The orange sky hung over the abandoned old fortress, now a shadowy base for the rebel militia. The air was thick with the smell of training, sweat, and iron. The irregular troops drilled on the wide courtyard some young and inexperienced, but all eyes burning with resentment.
Kael Thorne, former border commander cast aside after defying noble orders, stood in the center of the ranks. His muscular frame bore an old scar above his temple, and his deep voice silenced everyone when he spoke.
"Do you know why we are here?" he said loudly, eyes scanning each of them.
No answer.
"Because we mean nothing to the Empire. We are farmers, laborers, discarded soldiers. They live off our sweat. And when we speak, they call us rebels."
Some lowered their heads. Others gripped their weapons tighter.
"But today... today we have food, weapons, armor. Whoever sent them, it doesn't matter. When someone helps you fight tyranny, you have to wonder: is this fate, or just a trap?"
From a distance, a scout approached.
"Commander, the man has arrived. He waits in the lower room."
Lower Room, Minutes Later
The room was dark and cramped, lit only by a single hanging lantern. Sitting there was a figure cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a thin hood. His voice was soft, but like a snake slithering into ears.
"Commander Thorne. Or should I call you the Southern Reaper? Still holding on to old titles?"
Kael stood, hand on his dagger belt.
"I discarded that title long ago. What do you want?"
The man smiled faintly, fearless.
"We have been watching your movements. Small, but promising. A patient flame can burn down a castle."
"And who are 'we'?"
"We... are those who believe the world must be turned upside down. The Empire will not fall from outside, but from within. And you, Kael, are the perfect crack."
Kael stepped closer, his gaze sharp.
"You want to use my troops."
"We use each other," the man replied.
"You want revenge, to show the world the people still have teeth. We only open the dark doors you cannot knock on yourself."
"And your price?"
"We will give you a list of targets. Imperial weak points. Corrupt nobles, supply routes, communications. And one more…"
He pulled out a small scroll and placed it on the table.
"The name of someone you don't know... but will soon learn: the Archon."
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"I've heard the name. The Emperor's shadow. His own hand."
"Not a hand," whispered the man.
"He is the sword. And in history, the sharpest swords are always soaked in the blood of the people before falling to the ground."
Silence hung. Kael unrolled the scroll, glanced quickly, then stared at the cloaked man.
"What guarantee is this not a trap?"
The man slowly stood.
"Because if we wanted you dead... you wouldn't have the chance to ask."
Meanwhile, at the Main Fortress of Althaar
Lucard Vehlheim walked down a long corridor, heading to a secret communications room. After a week of investigating and smelling the rot of the city, he now carried a full report.
"Verlmir. The greedy noble disguised as guardian of order. His trail is faint, but his motive is clear," Lucard muttered.
Inside the communications room, he wrote quickly, clearly, coldly. The message was addressed to only two people: Archon Duval and the Emperor himself.
"There is a third hand behind this unrest. Not just hungry people or greedy nobles. There is another power… something darker, more cunning."
The message was sealed and sent via the fastest bird courier.
Lucard gazed out through a narrow window to the night sky.
"Calm on the surface. But the currents are pulling lives under."