Ashes And Allies

Chapter 3: The Smell of Ash

The fire still danced in the heart of the city.

Rayan moved silently across the ruined alleyways of the lower district—once a marketplace, now a charred skeleton of its past. Smoke rose in lazy trails from shattered stalls. Blood soaked the stones, and the air was thick with the stench of war.

He knelt near a fallen guard, eyes scanning the uniform.

Imperial sigil. Fresh kill.

Rayan's blades were sheathed, but his muscles stayed coiled—every step was a calculation. The Crimson Order had struck again, cleansing the area of dissenters in the name of order. But what they called "order," Rayan knew as massacres.

He closed the man's eyes with gloved fingers. Even enemies deserved a clean end.

From the rooftop above, a soft clink of metal.

Rayan spun.

A shadow leapt, landing hard beside him—a figure wrapped in a dark cloak with a short sword drawn.

But instead of attacking, the stranger raised a hand.

> "Easy. I'm not your enemy. Name's Kara. You're Rayan, right? The Ghost of the East District?"

Rayan's grip tightened. "That name's dead."

Kara smirked. "So is this city if you don't come back."

They stared at each other, two blades wrapped in silence. Finally, Rayan lowered his guard—but not his suspicion.

> "Talk," he said.

> "You're not the only one who lost everything. The Order took my brother too. But we're not alone. There's a resistance. Small. Angry. Waiting for someone like you."

Rayan's jaw tightened. The word "resistance" stirred a long-buried memory—his brother whispering plans of rebellion... before he was betrayed.

He stood slowly, eyes locked on the city horizon.

> "If you lie to me, Kara... I'll bury you myself."

> "Fair," she said, nodding. "Follow me."

And together, they vanished into the smoke.

Chapter 4: Sparks Beneath the Ruins

The resistance hideout was buried beneath a crumbling cathedral, sealed by rusted gates and forgotten tunnels. As Kara led him in, torchlight flickered on the cracked stone walls. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in a coffin.

Inside, a small group waited—scarred soldiers, wounded civilians, young fighters barely older than children. They looked at Rayan like a ghost. Some with hope. Others with fear.

One man stepped forward—broad-shouldered, with a metal arm and cold eyes.

> "So... the blade returns. I thought you ran like the rest of them."

> "I buried more of my people than you ever met," Rayan said coldly. "Who are you?"

> "Name's Torren. I lead this mess. If Kara says you're useful, I'll believe it. For now."

Rayan looked around—burned maps, stolen rations, half-broken weapons.

> "This isn't a resistance. It's a grave waiting to be filled."

> "Then help us turn it into a war machine," Kara said. "Or walk away like you did five years ago."

Her words hit deep.

> "You don't know what I did," he whispered.

> "No," she replied, "but you're still breathing. That means you have a chance to make it right."

A silence fell. Then Torren stepped aside, revealing a table with blueprints—an Imperial convoy moving weapons through the east canal.

> "One strike," Torren said. "A proper message. You in?"

Rayan stared at the map. His fingers twitched near his blade.

> "I'll strike," he said. "But I choose how deep the wound goes."

That night, the rebel base came alive. Sparks flew as blades were sharpened, hands moved in quiet prayer, and Kara watched Rayan from across the room.

The Crimson Echo had returned—and the city would bleed for what it did to him.