### Chapter 12 – Blood in the East
The Eastern District simmered with quiet tension, its narrow streets unnaturally still. Merchants shuttered their stalls, and families huddled inside, whispering prayers to whatever gods might listen. The Crimson Hand, a small but organized faction of Draith loyalists and survivors of the purges, had prepared their first strike. Their plan was simple: attack supply depots and watchtowers simultaneously, create chaos, and rally support among the terrified citizens.
From a crumbling rooftop, Rennick observed. His eyes tracked the movement of every rebel, memorizing paths, noting traps, and calculating where Kael's forces might intercept them. Every moment of the coming night was a gamble, and his life balanced on one wrong step.
As darkness fell, the attack began. Arrows darkened the night sky, flames spread across warehouses, and cries of panic echoed through the streets. The Crimson Hand struck with the precision of desperation, but Draeven was no longer a city of innocent chaos—it was a city designed for **punishment**.
Kael appeared at the head of a squad of elite guards, his silver eyes gleaming in torchlight. The streets funneled perfectly into traps he and Selara had anticipated: bridges collapsed under fleeing rebels, alleys ended in walls rigged to crush, and buildings exploded from hidden caches of oil and fire. One by one, the Crimson Hand's fighters were caught in meticulously orchestrated horrors.
Selara moved behind Kael, her dagger cutting through not just flesh, but the illusions of hope. A man's fingers were severed; another's eyes gouged—but left alive to witness the destruction around him. Screams echoed, and each one was a lesson in the price of defiance.
In the midst of the chaos, Liora led a small group of survivors through hidden passageways, guiding them past burning streets and collapsing buildings. A child clung to her skirts, terrified, and she whispered calm promises, even as the city screamed around them.
Rennick watched the operation, noting every move of Kael and Selara, every trap, every scream. He had to survive tonight—not for himself, but for the information that could save others.
By midnight, the Eastern District lay in ruins. The Crimson Hand was shattered; some were executed publicly, others left mutilated, their bodies a message to anyone who might think to resist. Draeven's citizens now fully understood the cost of rebellion: it was not merely death—it was terror, prolonged and personalized.
Kael's silver eyes scanned the city from the palace balcony. "Let this night remind every soul that defiance is futile. Survival comes only through obedience."
Selara's voice drifted from his side, sharp and soft at once. "And every scream, every scar, every memory will remind them who rules Draeven. Every shadow belongs to us."
In the smoke and ruin, Liora and Rennick exchanged brief, knowing glances. Hope was faint, fragile—but even a spark could endure, hidden in the corners of a city ruled by fear.
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