The path to the Hollow Flame was a descent into the forgotten lungs of Ashalara—where the city no longer breathed, only remembered.

  They passed through access tunnels and shattered maintenance corridors, some with flickering signage from a century ago, others lit only by the rebel’s flickering shoulder-lamps. Pipes hissed. Vents howled like dying things. The deeper they went, the less Ashalara resembled a city at all—and more a hushed tomb.

  The rebels moved with silent precision. The woman with the scar led the way, her hand never far from her sidearm. Tov limped between Brinn and Jarek, one arm held awkwardly as he tried not to slow them down.

  “Still think this is a date?” Brinn whispered to Ramm.

  Ramm glanced at the rusting ceiling. “If it is, the mood lighting sucks.”

  Pepe added helpfully, “I give it two stars. Would not recommend.”

  Eventually, the lead rebel tapped a sequence into what looked like a broken wall panel. With a hiss, a massive bulkhead split open—revealing the Hollow Flame.

  It was not what they expected.

  The rebel base wasn’t sleek or organized. It was alive.

  Despite the scrap-built design, every corner pulsed with purpose. Nothing was wasted. Everything repurposed. Just like the people who lived here.

  Cables ran along the floors like roots. Old terminals buzzed next to homemade forges and weapon racks made from scavenged support beams. People—dozens of them—moved with tense purpose between makeshift stations: some engineering, some monitoring, some tending to wounded comrades. A cracked banner hung from above, the edges burned. The symbol was unclear, but beneath it was a single word: “REMEMBER.”

  Jarek eyed the exits. Sai kept near the shadows. Brinn moved like he belonged there. Ramm looked impressed and immediately tried to plug his glove into a terminal before someone slapped his hand away.

  “Nice place,” Ramm muttered. “Smells like ambition and old coffee.”

  “Sounds like you,” Pepe replied.

  The lead rebel called ahead. “Arden. They’re here.”

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  He emerged from a side corridor like he’d been expecting them all along.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, hair pulled back into a silver knot. He wore a high-collared coat that had once belonged to someone important—but the patches on the sleeve had been scorched off. A silver clasp, shaped like a broken sun, held his collar shut—half-symbol, half-defiance. His eyes were sharp. And tired.

  “I’m Arden,” he said simply. “You’re not from Ashalara.”

  “No,” Jarek replied, crossing his arms. “But we’ve been shot at enough to qualify.”

  Arden smiled faintly, just once. Then his gaze fell on Tov.

  “Tov. Are you hurt?”

  “I’ve been worse,” the boy muttered. “They helped me.”

  Arden nodded slowly. “Then they’ve earned my attention.”

  He led them to a large chamber off to the side—part command room, part war museum. Screens blinked beside dusty maps. A huge table dominated the center, lit by a dim holographic projection.

  A satellite image hovered above it—grainy, black-ringed, ominous.

  The room hushed as the screen glowed to life, casting pale light on their faces. Something about it made the hairs on Brinn’s arms rise.

  “This,” Arden said, “is what brought us here. And now, maybe you too.”

  The crew gathered closer. The projection zoomed in on a massive, circular facility on the southern edge of Ashalara. Jet-black walls. No windows. No visible doors.

  “No designation. Not on maps. But every day, transports go in. Cargo. Weapons. Troops. And nothing comes out.”

  Brinn frowned. “You sure they’re not using tunnels or sky ports?”

  “We’ve checked. Scans show no exhaust, no launch signatures. The place is... absorbing. But not releasing. Like a sponge with no squeeze.”

  Pepe chirped, “Like Ramm’s brain with conspiracy theories.”

  Sai narrowed his eyes. “The Weaver’s work.”

  Arden looked at him. “You’ve felt it too.”

  He paused, then continued “They’re building something. Not just weapons. Control. Fear. Something bigger. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong on a free world.”

  Jarek tapped the table. “So what do you want from us?”

  Arden didn’t hesitate.

  “Information. Access. Infiltration. If you can identify someone tied to the facility—an officer, a courier, even a janitor—we can get inside.”

  “And then?” Sai asked quietly.

  “Then we disrupt them. Blow open the gates. Take back this city.”

  There was no applause. No dramatic lighting. Just the hum of old machines and the weight of a fight none of them had asked for—but were already in.

  Before they turned to leave, Arden met each of their eyes in turn.

  “You crashed here as fugitives,” he said, voice low. “But maybe that’s exactly what we needed.”

  Arden gestured toward the holomap. “We’ve got eyes on a convoy arriving tomorrow. If we’re lucky, it brings someone useful.”

  Ramm leaned toward Jarek and stage-whispered, “He’s doing the rebel-rally speech again.”

  Pepe whispered louder, “I’d give it a solid 8.5. Good pacing. Great eye contact.”

  Sai said nothing. Just stared at Arden with unreadable eyes.

  The table dimmed, the projection shrinking into a faint dot amidst the city’s veins.

  And in that moment, they understood:

  This wasn’t about payback.

  It wasn’t about pasts or fugitives or fate.

  It was about a choice—to fight for a world worth saving.

  Even if it wasn’t theirs.

  The Hollow Flame, the heart of the resistance. It's not clean or shiny—it’s lived in. Scarred. But alive. And honestly, that makes it feel more real than any sleek base ever could.

  Arden, the reluctant backbone of the rebellion. His speech isn’t about glory or destiny—it’s about grit, survival, and a broken system that needs breaking. He doesn’t want to be a leader. But he is. And his eyes say more than he admits.

  will roll on it ??).

  deep dive. More words. More world. More chaos.

  Primy