The capital of Draeven rose like a stone giant against the night sky, its towers jagged and sharp beneath a veil of restless clouds. The walls, dark and weathered, stretched endlessly across the horizon—unbroken, unwavering. Along the battlements, torches burned in neat intervals, their flames swaying with the wind. Guards marched in silence, their boots striking rhythm into the cold stone, a rhythm that echoed authority and warning: *This is the heart of the kingdom. It does not fall.*
Yet, in the forests beyond those walls, shadows stirred.
Kael's rebels crouched among the trees, their faces pale in the moonlight. Some bore rusted swords, others crude spears, but all carried eyes lit with a desperate fire. Hunger gnawed at their bellies, fear clawed at their throats, but still they waited—for Kael, for the signal that would decide if they lived as victors or died as forgotten ghosts.
Kael himself stood at the edge of the tree line, his gaze fixed on the looming walls. His cloak whipped around him in the cold night air, but his stance was steady, unshaken. In his chest burned the same ember that had carried him this far, now fanned into flame by the promise of this night.
Beside him, Serenya moved like a shadow given flesh. Her long black hair trailed behind her, her blade at her side gleaming faintly as though it too hungered for blood. She did not look at Kael, but at the cloaked stranger who stood just ahead, fingers brushing against the vines clinging to a weathered section of the wall.
"This is your miracle?" Serenya's voice was quiet, yet every word struck like flint. "A hole in the stone, a rat's path? You expect us to believe this leads anywhere but death?"
The stranger did not flinch. With steady hands, he pulled back the curtain of vines to reveal a narrow opening, no taller than a crouching man, its edges cracked and worn by centuries. The stench of damp earth and rot wafted out, curling into the air like smoke from an old fire.
"Believe or don't," he said, his tone as measured as ever. "But this tunnel runs beneath the city, older than the crown itself. It will take us through the bones of Draeven, past the guards, past the walls. And when we emerge, we will stand where no enemy should."
Kael stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the darkness within. For a moment, silence pressed against them, heavy and suffocating. Then he turned, his gaze sweeping across the rebels—farmers, deserters, thieves, and wanderers who had chosen to gamble their lives on him.
"This is the path," Kael said. His voice cut through the night like steel. "Not the path of glory, not the path of safety—but the only path that leads forward. If you fear it, leave now. If you would follow, step into the dark with me."
No one moved.
The silence stretched, not of hesitation, but of resolve. They had already burned their bridges. Fear would not turn them back now.
Kael entered the tunnel first. Serenya followed, her blade loose at her side, her eyes gleaming with something between contempt and curiosity. The stranger slipped in after them, his steps soundless. One by one, the rebels vanished into the earth, swallowed by the narrow passage.
---
The air inside the tunnel was thick with dampness. Walls pressed close, stone rough and dripping with moisture. Every step stirred echoes, every breath felt too loud. Rats skittered through the dark, their beady eyes flashing briefly in the faint light of a torch carried by one of the rebels at the rear.
Hours seemed to stretch as they crawled through winding passages, their knees and hands sinking into mud, their shoulders brushing against roots that pierced the walls. The deeper they went, the colder it grew.
Then came the silence.
A silence broken only by the drip, drip, drip of unseen water. A silence so deep it seemed the tunnel itself was holding its breath.
Finally, the stranger halted. Before him rose a set of crumbling stairs, carved long ago from the same stone as the city above. Moss clung to each step, and the air reeked of mildew.
"Here," he whispered. "Up these stairs. Beyond them lies the forgotten catacombs. Follow me, and Draeven itself will guide your steps."
They ascended slowly. The catacombs opened before them like the ribs of some ancient beast—arches of stone curving overhead, dust thick upon every surface. Broken statues lined the walls, their faces eroded into eyeless, silent guardians.
Some rebels muttered prayers. Others tightened their grips on their weapons. Serenya walked with silent grace, her hand brushing one of the crumbling statues as though testing if stone remembered betrayal.
When they emerged again, it was not into sunlight, but into the underbelly of the capital.
The streets above slept, locked under curfew. Houses leaned together in crooked rows, their windows dark, their shutters fastened. Soldiers marched at intervals, crimson banners flapping from spears, the king's sigil painted bold against the fabric.
From the shadows of an alley, Kael watched them pass, his breath steady. His rebels crouched around him, pressing against the walls, hearts pounding in unison. The stranger stood apart, calm as though the danger did not touch him at all.
"This city," Kael whispered, more to himself than anyone, "has fed on our blood for too long. Tonight, we feed on theirs."
Serenya smirked, her blade already half-drawn. "Finally, words worth hearing."
Kael raised his hand. The rebels scattered, melting into alleys and shadows, vanishing into the bones of the city like smoke. Some would set fires. Others would cut patrols apart in silence. Still others would spread whispers and terror, shattering the illusion of safety the crown had built.
Above them, the palace loomed, its spires stabbing at the sky, its windows glowing with warm, mocking light. Within those walls sat the king—the man whose greed had starved his people, whose cruelty had forged the rebellion now creeping into his streets.
Kael's eyes fixed upon it.
"This night," he said softly, voice carrying like a curse, "we carve our names into stone."
And as the first fires flared in the distance and the first screams tore through the silence, Draeven began to wake—not to peace, but to war.
---