The old marketplace burned long into the night. Smoke curled into the sky, blotting out the stars. The bodies of Radiant knights lay scattered across the stone streets, their gleaming armor stained with blood and ash. The rebels moved among the fallen, stripping weapons from the dead, tending to the wounded, and ensuring no enemy was left alive.
Valen stood at the edge of the ruins, sword still clutched in his hand. His body ached, his wounds throbbed, but the adrenaline hadn't faded. His mind replayed the fight, every movement, every strike, every moment Marek had been within reach—only to escape.
Serra approached from behind, her face streaked with soot and blood. "You should sit before you fall over."
"I'm fine."
She snorted. "That's a lie."
Valen exhaled, loosening his grip on the sword. "We won."
Serra nodded, but her expression was grim. "We hurt them, but they'll come back. Marek will come back."
Valen looked toward the distant cathedral, its golden spires untouched by the fire's glow. Marek had retreated, but not out of fear. It was calculated. A regroup, not a defeat.
"We need to move," Serra continued. "The Order will send more men at sunrise. If we're still here, they'll bury us in these ruins."
Valen turned back to the others. Davos sat on a broken cart, his ribs bound with torn cloth. Elias leaned against a wall, pale but still breathing. The rest of their people were battered but alive.
They had fought. They had won.
And yet, the war had only begun.
By dawn, the rebels had abandoned the marketplace. They moved through the slums like ghosts, slipping into hidden tunnels and abandoned homes, always one step ahead of the Order's wrath.
By midday, the retaliation came.
The Radiant Order swept through the lower districts with fire and steel. Knights stormed into homes, dragging people into the streets, accusing them of harboring heretics. Anyone suspected of aiding the rebellion was cut down.
Valen and his people watched from the shadows, unable to intervene. They did not have the numbers for a direct assault. Not yet.
Serra clenched her fists as they crouched atop a rooftop, watching the carnage below. "How long do we wait before we do something?"
Valen's jaw tightened. He wanted to strike back. To make them bleed for every life they took. But this wasn't just about revenge.
"We fight when the time is right," he said.
Serra's eyes burned with anger, but she nodded.
The Order's purge continued for hours. By nightfall, the fires had died down, but the scars remained. The slums had become a graveyard.
And the people had been reminded of their chains.
Over the next few days, the rebellion moved carefully. They gathered weapons, supplies, and more people willing to fight. The more the Order tightened its grip, the more resistance it created.
Valen met with underground leaders, smugglers, and thieves—those who had survived by staying beneath the Order's notice. Some were hesitant, unwilling to risk their lives. Others saw an opportunity.
One of them, a wiry man named Corin, leaned back in his chair, studying Valen. "You're asking for a war."
Valen met his gaze. "The war has already begun."
Corin smirked. "Fair enough. But wars aren't won on ideals alone. You need money. Supplies. And most of all, allies."
Valen nodded. "That's why I'm here."
Corin drummed his fingers on the table. "I can get you weapons. Safe houses. Smugglers who know how to move unseen. But I need something in return."
Serra crossed her arms. "Of course you do."
Corin chuckled. "The Order isn't my only problem. There's a noble—Lord Devrin. Runs the black markets in the merchant quarter. He's been bleeding us dry. If you get rid of him, I'll consider us friends."
Valen exhaled. Another enemy to kill. Another battle to fight. But they needed Corin's resources.
"Where do we find him?"
Corin grinned.
Lord Devrin lived in excess. His manor sat just outside the merchant quarter, surrounded by high walls and guarded by mercenaries. He wasn't a noble by birth, but gold had bought him power.
Valen and Serra scouted the estate from a rooftop, watching as carriages rolled through the gates. The city's elite came and went, drinking and feasting while the rest of the city starved.
Serra scowled. "How do we get in?"
Valen studied the guards. "A direct assault would be suicide."
Serra raised an eyebrow. "And an indirect assault?"
Valen smirked. "Much smarter."
That night, Corin's men staged a distraction. A fire broke out in the warehouse district, drawing guards away from the manor. As chaos spread through the streets, Valen and Serra slipped through the side gate, moving like shadows.
Inside, the manor was filled with drunken laughter and music. Servants scurried through the halls, unaware of the two assassins among them.
They reached Devrin's chambers with little resistance. The noble lay sprawled on a couch, wine spilling from his goblet. Two guards stood nearby, but they were barely paying attention.
Valen moved first.
A swift step, a clean strike. His dagger sliced through the first guard's throat before the man could react. Serra took the second, driving her blade into his heart.
Devrin bolted upright, eyes wide. "W-wait! Whatever they're paying you, I can double it!"
Valen tilted his head. "I doubt that."
Devrin scrambled backward. "Please! I have power! Connections! I can—"
Valen silenced him with a quick, brutal stab to the chest.
The noble gasped, hands grasping at the blade as if he could will the wound closed. Then he slumped forward, lifeless.
Serra wiped her knife on his tunic. "Well, that was satisfying."
Valen nodded. "Let's go."
They slipped away before the alarm was raised.
By dawn, word of Devrin's death had spread through the underground.
And Corin kept his promise.
With Corin's support, the rebellion grew. Smugglers ferried supplies through hidden tunnels. Blacksmiths forged weapons in secret. Informants inside the city guard fed them information.
And the people—beaten, broken, but not defeated—began to hope.
One night, as Valen stood on a rooftop overlooking the city, Serra joined him.
"You did it," she said. "You started something real."
Valen exhaled. "It's not enough. Not yet."
Serra studied him. "Marek won't stop. The Order won't stop."
"I know."
She hesitated. "When the time comes… can you kill him?"
Valen didn't answer immediately.
Marek had once been his brother.
But that was another life.
Finally, he nodded.
"If it's the only way."
Serra didn't press further.
Below them, the city lay in uneasy silence.
The war was coming.
And this time, the Order would not walk away unchallenged.