Novels by Emí Otunba

“The wind remembers every hoofprint, even those of ghosts.” “Water… we need water!” The cry rose from the back ranks as the Dortracy caravan dragged through the sands. The storm had carried them east — into the desert the shamans called Sareth Vaal, the Veil of the Gods. The air shimmered with heat; the horizon bled gold. Karan rode at the front, his stallion Kor’Vareth glistening with sweat, mane braided with black cords. The horse’s flanks bore old scars — the marks of their bond. Every Dortracy warrior carried such marks: one on the palm, one on the chest, where their horse’s first blood had touched them as infants. It was not mere tradition. Among the Dortracy, to lose one’s horse was to lose one’s soul. “Slow the march,” Karan ordered, voice cutting through the wind. “The herd breathes as one, or not at all.” He dismounted, running a hand along Kor’Vareth’s neck. The stallion pressed its muzzle against his shoulder — an intimate gesture, almost human. Their breaths

“From death’s ashes, a storm remembers its name.” The wind screamed over the plains, tearing at banners blackened by ash and rain. Where once the Dortracy tents had stood, only mud and smoke remained. In the ruins, a lone rider moved among the dead, his horse limping, breath ragged. The sky above was the color of bruised iron. “Leave them,” Serah whispered, her voice hoarse. “They’re gone.” Around her, the survivors of the Blood Oath war limped through the wreckage. Men who had followed Karan Dor’rak now walked with hollow eyes, muttering the same curse: The gods have turned their faces. It had been three nights since Karan fell—pierced through by Raiko’s blade and swallowed by the storm that followed. The battle had ended in chaos: thunder tearing open the sky, flames devouring the plain, and then… silence. But silence was never simple among the Dortracy. In the center of the battlefield, where the lightning had struck, the ground pulsed faintly with warmth. Beneath the

The plains were black with thunder again.Rain hissed against scorched sand, washing the blood from the bones of men who had died twice once for kings, and once for ghosts.At the center of it rode Serah.Her cloak streamed behind her like tornstormcloud, her braid bound in silver thread, the faint glow beneath her skin pulsing with each heartbeat. To those who followed, she was no longer merely the Stormborn’s companion. She was the voice of the storm itself.They called her Kor’Serah, the Lightning Bride.But to Varr, who had known her before gods began whispering her name, she was still just the woman who buried a man she loved and refused to let him stay dead.The Dortracy camp lay beneath the ruins of the old fortress — Raikor’s fortress, once the Lion’s Crown. Smoke rose from cooking fires, the smell of roasted horseflesh thick in the damp air. The warriors sat in silence, sharpening blades, their tattoos glistening with rain.Serah stood before them on the old altar stone, her

The storm was gone.For three days, the sky over the plains stayed. clear, the air heavy with ash and silence. The bodies of men and horses lay scattered across the dunes like broken offerings to gods that no longer listened.Serah buried Karan herself.No priest, no song — only wind and salt on her lips. She tied his braid with a strip of her cloak, whispered the old Dortrac words over his grave.“Kor’vaan et shaar dor’kai. The wind knows your name.”When she was done, she stood there long after sunset, watching the last of the embers fade from the horizon. The storm might have chosen another, but the plains had not yet forgotten the man they had called Stormborn.Behind her, Varr limped forward, his arm bound in a blood-soaked sling. “The men are restless,” he said quietly. “They think the gods abandoned us. Some are saying Raikor’s spirit walks again.”“Let them talk,” Serah replied. “Fear is all they have left.”He studied her face. “And you? What do you have left?”She looked at

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”Karan’s voice was quiet, but the rage in it made the air tremble.Serah stood before him, the lion-fang pendant glinting in her hand. Around them, the dawn wind tore at the tent flaps. Warriors outside pretended not to listen, but every soul in the camp held its breath.“I hid it because you wouldn’t have listened,” she said.“I did listen,” he replied. “I trusted you.”Her gaze didn’t waver. “And I saved your life—twice.”He took a step closer. “While serving the Lion-King?”Serah’s jaw tightened. “I served Raikor once. Before you killed him. Before he became whatever walks the sands now.”The admission cracked the silence like thunder.Karan’s hand went to his sword, but he didn’t draw it. “So all this time—your loyalty, your help—it was guilt?”“It was choice,” she said sharply. “Raikor believed in domination. You fight for survival. Don’t confuse the two.”He studied her for a long moment, then turned away, voice low. “You speak of choice, but y

“Speak again, and I’ll feed your tongue to the horses.”The threat cracked through the war tent like thunder. Karan’s voice was low but laced with a quiet rage that silenced the gathered chieftains. The smell of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the iron scent of tension.Before him, twelve Dortracy warlords sat around the firepit, their braids heavy with silver rings, their bodies inked with symbols of conquest. They were supposed to be allies—bound by the storm they had survived together but already, the fragile unity was splintering.A chieftain with a lion pelt over his shoulders leaned forward. His name was Korvak, a brute with amber eyes and a smile too sharp to trust. “You’ve killed your brother, Stormborn. The plains are yours now. Take the crown, or step aside for those who will.”Karan didn’t move. His hair, uncut since rebirth, hung in thick braids down his back—each streaked with ash from the battlefield. “There is no crown for me.”Korvak sneered. “Then w

“You ever wonder if we’re still men, Matteo?”The question came from Enzo, his voice rough, hoarse from a night of whiskey and ash. He stood by the balcony doors, watching the dawn crawl like spilled ink across the sky. The city below still smoked from the explosion at the southern docks, the strike Petrov had denied but everyone knew he’d ordered.Matteo didn’t answer immediately. He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, eyes hollow with exhaustion. He poured two cups of espresso that looked as black as oil. “Men,” he finally said. “I’m not sure that word applies anymore.”He handed Enzo a cup. They stood in silence while the smell of burnt coffee mixed with the scent of rain-soaked marble. Naples had that kind of morning — heavy, metallic, alive in all the wrong ways.Enzo broke the quiet. “We hit Petrov’s accounts last night. Six million gone before sunrise. He’ll bleed, but he’ll hit back harder. And Luca… he was seen at the docks before the blast.”Matteo froze. “You’re sure?”“

“You came back to lead or to die, Matteo?”The question cut the air like a held breath. Matteo heard it as he watched the private jet descend through a curtain of rain, its lights like distant stars falling. He did not answer at once. He never did, not when the cost of speech could be measured in bullets or broken lives.Enzo stood at his shoulder while the hangar doors rumbled open, the cold wind slicing rain across their faces. “That’s Luca,” Enzo said, tone low. “He never learned how to ask lightly.”Matteo let the answer live in his chest. He had come back to take what had been taken from him. He had come to build something that would not be swallowed by fire. Yet every step toward a throne had the same weight: the possibility of falling.When the SUVs rolled up onto the wet tarmac, the men who stepped out smelled like the past that would not die. Luca walked first, rain like a crown on his shoulders. He looked older, yes, but the same in the way only brothers can be: the same gri

“Before a man becomes king, he must first learn how to bury the dead he loved.”Rain fell hard over the outskirts of Rome, drumming against the hood of Matteo Rossi’s black Maserati as it idled on a narrow mountain road. The headlights cut through the mist, catching the edges of a half-collapsed monastery ahead the place where his brother, Luca, was rumored to be hiding.The drive from Palermo had been silent. Enzo sat in the passenger seat, checking the chamber of his pistol, his jaw tight. Behind them, two SUVs waited in the dark, engines purring like restless beasts.Matteo hadn’t spoken since dawn. His thoughts were a war, the sound of his brother’s laughter tangled with the echo of his betrayal.“You sure about this?” Enzo asked finally, voice rough. “If it’s really him…”“It is,” Matteo said. “And I’m ending it tonight.”Enzo glanced at him. “You mean kill him?”Matteo’s eyes stayed on the road ahead. “If I have to.”He stepped out into the cold rain. The air smelled of pine and

“Every kingdom falls from within.”The bells of Palermo rang hollow that morning, swallowed by the gray hum of sirens. Matteo Rossi stood in the shattered remains of his office, smoke curling through the air like ghosts refusing to leave. A bomb had gone off before dawn—small, precise, personal. The kind of attack that whispered betrayal.The marble floors were cracked, the lion crest scorched. Enzo stood beside him, face pale, his left arm wrapped in gauze.“They planted it under the conference table,” Enzo said. “Military-grade. Someone knew the layout.”Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Someone inside.”He picked up a shard of glass, blood from his palm running down the reflection. In the jagged surface, he saw himself dark suit torn, eyes hollow, a man made of scars and smoke.“Any casualties?” he asked quietly.“Three dead. Two guards, one accountant.”“Names.”“Ricci, Lupo, and…Carlo.”Matteo froze. “Carlo?”Enzo nodded grimly. “He was the one handling your Zurich transfers.”Matteo let

“Power is a crown forged in fire—and worn with blood.”The night in Palermo felt colder than usual. The sky was thick with clouds that rolled like smoke from a funeral pyre, and the streets glimmered wet with rain. Matteo Rossi stood on the balcony of the Palazzo Bellini, the new headquarters of his growing empire. Below him, the city breathed—cars, sirens, the quiet hum of a city that no longer feared God but men like him.Inside, the grand hall was alive with movement. The “Lion’s Court” had grown into something more,a political theatre of wolves dressed in suits. Bottles popped, laughter echoed, and every smile hid a knife. Tonight wasn’t celebration. It was coronation. Matteo was no longer a street soldier. He was Il Signore. The men who once served under him now bent their heads when he entered the room.He wore black tonight—tailored silk, cufflinks shaped like lions. The kind of man who looked untouchable, even as his soul began to bleed underneath.“Matteo,” Enzo said, appeari

“In the jungle of men, mercy is just another word for weakness.”The marble corridors of the Rossi estate echoed with the sound of shoes and whispered fear. It had been two days since Nico’s body was found floating in the bay. Two days since Matteo Rossi silenced another ghost from his past.Now the city whispered his name again — not as a dead man, but as a storm.Inside the grand hall, the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Every high-ranking figure in Naples’s underworld had come. The old dons from Calabria, the Sicilian smugglers, the Neapolitan financiers — men who built empires from blood and silence.At the far end of the long table sat Don Vittorio Leone, the aging patriarch whose name had ruled Naples for thirty years. His presence was calm but heavy, like the weight of time itself.Matteo walked in last.The room turned.He wore a black suit, no tie, the collar open just enough to show the scar near his throat. His eyes were cold, not from arrogance but from memory.