### Chapter 29 – Flames Beneath the Crown
Dawn came not with light, but with smoke.
By the time the first rays of sun touched the rooftops of Draeven, the streets were already alive with fire and screams. The rebellion had struck.
Kael moved through the chaos like a shadow cut from iron. Around him, the rebels surged—some disciplined, others wild with rage and desperation. The smell of burning wood mixed with that of blood. Every corner turned into a battlefield, every alley an ambush waiting to be sprung.
The attack had begun in silence. Small groups emerged from the catacombs under cover of darkness, setting fire to guard posts, cutting off patrol routes, and spreading panic through the capital's lower districts. But when the first explosion tore through the eastern gatehouse, silence shattered. The entire city woke in terror.
Kael stood at a crossroads now, the flames painting his face in fierce gold. His cloak was torn, his blade slick with blood. A soldier lunged at him—a royal guard, armor gleaming, eyes wide with fury. Kael's dagger met him mid-charge, sliding between the plates of his chest armor. The man gasped once and fell.
"Keep pushing!" Kael roared, his voice carrying above the chaos. "Take the square before reinforcements arrive!"
His men obeyed, clashing with the remaining guards. Serenya appeared beside him, her blade dripping red, her smile cold as winter.
"Your rebellion bleeds beautifully," she said.
Kael shot her a look. "So does the city."
"True." She twirled her sword, gaze flicking toward the northern spire. "But the king's banner still flies. Until it burns, all of this is just noise."
Kael followed her gaze. The spire loomed above the city—the watchtower of the royal palace, where the king's emblem fluttered defiantly. It was the heart of Draeven, the symbol that had ruled their lives and condemned their dead.
Before he could answer, a horn blared in the distance. Deep, resonant, and full of authority. The sound rolled through the city like thunder.
"The royal guard," Serenya muttered. "He's sending his elites."
Kael's eyes hardened. "Then let them come."
---
Across the burning city, chaos reigned. Rebel bands darted through the streets, setting traps, overturning carriages, and cutting down soldiers. But for every guard they killed, two more appeared. The king's forces were organized, disciplined—and furious.
The cloaked stranger moved silently through it all, his purpose separate from the rest. While others fought, he sought. Through alleys and hidden paths, he made his way toward the palace walls. His steps were measured, his expression unreadable.
At one point, he paused in the shadow of a burning inn, where a dying soldier gasped for breath. The man reached out a trembling hand, as if to beg for mercy.
The stranger crouched, his pale eyes studying the man with curiosity more than pity. "You should not have stood in the way," he murmured, before pressing two fingers to the man's throat. A soft crack followed. Then he rose and continued on.
---
Back in the square, the clash had reached its peak.
The royal guard descended in formation—heavy armor gleaming, shields locked, their advance steady even through the flames. Rebels fell before them like wheat before the scythe. Kael's forces were fierce but scattered, the weight of training and steel pressing against them.
Kael leapt onto the steps of a fountain, shouting above the din, "Hold the line! Push them back to the gate! No mercy for the crown's dogs!"
An arrow whistled past his head, grazing his cheek. Blood trickled down his jaw, warm and steady. He barely noticed.
Serenya was already in motion. She darted between soldiers like a viper, her sword flashing silver and red. Each strike was deliberate, graceful—an artist painting death in motion.
When she reached Kael's side again, her armor was smeared with blood. "We can't hold much longer," she hissed. "The men are breaking."
Kael's jaw clenched. He scanned the square—the wounded, the flames, the retreating rebels. Then his eyes found something that froze him.
The palace gates.
They were opening.
From within emerged a formation of mounted knights, banners snapping above them. At their head rode a man clad in black armor, his helmet shaped like a beast's skull, the symbol of the king's personal guard.
Kael's breath caught. "The Black Blades."
The words spread through the rebels like poison. Fear rippled. Some began to fall back.
Serenya grinned instead. "Finally," she whispered. "Something worth killing."
---
The first charge hit like a thunderclap.
The knights crashed into the rebels, blades flashing, hooves pounding. Screams filled the air as men were thrown, trampled, cut down. The square became a storm of steel and blood. Kael was thrown back, rolling across the cobblestones, his sword clattering away.
When he rose, one of the Black Blades was bearing down on him. The knight swung, the blade slicing the air inches from Kael's neck. Kael ducked, seized a broken spear from the ground, and drove it upward into the horse's chest. The animal reared, screaming, and the knight toppled.
Kael lunged forward, grabbing his sword from the ground. Before the knight could rise, Kael drove the blade through the visor of his helmet.
Steel met skull. The knight went still.
Kael pulled his blade free, panting, his muscles trembling.
He looked around—the rebels were still fighting, but they were being pushed back, their numbers thinning. The firelight flickered across the faces of the dying.
"Fall back!" Kael shouted. "Regroup at the market square!"
Serenya ignored him, cutting through another pair of soldiers. "Retreat?" she called over her shoulder. "And leave the throne untouched?"
"We're not ready for the palace yet!" Kael barked.
Her smile was wild, defiant. "Then you're not ready for victory."
And before he could stop her, she was gone—vanishing into the smoke, toward the palace gates.
Kael cursed under his breath. The city burned around him, the rebellion teetering between triumph and collapse. He knew this was only the beginning—the spark that would either consume the crown or destroy them all.
He turned toward the palace, the banner still flying high above the flames.
The firelight reflected in his eyes like the promise of vengeance.
"This isn't over," he whispered. "Not until the crown lies in ashes."
And somewhere in the distance, within the walls of the palace, a king finally stirred.
The war for Draeven had truly begun.
---