đ Chronicles of the Watchers
Chapter 32: Sparks in the Shadows
The air of Kaelith tasted of smoke and uncertainty. Ever since fire had erupted in the throne square, the city had become restless, trembling beneath whispers that could not be silenced. Kairo's defiance had become a spark that refused to die, carried from market stalls to temple steps, from shadowed alleys to the high balconies of nobles. People spoke of wings made of flame, of a boy who had shattered chains and mocked the Dominion's priests to their faces. Some said he was a heretic, cursed with a demon's power. Others, quieter but no less fervent, whispered a different wordâdeliverer.
Liora crouched atop a crumbling wall with Selene at her side, eyes fixed on the northwest district. Below them, the Red Hands prepared for their next strike. The rebels were restless, pacing like caged wolves, sharpening blades, smearing ash across their skin as if it were war-paint. The leader moved among them, scarf trailing like a bloodied banner. His voice was low and commanding. "The Dominion reels, but like a wounded beast, it will lash harder. Tonight we do not hideâwe carve."
Selene snorted softly, leaning close to Liora so only she could hear. "Carving and burning is all they know. If they're not careful, they'll cut the people along with the chains."
Liora didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on the faces of the rebels. Some were hardened fighters, scarred and hollow-eyed. Others were young, barely more than children, their hands trembling as they gripped rusted spears. Yet all of them looked at the scarfed leader as if he were the only compass left in a world of smoke. Finally, she murmured, "The city doesn't need another firestorm. It needs hope. If we can't give them that, then all this ash is worthless."
The strike began without ceremony. The Red Hands fanned out into the alleys, vanishing into the labyrinth of Kaelith's stone arteries. Liora and Selene followed in silence, weaving through the shadows. They freed prisoners chained in wagon cages, cut down guards when forced, but spared those who fled. To the rebels, mercy was weakness; to Liora, it was the difference between justice and vengeance.
A girl, no older than twelve, ran to her side clutching her tunic. "Pleaseâplease, they took my brother. He's still inside." Her eyes were wide, too old for her small face.
Liora knelt, gripping the girl's shoulders. "What's his name?"
"Daren," she whispered.
"We'll find him. Stay with Selene. Don't let go."
As they pressed deeper, the night filled with alarms. Horns sounded from the Dominion garrison, and boots thundered across cobblestones. The rebels struck supply depots, setting barrels of oil alight. Flames clawed upward, painting the streets in red and gold. To some, it was liberation. To Liora, it was perilâbecause fire had no master, and the innocent always burned first.
Through the haze, Selene's voice anchored her. "Every battle leaves scars, Liora. But with Kairo's fire burning in their minds, people will start to believe again. That changes everything."
Liora's gaze swept across the burning district, where shadows of rebels clashed with soldiers, and civilians cowered in doorways, caught between salvation and ruin. She tightened her grip on her blade.
"Then we fight," she said, her voice steady. "But not just for victory. For what comes after."
The night consumed them once more, and with it, Kaelith began to splitâbetween fire that freed, and fire that devoured.
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