The dawn was a pale wound across the sky when Ash met Darius again in the shadowed back room of a forgotten tavern.
The war veteran was still gruff, still wary, but there was a flicker—a flame buried beneath years of ash.
"We're not just a gang," Ash said, pacing the cramped room. "We need discipline, training, purpose. I want you to help me shape that."
Darius leaned back, eyes dark.
"Why should I care about your dream? I've lost everything."
Ash met his gaze steadily.
"Because if we don't fight, we die. If we don't build, we remain slaves."
A long silence hung between them.
Kael watched quietly from the corner, his fingers twitching with restless energy.
The group gathered in the cellar that evening.
Ash stood at the center, laying down crude maps and plans.
"Tomorrow, we start training. No more knives and brawls. We'll learn tactics, formations, teamwork."
Some scoffed.
Others hesitated.
Silna crossed her arms.
"This won't be easy. The Fangs will strike back."
Ash nodded.
"They will. But we won't run."
Darius stepped forward.
"Starting with me."
Training began with brutal honesty.
Ash pushed them hard—teaching Kael to control his rage, Silna to trust others, and the others to fight as one.
Days bled into nights.
Progress was slow, but undeniable.
Kael found new respect for Darius's command, while Ash began to see the spark of a real army emerging.
One night, as the group rested, Ash stood watch over the slums.
The city slept beneath him, but Ash felt the weight of what was to come.
"We're building more than muscle and steel," he whispered to himself. "We're building a kingdom."