of Onn Kkulma—the place where our people have gathered for generations.”

“It’s magnificent,” Naya admitted, her eyes drawn again to the intricate mosaics that covered every surface. “I had no idea this existed within the palace.”

Tshel translated her words for Oppo, whose expression softened as he responded.

“He says there is much beauty here that survives, despite everything,” Tshel interpreted. “Our people understand suffering, Princess. They have endured more than most. But they also understand joy—how to seize it, how to create it, even in the darkest times.”

A hush fell over the courtyard. All eyes turned toward the great doors on the far side of the space, which slowly swung open to reveal Akoro.

Naya’s heart stuttered in her chest.

He was a vision of power and grace, dressed in ceremonial attire that emphasized his imposing stature. Deep crimson robes fell from his broad shoulders, embroidered with intricate patterns in gold thread that caught the light with every movement. A golden collar circled his throat, inlaid with gems that matched the color of the robe. His dark hair had been elaborately braided close to his scalp, intertwined with golden threads that matched Naya’s, and his beard had been trimmed to sharp precision.

But it was the crown that commanded attention—a circlet of gleaming gold set with a single blood-red stone at its center. It transformed him from merely a powerful man to something almost elemental, a force of nature clothed in human form.

The crowd parted before him, bowing their heads in deep respect as he passed. His steps were measured, deliberate, his presence filling the space with an authority that needed no words. Naya found herself unable to tear her gaze away, captivated by the way the light played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the intensity of his dark eyes.

He ascended to the throne with fluid Alpha grace, turning to face the gathered assembly. His gaze swept the crowd, pausing briefly when it found Naya. Something flickered in his expression—recognition, perhaps, or something deeper that she couldn’t name.

When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the courtyard, deep and resonant, in his native tongue. Though Naya couldn’t understand the words, their power was unmistakable. The crowd responded with murmurs of agreement, some pressing hands to their hearts, others bowing their heads.

Prillu leaned close, translating in a hushed whisper. “He speaks of endurance, of the strength of our people through generations of hardship. He reminds us that the Voices of the Sands have guided the ssukkǔrian people since the beginning of time, through triumph and tragedy alike.”

As Akoro continued, his voice rose and fell like music, drawing his people into the rhythm of his words. Naya found herself mesmerized not by the translation Prillu provided, but by the man himself—the conviction in his voice, the fluid movement of his hands as he emphasized certain points, the way his people watched him with expressions of reverence and love.

This was not the harsh captor who had taken her from her forest, nor the brooding presence that haunted her nights. This was a king, beloved by his people, bearing the weight of their future on his shoulders.

The realization settled in her chest like a stone.

When Akoro finished speaking, the crowd responded with a harmonious chant that raised goosebumps along Naya’s arms. The sound swelled, filling the courtyard with its powerful resonance before fading into reverent silence.

Servants appeared, carrying elaborately woven mats that they placed in rows throughout the courtyard. The crowd moved, each person finding their place on a mat, kneeling with practiced ease.

Prillu guided Naya to a mat near the front, close enough to the throne that she could see the intricate details of Akoro’s ceremonial crown. “Kneel,” Prillu instructed quietly. “We honor the Voices now.”

Naya hesitated only a moment before lowering herself onto the mat. Around her, the entire assembly had taken the same position, heads bowed, palms resting on their thighs.

Akoro descended from the throne, moving to a mat positioned it. Even in prayer, he remained elevated above his people—a living bridge between them and the divine. He knelt with surprising grace for a man of his size, his back straight, his posture one of dignity mingled with humility.

The silence was profound, broken only by the gentle splash of the waterfall. Naya closed her eyes, unsure what to do with herself in this unfamiliar ritual. She wasn’t praying—she had no connection to these “Voices” the ssukkǔrian people revered—but the quiet reverence of the moment settled over her nonetheless.

After what felt like an eternity, a single voice rose in song—a woman’s voice, clear and strong, singing words in a language Naya didn’t recognize. It was beautiful, haunting, filled with emotion that transcended the barrier of understanding. One by one, other voices joined, weaving a tapestry of sound that filled the courtyard.

When Naya opened her eyes, Akoro was watching her, his dark, hungry gaze intense even across the distance that separated them. In that moment, something passed between them—an acknowledgment, a need.

Then the song ended, and the spell was broken. The crowd rose to their feet, the solemn atmosphere giving way to renewed conversation and movement.

Akoro descended into the crowd, moving among his people with surprising ease. They approached him without hesitation—old women reaching to touch his arm, children tugging at his robes, men clasping his forearm in greeting. He spoke to each one, his expression attentive, his stance open.

Gone was the rigidity she’d seen in him during their strategic meetings, the barely contained fury that seemed to always simmer beneath the surface. Here, among his people, he was transformed—still commanding, still powerful, but approachable in a way she hadn’t witnessed before.

Oppo appeared beside her, speaking to Tshel, who had rejoined them.

“He says Akoro is an excellent king,” Tshel translated, her voice quiet but firm. “Despite everything, despite the burden he carries. These people are his life.”

Naya turned to them, finding Oppo’s expression solemn. “You all seem very dedicated.”

Tshel conferred briefly with Oppo before translating his response. “We see the toll it takes on him, more than most.” Oppo’s smile was sad as he continued, his gaze returning to his brother, who was now crouched to hear the words of an elderly man. “He would burn himself to ashes to keep our people warm. It is both his greatest strength and his deepest flaw.”

Before Naya could respond, a flurry of movement caught her attention. A high-ranking servant approached Akoro, leaning close to murmur something in his ear. Immediately, Akoro straightened, his expression shifting to focused intensity.

He raised a hand, and several council members moved toward him immediately—Prillu, Nrommo, Ranin. They conferred briefly, then turned as one toward the palace.

Prillu broke away from the group, moving swiftly to where Naya stood with Oppo. “Come,” she said. “There has been a development.”

Within minutes, they had left the peaceful reverence of the Throne Court behind, hurrying through corridors toward the familiar strategy room. The contrast was jarring—from celebration to crisis in the span of heartbeats.

When they entered the strategy room, Naya found the council members had already shed the relaxed demeanor they’d displayed in the Throne Court. They stood around the table, tension evident in their postures, speaking rapidly in their native tongue.

Akoro looked up as she entered, his eyes lingering on her ceremonial attire before returning to the matter at hand. “Prillu,” he said, nodding toward Naya. “Explain.”

Prillu stepped forward, her formal robes rustling as she moved. “We’ve made a breakthrough regarding the signet mentioned in the scrolls.” Her voice was crisp, professional—the diplomat once more. “It appears the reference wasn’t to a physical sigil as we initially thought, but to the magical signature embedded in our artifacts.”

She gestured to the table where several objects had been laid out—a small stone similar to the one Akoro had used when taking Naya from her forest, a metal bracelet etched with intricate symbols, and what appeared to be a decorative dagger with a crystalline blade.

“Each magical artifact created by the Sy Dynasty bears a unique energetic signature,” Prillu continued. “A pattern woven into its very essence that determines how magic behaves. We believe this is what the ancient texts referred to as the ‘signet’—the key to controlling the flow of wild magic.”

Naya stepped closer to the table, examining the objects without touching them. “This aligns with what Mother Freya told me,” she said slowly, her mind racing. “She spoke of weaving patterns into magic, creating symbols that function as instructions.”

Ranin nodded. “Yes, exactly. Our ancestors must have discovered the same principle, using these ‘signets’ to control and direct magical energy.”

“But if that’s true,” Naya said, frowning, “how can your artifacts impact the nnin-eellithi in the first place? The instruction is internal, isn’t it?”

A tense silence fell over the room.

“We don’t know,” Prillu said carefully. “I know you wanted to look at an artifact.” She glanced at Nrommo and he nodded, shifting uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to Prillu before returning to Naya.

She hesitated, then reached beneath the table, bringing out an object wrapped in a deep red cloth. With care, she unwrapped it, revealing the dark grey stone with a blue glow that Naya had seen Akoro and others holding.

“This is one of our most stable artifacts,” she said.

Naya reached toward it instinctively, then paused, glancing at Akoro. “May I?”

His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid. After a long moment, he nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement.

Naya lifted the stone carefully, feeling its weight in her palm. Though smooth to the touch, there was something about it that seemed to vibrate against her skin—a subtle energy that hummed with potential. There was a magical structure here.

Mother Freya’s advice floated back to her. If you are aware, you can touch.

“I need space,” she said suddenly. “Somewhere open, where I can properly examine this.”

“The training ground on the roof,” Ranin suggested. “It would provide space while remaining within the palace’s protection.”

Akoro's voice cut through the discussion. “No.” His eyes locked onto Naya’s, dark with a look she couldn’t quite define. “No. It’s too dangerous. This is unpredictable, and possibly lethal. You’re not risking yourself.”

“I’m not connecting with any wild magic,” Naya said, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’m just examining this stone. You’re already familiar with it, aren’t you?” She held it up. “What can it do to me if I don’t know how to use it?”

Akoro said nothing, his eyes flicking between the rock and the stone, his fury evident from his tight chest and heavy breathing.

The room fell silent, the council members watching the exchange with varying expressions of concern and interest.

Naya stepped closer to him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “You brought me here to find the Solution,” she said, her voice low but firm. “You gave me your word that you wouldn’t interfere. Are you going back on that now?”

Anger flickered in Akoro’s expression. “Yes.” He tilted his head, turning his look into a warning. “We are way past that now.”

Naya pulled in a slow breath, speaking gently. “I won’t touch any wild magic, Akoro. We need to move past thing so we can get to the answer.”

For several heartbeats, Akoro remained silent, his gaze locked with hers, a silent battle of wills that seemed to stretch into eternity.

Then, finally, he exhaled—a sound of frustrated resignation. “The roof,” he said, the words clipped and harsh. “But you work under my conditions, under my protection.”

Naya nodded, relief flooding through her. “Thank you.”

Within minutes, they had ascended to the palace roof—a vast, open space, with the sprawling expanse of Onn Kkulma visible in every direction. Soldiers flooded into the space, as per Akoro’s instructions, and surrounded Naya.

Akoro positioned his warriors strategically around the perimeter, his orders sharp and precise. The council members stood back, watching with a mixture of hope and trepidation as Naya moved to the center of the space, the stone heavy in her palm.

She closed her eyes, focusing on the weight of the artifact, the subtle vibration that seemed to pulse from within it.

Focusing, she sought the magical structure embedded within, and something began to take shape in her mind’s eye—a pattern, complex and beautiful, woven into the very essence of the stone. It was definitely from a language.

She pushed her awareness deeper, trying to understand the pattern

Emboldened, Naya expanded her awareness beyond the stone, reaching out as she had done in her own land, seeking the broader currents of magic that flowed through this place. To her surprise, she found them quickly—rivers of energy, vast and powerful, coursing beneath the surface of reality.

For the first time since arriving in this land, she felt truly connected to its magic—not just observing it, but part of it, immersed in its ebb and flow. It was exhilarating, intoxicating. That’s when she felt it—a disturbance focused on her, targeting at her.

Dimly, she heard voices calling out—alarmed shouts, perhaps warning her. But they seemed distant.

A column of white-hot energy erupted above her, crackling into existence, with her at its center. It was beautiful and terrible, a living storm of pure power that surged through her.

“Naya!” Akoro bellowed, desperate and raw, cut through the roar of magic. “Naya, stop!”

But she couldn’t turn, couldn’t respond. The magic had her, its grip unbreakable. It coursed through her, around her, a torrent of energy.

It constricted and for one eternal moment, she hung suspended between worlds—aware of Akoro calling her name, of the council’s panicked shouts, of the stone still clutched in her palm. Then the magic snapped, a last surge of power that blinded her, deafened her, erased everything.

She staggered, her hand trying to forehead, unable to see anything. When the light faded and her vision cleared, she was standing in a place she had never seen before—a stunning canyon of red stone, its walls rising majestically on all sides, carved by wind and water into fantastic shapes. A stream gurgled nearby, its clear water reflecting the azure sky above.

But it wasn’t the beauty of the landscape that made her heart race. It was the figures surrounding her—women of various ages, each armed with weapons that gleamed in the sunlight. They watched her with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility, forming a loose circle that effectively trapped her in their midst.

“Where am I?” Naya asked, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

One woman stepped forward—tall and regal, with eyes that seemed to burn into her. She carried a staff topped with a crystal that caught the light, scattering rainbows across the canyon floor.

“You are with the Omegas of the sukkurian.” Her voice was clear, direct, and yet firm. She took a step, holding Naya’s gaze, the look piercing.

Naya stared at her in shock, the implications of her words crashing over her like a wave. Omegas. These were the banished Omegas of the Sands, the ones Akoro had told her about—living far from the city that had cast them out. Somehow, impossibly, she had found them.

“You have imitated us in the city of men.”

Naya stared at her, her shock making her unable to think quickly enough.

The Omega stepped forward, her brows furrowed. “And why are you helping the cruel King Sy, who has harmed so many of us?”

And as the circle of armed Omegas tightened around her, Naya's heart dropped. They couldn’t be talking about Akoro, could they? But then who else is King Sy?

And like a brutal reminder of what she had endured with him, the wound on her face burst open and began to pour blood.

End of Book Two