Spark that ignites (1)

[Rowan's POV]

It had been days since the vote, but the weight of it still lingered in the air, heavy and inescapable. Some thought I had lost myself to rage, that my judgment had been clouded by the burning need for vengeance.

They couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, I was sharper than ever, my mind honed to a lethal edge. Every ounce of fury I carried was being channeled into something far more dangerous than reckless anger—strategy. I had been planning, training, carving a path toward the inevitable confrontation that loomed ahead.

Victor Iron-Jaw. That was the name of the man who had bested me, the man who stood at the top of the filth-ridden underworld we called the slums. Leader of the Death Angels, the de-facto ruler of the gangs that thrived in the shadows.

He was more than just a brute—he was a menace, a predator who had claimed at least forty lives since he seized the title of Slum King. Taking him down wouldn't be easy. His reach extended far beyond what I had anticipated. He had resources. He had men. He had power.

I exhaled slowly, my gaze shifting toward Elias. My younger brother walked beside me, his posture stiff, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He was hesitating, his expression tight with unease, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite bring himself to. He didn't have to.

I already knew what was on his mind. It was written in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes flickered toward me before quickly looking away.

He wanted to talk about my plans. About my revenge. About what was coming. And though he hadn't spoken a word yet, I could already see the concern behind his hesitation, the silent plea for me to reconsider. 

Almost the entire group had turned against my decision to pursue revenge, their voices filled with doubt, concern, and outright defiance. But it didn't matter. My mind was set, my path already carved in stone. There was no room for second thoughts, no space for hesitation. I had expected resistance, but the real disappointment came from Elias.

I had thought he would stand beside me, that the fire of vengeance would burn within him as it did in me. I had hoped I was raising a warrior. But I was wrong.

Elias was gentle, kind even—too kind for the world we lived in. He wasn't like me, and I was beginning to accept that. No matter how much I wanted him to fight, I wouldn't force him to become something he wasn't. If his heart led him down a path of peace, then I would help him walk it. Even if it meant walking alone.

"Bro."

His voice came from my side, hesitant, cautious. So, it was starting.

I turned to face him, watching as he struggled to find the right words, his fingers tightening into fists before relaxing again. "Don't you think you're being reckless?" he asked finally, his voice quiet, like he was afraid of setting me off. "Do you really think you can take on a real gang?"

Did he think I was an animal? A rabid beast, blinded by rage and incapable of reason?

I let out a slow breath, my jaw clenching as I met his gaze. "I have to," I said, my voice steady but weighted with something heavier. "Even if I can't win, even if it kills me... I have to do it."

I swallowed hard, my next words barely above a whisper. "For her."

"Yeah, but do you really believe this is worth dying for?" Elias' voice wavered, a thread of desperation slipping through the cracks in his usual kind tone. "After everything we've been through, everything you've survived—are you really going to throw your life away for this?"

I let out a short, humorless chuckle, though there was no real amusement behind it. "Why does everyone assume I'll just drop dead the moment this starts?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain light, casual, as if none of this was getting to me.

But it was. The doubt. The hesitation. The feeling that the people I trusted most thought I was already a dead man walking. It was taking its toll, but I couldn't let it show. I couldn't falter.

I straightened my shoulders, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. "Don't you have any faith in me?" I asked, my voice carrying an edge now. "So what if they have more men, more weapons, more resources? Numbers don't mean shit. I'll crush them all the same." The words left my mouth with confidence—at least, I hoped they did. I needed him to believe them.

Elias opened his mouth, ready to argue, but I cut him off before he could even begin.

"Elias," I said firmly, "you don't have to follow me out of obligation. If you don't want to be a part of this, then don't be. I won't hold it against you." My voice was steady, almost detached, even though something inside me twisted at the thought of him walking away. "If you want out, I can arrange for someone in the city to take care of you until this is over."

It was a way out. An escape from the bloodshed I knew was coming. And a part of me—maybe the last sliver of humanity I had left—hoped he would take it. Because things were about to escalate, and once they did, there was no turning back.

"No, I won't abandon you just because things are getting tough," Elias said, his voice steady, a quiet but unyielding strength beneath it. "You stood by me even when I was against you, remember?"

His words dragged me back to the memories of the camp, of the cold nights and the weight of chains. My gaze darkened slightly as the past threatened to creep in, but I shook it off.

"That was different, Elias," I said, my voice low, almost pleading. "Back then, I didn't have a choice. You were trapped. This time, you do. I'm doing this of my own free will after all." I searched his face, hoping, praying he'd see reason and take the chance while he still could—before it was too late.

But he only straightened his shoulders, his expression hardening. "I won't do it. I won't leave. Not now, not ever."

I exhaled sharply, frustration and something else—something dangerously close to reluctant admiration—mixing inside me. When had he become so stubborn? So damn fierce? The Elias I knew was a timid kid who followed my lead without question. Now, he was standing his ground, refusing to back down.

"Fine," I muttered, rubbing a hand across my face. "But don't regret it when things get tough."

---

The slum's market was as chaotic as ever, a clash of colors, scents, and voices blending into an overwhelming sensory assault. Stalls lined the narrow, uneven streets, selling everything from rusted knives to stale bread, from worn-out boots to fresh fruit—though fresh was a relative term around here. Merchants hollered over each other, desperate to offload their goods, while pickpockets wove through the crowds like shadows, hands quick and merciless.

Elias and I moved with purpose, weaving between hagglers and beggars, our focus on gathering the essentials. Food, mostly—dried meat, cheap grains, anything that would last. Some medical supplies, though those were harder to come by. A few odds and ends that might come in handy later. Our bag filled faster than expected, the weight of it pressing against my shoulder as we took stock of what we had.

By the time we were done, half an hour had slipped away. The sky above the slums was a dull, smoky gray, the air thick with the scent of sweat, grime, and desperation. It was time to head back.

The stench of the slums clung to the air as we navigated the filth-strewn streets, the weight of the supply bag biting into my shoulder. Elias walked beside me, his breathing growing slightly uneven from the long trek. I cast him a glance, noting the subtle strain in his expression. He wasn't used to this much walking with so much weight.

Then, something pricked at my senses—a shift, small at first but undeniable. Shadows flickered where they shouldn't, stretching unnaturally against the crumbling walls. Footsteps—too many, too fast, closing in from all sides. A setup.

Fuck—why now?

The world blurred into motion before thought could catch up. The rush of bodies, the scrape of boots against stone, the sudden rush of air as something heavy came flying toward us. A steel pipe, aimed straight at Elias.

"Down!"

I reached for him, yanking him down with me as the pipe whistled past, missing us by inches. My pulse hammered as we hit the ground. No time to breathe. No time to think.

I was already moving, pushing up from my crouch in a fluid motion. The first attacker loomed over me, a burly bastard swinging the same pipe down like a hammer. Too slow. I twisted, pivoting on my heel, my dagger flashing as I drove it deep into the flesh of his arm.

A guttural cry tore from his throat. His grip slackened, the pipe slipping from his fingers with a hollow clang as blood darkened his sleeve. But there was no time to savor the moment—because the others were already closing in.