Chapter 10: The Rebel’s Mark

The march back to camp was solemn. Dikun Silver led his squad in silence, the crunch of dry leaves beneath their boots the only sound. Despite the rebels' escape, the encounter had left its mark. The woman's words haunted him — accusations of the king's tyranny, of suffering endured beneath royal banners.

Joran broke the silence, his voice low. "We should've stopped them. Letting them go... it'll come back to bite us."

Dikun shook his head. "Killing them would change nothing. We need the truth. And they weren't the ones who could give it."

"But we're closer," Eron added, his steady tone grounding them. "They spoke of a leader. One we have yet to see."

Dikun nodded. "And we will. But not through bloodshed. Not unless we have no choice."

---

Return to Camp

The camp stirred as Dikun's squad passed through the wooden barricades. Soldiers nodded in acknowledgment, their curiosity evident. Rumors spread fast, and it was clear word of the rebel sighting had already taken root.

Captain Rhylen's tent loomed at the center of the encampment. Dikun paused before entering, steadying his thoughts. He had earned the rank of Corporal not through ceremony, but through the weight of leadership. Now, he would prove he could bear it.

Inside, Rhylen stood over a rough wooden table, maps and reports scattered across it. His dark eyes flicked upward, locking onto Dikun.

"Report," the captain commanded.

"We found evidence of rebel movement near Orlen," Dikun began. "A camp, recently abandoned. Three rebels confronted us, but no violence followed. They spoke of the people's suffering — of loyalty born from necessity, not hatred."

Rhylen's gaze darkened. "Did they give a name? A leader?"

"No, sir. But they confirmed what we suspected. The rebellion is not aimless. Someone is guiding them."

The captain's jaw tightened. "And yet you let them escape."

"We gained more by letting them live," Dikun replied. "Their fear spoke louder than any blade could. They'll return to their leader — and now we know the mark they leave behind."

He stepped forward, laying a small scrap of bark on the table. The three slashes carved into its surface gleamed under the dim light.

"The mark of the old resistance," Dikun said. "It's resurfacing."

Rhylen stared at the symbol. "Then the past has returned to haunt us. And we must be ready."

---

The Weight of Command

Days passed. Though the camp remained calm, tension simmered beneath the surface. Dikun's new rank brought with it a wave of responsibilities. Inspections, training drills, and ensuring the readiness of his squad left him little time to dwell on the rebel threat.

Yet, every moment he spent among the soldiers revealed the cracks within their ranks. Rumors of rebel victories spread like wildfire. Men whispered of villages refusing to pay taxes, of farmers sheltering fugitives. Morale wavered.

During one of the evening drills, Joran approached, his frustration barely contained.

"Another day of routine marches and weapon checks," he grumbled. "The rebels are moving in the shadows, and we're stuck playing sentries."

Dikun understood his friend's impatience. But he also knew the cost of reckless pursuit.

"Discipline keeps us alive, Joran," he said. "The rebellion won't fall because we charge blindly. When the time comes, we'll be ready."

Joran scoffed, though the edge in his voice softened. "Just don't keep us waiting too long."

---

A Shadow in the Night

That night, as the camp fell into uneasy slumber, Dikun found himself restless. The weight of the carved symbol lingered in his mind. He traced its memory — the jagged lines etched with purpose. It was not just a mark. It was a declaration.

Then, a distant cry shattered the silence.

"Fire! Fire in the supply yard!"

Dikun sprang to his feet, the orange glow already illuminating the night sky. The acrid stench of burning wood filled the air. Soldiers rushed past, shouting orders as they formed a line to quell the blaze.

"Joran! Eron!" Dikun barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "With me!"

They sprinted toward the inferno. Flames consumed the stacked crates of grain and rations. But amid the destruction, Dikun's sharp eyes caught something else — a figure slipping into the shadows beyond the camp's edge.

"There!"

Without hesitation, Dikun gave chase. Joran and Eron followed, their boots pounding against the dirt. The figure darted through the trees, nimble and swift.

"Stop!" Dikun commanded, but the figure did not falter.

A clearing emerged ahead, the moon casting pale light upon it. The figure stumbled — and in that moment, Dikun closed the distance. He tackled the intruder, pinning them to the ground.

A sharp gasp escaped the figure's lips. Dikun's eyes widened.

It was the rebel woman.

Her face was smeared with soot, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. Yet there was no fear in her eyes — only defiance.

"You followed us," she spat.

"No," Dikun countered. "You came back."

Joran approached, blade drawn. "She set the fire. Let's end this now."

But Dikun held up a hand. "No. We take her to the captain."

The rebel's lips curled into a bitter smile. "You think capturing me will end this? The mark has already spread. The people will rise."

"Then we'll see whose will prevails," Dikun said, his grip tightening.

To be continued in Chapter 11: Chains and Choices