The first scream split the night like a blade.
Then came the fire.
It began in the food sheds — a single torch hurled by a trembling hand. Within moments, the dry thatch caught, and the flames leapt hungrily upward, painting the rain-dark sky in red. The smell of burning grain, smoke, and oil poured over Vashra like an offering to vengeful gods.
For months, the camp had breathed in silence. Now it roared.
Guards stumbled from the barracks, rifles clattering, boots sinking into the mud. Their orders tangled in shouts of confusion. Torches scattered like falling stars as prisoners surged from the yard, no longer crawling — running.
Arani moved through the chaos like he'd been waiting for it all his life.
He had no weapon, no armor, but he had what no guard possessed — a map of the camp burned into his mind. Each step, each shadow, each hesitation in their patrol. He didn't need to fight them all. He just needed to make them fight the fire.
Ila stumbled behind him, clutching a torn cloth to her mouth against the smoke. Her fever-weakened legs trembled, but she refused to fall. She had followed his words as if they were fate.
When a guard shouted in Veyari, she flinched, but Arani turned, his chain wrapping around the man's wrist like a snake. One twist, one pull — the guard crashed to the ground. Arani's knee came down hard, and the man didn't rise again.
Ila stared, eyes wide. "You killed him—"
Arani's voice was low. "He would've killed ten more. Move."
They slipped between the sheds as fire devoured the camp. Flames danced across the rain-wet mud, smoke curling like serpents. Through the haze, Arani saw shadows moving — prisoners fighting back with stones, sticks, even their chains. Some ran for freedom; others simply wanted revenge.
A group of rebels, faces blackened by soot, rushed past them. One of them — Thaan — caught Arani's arm. "East wall's weakening," he shouted over the roar. "We can break through before dawn!"
Arani nodded. "The mossed section?"
Thaan's eyes gleamed. "You remembered."
"I always remember."
They ran.
The Fire Devours
The east wall loomed through the smoke — a jagged beast of stone, cracked and slick with moss. The storm had softened it over years; Arani's hands had found its weakness weeks before. Now, he pressed his palms against it again, feeling it tremble beneath the distant pounding of panic and flame.
"Here," he told Thaan. "Strike low."
The rebels slammed a stolen crowbar into the crack. Stone splintered, flaking under pressure. Ila pressed her hand to her mouth, watching as sparks and ash filled the air. Behind them, guards shouted — their voices growing closer.
"Faster!" Arani barked.
One blow. Another. The wall groaned, dust raining down like ash. The old fortress was dying.
Then a rifle cracked — a bright, merciless sound that cut through the roar. One of the rebels fell, blood spreading through his rags. Ila screamed. Arani didn't flinch. He turned, grabbed the fallen man's crowbar, and struck harder.
With a final splintering crack, a slab of stone gave way — light and air flooding through.
"Go!" Arani shouted. "Now!"
Thaan pulled Ila through first, his old strength returning for one brief, burning moment. Prisoners poured after them — dozens, maybe hundreds. Smoke swallowed their faces; screams and gunfire filled the gap they left behind.
Arani was the last to move. He turned once, looking back at the camp — the torches, the towers, the flag of the Lion Throne burning in its own glory. He whispered in Alathi, barely audible through the storm.
"Aru kai vel."
The river carries the spear.
Then he vanished into the night.
Into the Wilds
They ran until the ground softened underfoot, until mud turned to the damp humus of forest. Trees rose like pillars in the dark. The air smelled of moss and rain — freedom's first scent, sharp and cold.
Ila collapsed against a fallen trunk, coughing violently. Thaan dropped beside her, gasping. Around them, scattered groups of survivors gathered — maybe thirty in all, bloodied, starving, but alive.
For the first time in months, there were no walls. No chains. Only breath and silence.
Thaan broke it first. "You did it, boy," he rasped. "You got them out."
Arani stood a few paces away, scanning the forest edge. "No," he said. "We're not out yet."
He pointed north. "They'll hunt us by dawn. We move before that."
The others groaned, too exhausted to argue. Ila stared up at him, her face streaked with soot. "You sound like you planned this."
"I did," he said simply.
Her voice softened. "All of it?"
He looked at her then — eyes reflecting the dying embers through the trees. "Even the fire."
A silence fell. Not disbelief, but something heavier — realization.
The Weight of Flame
By the next morning, the survivors had begun to understand the cost of freedom. The forest was merciless — wet, cold, filled with the echo of pursuit. The distant horns of the Lion's scouts carried through the trees like ghosts.
Arani led them in silence, moving with the precision of a hunter. He avoided paths, followed the river, kept them low when crows stirred overhead. Thaan walked beside him, leaning on a stick, muttering half-prayers to gods he no longer trusted.
"You move like your father," Thaan said once. "He used to say patience is the sharpest blade."
Arani's jaw tightened. "He also said blades must know when to cut."
"And when will you?"
"When the throne begins to tremble."
Ila walked behind them, every step heavy but steady. Her fever had ebbed, replaced by something fiercer — resolve. The people whispered her name now too, calling her River Sister, for she had survived the fever of death. She didn't feel like a sister of anything — only a witness to something rising.
The Shadow's Plan
When they reached the ruins of an old watchtower, Arani called a halt. The tower's top had long since collapsed, but its base offered shelter. The survivors huddled inside, shivering. Thaan crouched near a cold fire pit, staring at Arani.
"You've been thinking beyond this night," the old man said. "Tell me the truth — why Vashra? Why let yourself be caught?"
Arani met his gaze without flinching. "To find the broken ones."
Thaan frowned. "Broken?"
"The ones who once fought and lost," Arani said. "The ones who forgot they were warriors. You were all scattered. I needed to bring you together again — and to remind you what chains feel like."
Thaan's eyes narrowed. "That's a cruel lesson."
"Freedom is cruel," Arani said softly. "But necessary."
He turned to the others, his voice low but carrying. "The Lion Throne believes we are shadows. Let them. Shadows learn the shape of everything that casts light."
He knelt and drew in the dirt — not the camp this time, but a wider map: mountains, rivers, fortresses. The territory of their enemies. "We move east," he said. "To the Vale. My father's land. We gather the old bands. Then we strike — not as rebels, but as one people."
A murmur spread among them — disbelief and hope mingling like storm and flame.
Ila whispered, "You mean to start a war."
Arani looked up. "No," he said. "I mean to finish one."
The Dawn Hunt
Before dawn, horns sounded again.
The Lion's scouts had found their trail.
The forest exploded with motion — shouts, dogs, the crack of rifles. The survivors scattered, ducking behind trees, diving into undergrowth. Arani pulled Ila close, dragging her toward the riverbank. "Stay low," he hissed.
Bullets tore through branches. Thaan roared from somewhere behind them, swinging a fallen branch like a weapon, shouting curses in Alathi. A guard fell with a scream — then Thaan fell too, clutching his chest.
Arani turned, but Ila held him. "He knew," she gasped. "He bought us time!"
There was no time to argue. Arani pulled her into the river. The current was freezing, furious, dragging them down through mud and reeds. Ila gasped as the cold bit into her lungs, but Arani's grip held firm.
"Hold the current," he shouted over the roar. "Let it carry you!"
She barely heard him. Her mind filled with the echo of his words — the old Alathi prayer.
"Aru kai vel."
The river carries the spear.
They surfaced downstream hours later, shivering and bruised, but alive. Smoke from the burning forest rose behind them — and with it, the cries of men who had hunted ghosts.
The Oath of the River
On the riverbank, as dawn bled over the world, Arani stood dripping and silent. Ila sat beside him, coughing water, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Around them, only a handful of others had survived the current — exhausted, but alive.
Thaan was gone. His body lost to the forest. But his last words, his defiance, lingered like embers in Arani's chest.
The sun broke through the mist, touching the water in gold. For the first time in years, the world seemed vast again — endless, open, waiting.
Arani raised his hand, streaked with mud and blood. "This river carried our chains," he said quietly. "Now it carries our vow."
He looked to Ila, to the others who still breathed. "We rebuild not as prisoners, but as flame. The Lion believes the fire is gone. He is wrong."
Ila met his gaze. "What will you call it? This… fire you're building?"
Arani's eyes darkened, reflecting the sunrise. "The River Spear," he said. "Born of silence. Fed by chains. Forged in fire."
The others bowed their heads. And in that quiet, something shifted — the moment a rebellion begins not with shouting, but with breath.
The river moved on, carrying ash and promise alike.
Behind them, Vashra burned.
Ahead, the world waited — and the silence was no longer empty. It was sharpening itself for war.