The sky cracked open with rain by afternoon.
Not a gentle drizzle — but sheets of it, washing over the scarred bones of the city like a baptism. The streets ran black with soot and memories, rivers of ash curling around fallen beams and shattered glass.
Kaela stood beneath the torn awning of the old tribunal hall, watching it fall. The water soaked through her clothes, clinging like the weight of grief. Yet she didn't move. Didn't blink.
Around her, the rebels moved with quiet urgency, covering the open crates of supplies, shielding children under salvaged tarps. Someone tried to light a lantern, but the wick hissed and died with the downpour.
"We needed this," Joren said, stepping beside her with a heavy coat wrapped over his shoulders. "Rain. It's like the sky is mourning with us."
Kaela gave him a sideways glance. "Or maybe it's trying to wash us clean."
He didn't answer.
Behind them, Ava barked orders over the wind. "Move the wounded to the lower galleries! And get that generator under shelter now!"
The rain poured harder, hammering against the roof with relentless rhythm. Thunder cracked in the distance — a deep, primal growl, as if the earth itself was still angry.
Inside the hall, flickering emergency lights cast long shadows across the walls, illuminating old portraits of fallen leaders — their painted eyes watching in silence. The once-grand courtroom was now a sanctuary for the displaced. Cots lined the floor, children huddled in blankets, mothers whispering lullabies in broken voices.
Kaela moved among them, pausing at a cot where an old woman clutched a faded photograph — four people smiling in front of a bakery that no longer existed. Her lips moved in prayer, too quiet to hear.
Near the far wall, a boy drew in charcoal on the stone floor — a rough image of wings stretched above the city.
Kaela knelt beside him.
"Those wings," she murmured. "They yours?"
The boy nodded, eyes wide and dark. "They're to keep the sky from falling."
She smiled softly. "Then you better draw them big."
He grinned, his fingers moving faster, smearing soot and hope across the stone.
Just outside the door, two rebels hauled in a crate marked with faded red paint — supplies raided from the regime's last bunker. Inside were files, maps, encrypted drives… and something wrapped in cloth.
Kaela unwrapped it.
A single sealed envelope. Black wax. The mark of Commander Virel — the very man who orchestrated the purges.
Her fingers tensed. "Get this decoded," she told Ava. "Now."
They didn't wait for the rain to end.
Down in the basement, where the walls still bore scorch marks and old bloodstains, they opened the envelope. Inside was a letter — handwritten, not typed. Virel's confession? A final threat?
Kaela read aloud, her voice sharp as the candlelight dancing across her face.
"To the next tyrant — if you're reading this, you've already lost. The fire you started won't obey you. It never did. Ashes are only the beginning."
Ava leaned in. "It's a warning. He knew someone else would rise."
"Or he planned it," Joren said grimly. "A fallback. A successor."
Kaela's eyes narrowed. "Then we dig deeper. We tear up every foundation they laid."
A crack of thunder shook the room.
Above them, the rain poured without mercy.
But within the storm, something stronger stirred — resolve, like a fire that refused to die, burning even beneath the broken sky.