---
The rebel stronghold reeked of damp earth, smoke, and unspoken threats. The scent clung to the walls, to the skin, as if warning every outsider that they had entered a place where civility died and survival ruled. Torches flickered along the uneven stone walls, casting long shadows that slithered like specters behind Laraine as she followed Cleo deeper into the underground network. Her boots sank slightly into the soft, wet earth, each step muffled and slow, swallowed by the heavy silence of the tunnels.
The further they walked, the thicker the air became—not just with humidity, but with tension. The weight of unseen eyes pressed against Laraine's skin. She didn't look back. She didn't have to. She could feel it: suspicion, fear, maybe even hatred simmering behind every stone wall and unseen alcove.
Cleo didn't glance over her shoulder, but her voice sliced through the gloom like a whetted blade.
"You'll meet the others soon enough. Try not to look so damn regal—it's insulting."
Laraine arched an elegant brow, her tone laced with amusement.
"Should I slouch? Spit on the ground? Perhaps curse like a barbarian to win favor?"
That earned her a sharp look. Over her shoulder, Cleo's dark eyes flashed.
"Just don't act like you own the place."
"I don't," Laraine said smoothly. Her voice was calm, deliberate—dangerous. "But I could."
Cleo stopped abruptly. Laraine halted just short of colliding with her, though her breath hitched for half a second.
The rebel leader turned, stepping into her space until they were chest to chest. From this close, Laraine could see the flecks of gold buried in the dark of Cleo's irises—like embers behind soot.
"Careful, princess," Cleo said, her voice low, taut. "That pretty tongue of yours might get you into trouble."
Laraine didn't back down. Her lips curled in a razor-thin smile.
"I've been in trouble since the day I was born."
"Tsk"
They stared at one another for a breath too long, tension burning like a wire stretched to its limit.
Then, Cleo's smirk returned—sharp, untrusting, amused.
"Welcome to the viper's nest."
The tunnel opened into a vast chamber that pulsed with rough energy. Smoke coiled from makeshift fire pits. Rebels sharpened blades, pored over hand-drawn maps, or leaned against crates, talking in low tones. Their armor was mismatched and dented, but their eyes were sharp. Fighters—each and every one.
But the moment Laraine stepped into the light, silence rippled across the room like a dropped stone in still water.
Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence.
A broad-shouldered man with a scar carved across his nose rose to his feet. His expression was twisted into a sneer.
"The hell is she doing here?"
Cleo's voice cut across the murmurs.
"She's with me."
"Like hell," spat a woman from behind a barrel, rising to her full height. Her glare could've melted iron. "That's Walter's blood. You really trust her not to slit our throats while we sleep?"
Laraine lifted her chin. Her gaze swept across the room, calm and cold as steel.
"If I wanted you dead," she said clearly, "you'd already be bleeding."
A heavy silence followed. One heartbeat. Two.
"Prove it."
The challenge came from a wiry fighter leaning against the wall, twin daggers sheathed at his hips. He stepped forward and tossed one at Laraine's feet.
"Spar with me," he said. "Let's see if you fight as well as you talk."
Cleo didn't speak. Her jaw tightened, but she didn't object.
Laraine bent slowly, picking up the dagger with a practiced grip. Her movements were graceful, economical—like a dancer with a blade.
"Gladly."
A loose circle formed around them, the rebels watching like wolves scenting blood. The wiry man struck first—quick, testing her. Laraine sidestepped easily, spinning on the balls of her feet. Her blade flashed and caught him across the ribs with the flat, sending him stumbling with a groan.
He snarled, lunging again with more force. Laraine ducked, feinted left, then spun right, twisting his wrist with a deft move that sent his dagger clattering across the ground.
"Enough," Cleo barked.
The man backed off, nursing his wrist, his face flushed. But there was a shift in his eyes—something grudging. Respect, or the beginning of it.
Laraine handed the blade back, hilt-first. "Next time, don't hold back."
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. Not hostile now. Curious. Wary. Impressed.
Cleo let the silence stretch. Then she raised her voice.
"Anyone else got a problem?"
No one answered.
"Good." She jerked her chin toward a side chamber.
"You. With me."
As Laraine followed Cleo into the shadows, the whispers began to stir behind them.
"She's dangerous."
"She's not one of us."
"Maybe not… but maybe she's the storm we need."
Cleo led her into a smaller war room. Maps were spread across a stone table, covered in red ink and markers. The hum of rebellion buzzed from the parchment.
Cleo turned to face her. "You've got their attention. Now what?"
Laraine stepped closer to the table, trailing her fingers along the edges of the map. Her voice was quiet, but every syllable rang like a promise.
"Now," she said, eyes burning, "we make Walter and Adana regret ever letting me live."
Outside, thunder cracked in the distance—low, ominous. A storm gathering on the horizon.
Not weather.
War.
---
Far from the rebel camp, beyond the veil of whispering woods and moonlight-drenched hills, a storm brewed in silence.
A lone rider approached the edge of a ruined fortress, its towers broken by time and war, its stone halls long abandoned by the living. The rider dismounted with the fluid grace of someone who had once worn armor like a second skin. Cloaked in raven-black, their face was hidden beneath a shadowed hood. They walked the crumbling path with purpose, each step echoing softly against the stone.
Inside the ruined sanctum, the air was still. Dust curled through the torchlight as if stirred by old ghosts. A single fire burned in a brazier at the center of the room—low and steady, casting flickering gold against ancient walls.
The figure knelt before it and pulled back their hood.
A woman's face emerged—ageless and severe, framed by sleek, iron-gray hair. Her eyes were a piercing green, too cold to be kind. Her name was Serelith, though few still spoke it aloud. Fewer still remembered what she once was: a shadowmaster of the royal court, thought dead after the last purge.
But Serelith had not died.
She had waited.
And she had watched.
From her satchel, she retrieved a worn parchment marked with Laraine's likeness—fierce eyes, proud jaw, the unmistakable bearing of someone who had survived everything meant to kill her. Serelith ran a finger across the inked lines.
"She lives," she murmured, her voice low, rich with contempt. "Of course she does."
Behind her, another figure stirred from the shadows—a man draped in gray, face hidden behind a porcelain half-mask. He knelt wordlessly.
"Report," Serelith ordered.
"She's joined the rebels. Cleo's camp. They've accepted her… for now," the man said. "But trust is thin. Especially when Cleo's watching her"
Serelith's mouth curved, a cruel half-smile. "Cleo is useful. For now. But even she forgets who gave her the blade she holds."
She rose, hands clasped behind her back as she paced. "The girl burns too brightly. Her mother was the same—defiant, untamed, beloved. And just as foolish."
"What shall we do, mistress?"
Serelith turned toward the flame. Her eyes gleamed. "Let her think she's winning. Let her gather her little army. Rebels. Traitors. Old ghosts. When she reaches the gates of Luthain, she'll find them wide open."
She bent, whispering into the fire.
"But only because I want her inside when it burns."
The masked man bowed his head in reverence, as if the flame itself had spoken.
Outside the ruin, the wind howled like something ancient and furious. The stars above dimmed behind creeping clouds. And far away, where Laraine stood beneath the uncertain moon, a chill ran down her spine.
Somewhere, something had just decided she would not survive this war.
Not unless she learned to fight monsters more patient than death itself .
---