The cavern beneath Draeven was no palace. Damp walls dripped with water, the air heavy with the stench of mold and smoke. But for the rebels who gathered there, it was sanctuary. A single torch burned at the center, its glow falling over a rough-hewn table scarred by maps, daggers, and bloodstains.
Rennick stood at the head of the table, his jaw tight, his hands stained with dirt and ash from the city streets. The memory of Kael's executions still haunted him—the boy's wide eyes, the mother's broken sob. He could still hear the steel cutting flesh.
"They don't care who bleeds," Rennick said, his voice low but firm. "Kael and Selara will burn the city down if it keeps us quiet. We have to act before fear eats us alive."
Around him, the others shifted uneasily.
Marenya, once a healer in Draeven's poorest district, spoke first. Her face was drawn, her hands scarred from tending to the sick. "The people are terrified. They look to us, but what can we give them? More death? More graves?"
Davren, the one-eyed smuggler leaning in the corner, spat onto the floor. "Better to die swinging than kneeling. I say we strike again. Harder this time."
Liora's sharp eyes flicked to him, her voice edged with caution. "Striking harder without a plan is suicide. Kael's soldiers double their patrols every night. And Selara… she doesn't just kill. She hunts. She'll find us."
The cavern fell silent, broken only by the drip of water.
Then a new voice rose—quiet, but steady. A young man stepped into the circle, no older than twenty, his clothes patched and torn, but his gaze unwavering. His name was Corin, a blacksmith's apprentice before Draith's war. He held up a shard of metal, crudely shaped into a blade.
"Hope doesn't come from hiding," Corin said. "My father died on Kael's gallows. My mother starved before his gates. I won't watch Draeven crawl anymore. Give me a weapon, and I'll fight."
His words lit something in the chamber. Marenya's tired eyes flickered with resolve. Liora's doubt shifted to calculation. Even Rennick, hardened by loss, felt the stirrings of a fire he thought gone.
He leaned over the map, tracing the outline of Draeven's western quarter with a scarred finger. "There's a shipment of grain and arms being hoarded in the fortress storehouses. Tomorrow night, we take it. For the hungry. For the weak. And for the dead who can no longer fight."
Davren grinned, sharp and hungry. "Now that sounds like a plan."
Marenya tied back her hair with trembling hands, whispering as if to herself, "For the dead."
The torch sputtered, casting their shadows long across the stone walls. For the first time, the Silent Flame felt less like a handful of frightened rebels and more like a spark waiting to ignite.
Above them, Draeven slept uneasily, unaware that in its depths, fire was being born.
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