The Crimson Mark

Chapter 7: The Crimson Mark

The torchlight flickered across the stone walls of the rebel hideout, throwing dancing shadows over Rayan's face. He stood still, silent, staring at the blood-stained Imperial map on the table. Red ink circled key targets, but one name kept pulling his eyes back:

"Nami – Executed. Age 16."

Kara entered quietly. Her boots were muddy, her braid damp with sweat. "They've started arresting civilians. Hanging names off the list. East District's being purged."

> "They're not hunting rebels," Rayan said coldly. "They're making examples."

Torren slammed a fist onto the table. "Then let's burn their damn banners! We have weapons now. We have people!"

> "Weapons don't win wars," Rayan replied. "Symbols do. Fear does."

He turned to the rusted wall panel and pulled it open. Inside, wrapped in old silk, lay a crimson cloak — the symbol of the old rebellion. His brother's legacy.

Without hesitation, Rayan draped it over his shoulders.

> "We take the South Watchtower. At midnight."

Torren blinked. "That's imperial ground. Guards, walls—"

> "It's weak. It's a message. We take it, we show the city the Ghost is real."

Kara nodded. "Then let's light the sky red."

The South Watchtower loomed on the edge of the city — a gray fortress overlooking the trade roads. Usually guarded by twenty soldiers, tonight it stood nearly empty, thanks to recent redeployments.

Rayan crouched in the tall grass nearby. The moon glowed faintly above. Kara, Torren, and a dozen masked rebels waited for his signal.

With one smooth motion, Rayan raised a small crimson flare and fired it into the sky.

The red burst lit the air like blood mist.

And the Ghost moved.

In silence, he scaled the outer wall. Two guards sat laughing near a barrel of ale. Rayan moved like smoke. One swipe — a throat opened. Another — the second dropped.

On the other side, Kara took down the snipers with flawless shots. Torren smashed through the gate, roaring into battle.

The rebels surged forward.

Within minutes, steel clashed and screams echoed down the tower halls. Rayan carved his way through the garrison like a shadowstorm — precise, merciless, controlled. By the time the last guard fell, a new flag rose atop the tower:

Two red blades on black.

The Crimson Echo had made its move.

Chapter 8: The Emperor's Move

In the cold heart of the Imperial Citadel, General Varkas knelt before the throne.

> "He's back," Varkas said. "The Ghost. He wears the crimson cloak again."

The Emperor didn't flinch. He poured dark wine into a goblet. "And the South Watchtower?"

> "Taken."

The Emperor sipped. "Let him play king on broken walls."

> "He's building an army."

The Emperor finally turned.

> "Then I'll send him something stronger than an army."

He clapped twice.

From the shadows, a tall figure entered—cloaked in black, helmet forged in iron, face hidden behind a cracked mask.

> "Executioner," the Emperor said. "I give you one name. Rayan."

The masked figure bowed silently and left.

Meanwhile, at the tower, Rayan stood at the edge of the wall, looking out at the city below. Lanterns flickered across rooftops. Somewhere out there, people would wake to hope again.

Kara stepped beside him. "We won tonight."

Rayan didn't smile. "No. We reminded them we still bleed."

She nodded. "What now?"

> "Now?" He turned slowly. "We prepare for the Empire's answer."

Far beyond the walls, a shadow crossed the rooftops, heading toward them with silent death in every step.

The Empire had responded.

And the hunt had begun.