Chapter3: Whispers of Rebellion
1644 Words
The forest breathed with secrets.
Mist clung to the undergrowth, curling around twisted trees like cautious fingers. Birds no longer sang in this part of the world. Even the wind dared not howl. Only the steady rhythm of footfalls broke the quiet—Kaelin at the front, cloak tattered from battle, followed by Kero and Lysa, each still processing what they'd witnessed on the mountain road two nights before.
The encounter with the Crimson soldiers had changed everything.
Word was spreading—faster than Kaelin could move. Villagers whispered of blue fire and a man who melted steel with a glance. Of a swordless master who walked through blades without bleeding. Of hope.
Hope was dangerous.
They reached the outskirts of Myrean, a trading settlement on the edge of the lowlands. It was smaller than Brin’s Hollow but busier, with caravans passing through and bounty posters fluttering like leaves in the wind.
Kaelin halted the group just beyond the treeline.
“Keep your hoods up,” he said. “We stay one night. No trouble.”
Kero nodded, but Lysa grumbled. “You’re the one melting people. Why do we have to hide?”
“Because they won’t come with swords next time,” Kaelin replied. “They’ll come with war.”
They entered the town like shadows.
The tavern in Myrean was brighter than most—a welcoming hearth, simple wooden tables, and warm stew that smelled of thyme and garlic. Kaelin sat near the rear, eyes scanning every patron. Kero took the seat beside him, fidgeting. Lysa leaned on the table, eating from his bowl without asking.
“Do you ever order your own food?” Kero muttered.
“I like stealing yours more,” she said sweetly.
Kaelin paid them no mind. His eyes locked on a man in the far corner—cloaked, with a crimson sash peeking from his sleeve.
Dominion.
Before Kaelin could rise, the man stood and approached—alone, hands raised.
“I don’t want a fight,” he said quietly. “I came to talk.”
Kaelin’s hand hovered near his belt. “You’re brave to wear that sash.”
“Braver to remove it,” the man replied, sliding it off and tossing it onto the table.
Kaelin narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rennar. I was a lieutenant in the Crimson Dominion. Until I saw what they did to the village of Vekk.”
Kaelin's gaze hardened.
“They burned children,” Rennar continued, voice shaking. “Laughed while they did it. And I... I stood there.”
“And now you want redemption,” Kaelin said flatly.
“I want revenge,” Rennar growled. “There are others like me. Ex-soldiers. Defectors. Survivors. They’re hiding in the lowlands, building camps, waiting for someone to lead them.”
Kero leaned forward. “You mean a rebellion?”
Rennar looked at Kaelin. “I mean you.”
Kaelin didn’t answer immediately.
He paced the alley behind the tavern for nearly an hour after dark, mind churning. Kero eventually joined him, silent at first.
“You’re thinking of saying no,” Kero said finally.
Kaelin didn’t respond.
“Why?”
Kaelin stopped walking. “Because I’m not a symbol. I’m not a leader. I’m a broken remnant of a broken world.”
“But you’re back,” Kero pressed. “People need something to believe in.”
“They’ll believe in fire and forget the flame,” Kaelin muttered. “They’ll turn balance into war. Peace into punishment. That’s not why I came back.”
“Then tell them the truth,” Kero said. “Teach them what you taught me. Lead them differently.”
Kaelin stared into the sky. Stars flickered between clouds, distant and cold.
“I buried my students once,” he said. “I won’t bury another army.”
Kero didn’t speak after that.
But he stayed beside him until dawn.
In the morning, they left Myrean with Rennar guiding them.
The former soldier led them through abandoned trade routes and secret forest paths, avoiding Dominion checkpoints. Kaelin noticed how Rennar never turned his back. Never stopped scanning the horizon. This was a man who had killed. A man still haunted.
They reached the rebel camp three days later—tucked between cliffs and trees, hidden by mist and illusion spells barely clinging to power. There were no banners. No guards. Just tents, tired eyes, and sharpened blades.
It was not a rebellion. It was a refuge.
The people here were not soldiers—they were farmers, smiths, librarians, mothers, and children. They trained with sticks. Their armor was stitched leather. Their faces held more fear than fury.
And yet… they stood taller when Kaelin walked among them.
A woman stepped forward from a tent—tall, dark-skinned, with a braided staff and a missing eye. She bowed slightly.
“Name’s Vasha. I was a warden for the city of Calenfort. Left when they executed my wife for hiding books.”
Kaelin bowed in return. “Kaelin.”
“We know,” she said simply. “Everyone knows.”
She looked him up and down, unimpressed.
“You don’t look like a master.”
“Most days, I don’t feel like one.”
She smirked. “That’s the first honest thing I’ve heard from a ‘legend.’ Come. We have much to show you.”
They sat that evening in a hollowed-out tent around a table scratched with maps and candlelight.
Rennar and Vasha explained the state of things.
The Dominion had split the continent into sectors, each ruled by a Crimson Regent. All books older than fifty years were banned. Anyone practicing elemental discipline outside of state control was branded a heretic. The capital, Thar'Kareth, housed the Crimson Throne and the Regent Supreme—Vaerith’s blood descendant.
Kaelin’s name was already circulating among the ranks. His bounty had risen.
“Ten thousand obsidian coins,” Vasha said, sipping stale tea. “Alive or dead.”
“And they’ve started calling you something,” Rennar added. “The Ashen Flame.”
Kaelin scoffed. “They always need a name to fear.”
“Maybe,” Vasha said. “But some need a name to follow.”
The following morning, Kaelin gathered the camp.
He stood at the center, unarmored, unmasked, only his eyes carrying the blue light of the flame.
“I will not lead you into war,” he began. “I’ve seen what war does. I’ve buried too many students, too many friends. I’ve seen justice twisted into vengeance and discipline turned into hate.”
The camp was silent.
“I am not here to build an army. I am here to restore balance. If you fight, you fight to protect. If you stand, you stand for each other. Not for blood. Not for glory.”
He looked at the crowd—at the farmers, the smiths, the children.
“I will teach you—not how to destroy—but how to endure. How to protect your homes, your minds, your flame. And when the time comes, we will not attack. We will outlast.”
He drew a circle in the dirt with his staff.
“This is not a rebellion. This is a reminder.”
And the crowd bowed.
Kaelin’s days in the camp were filled with lessons.
Not just in swordplay or elemental focus—but in meditation, healing, history, even breath control. Kero helped teach the younger trainees, while Lysa used her quick fingers to train others in stealth.
People stopped seeing Kaelin as a legend and started seeing him as a teacher.
It was exactly what he had hoped for.
But it was never going to last.
One night, a courier arrived from the east—bloodied, half-mad with exhaustion.
He delivered a scroll sealed in black wax.
Kaelin broke it open.
> To the Pretender Flame,
Your tricks inspire insects, but you are no phoenix.
If you are the master you claim, come to Solara.
Come alone.
I have preserved the ruins of your temple.
I have rebuilt it in your honor.
Come and see what your legacy has become.
— Crimson Regent Veyra
Your student awaits.
Kaelin’s hands tightened on the scroll until it crumbled.
Kero read the anger in his face. “It’s a trap.”
“I know.”
“Then we can’t go.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
Kero stood, blocking him. “You can’t. They’ll kill you.”
Kaelin looked past him. “If I don’t go, they’ll come here. And they won’t spare the children.”
“Then we fight them together.”
Kaelin touched Kero’s shoulder.
“You’re not ready.”
“I’ll never be ready if you keep protecting me.”
Kaelin didn’t answer.
He just walked toward his tent and didn’t look back.
Later that night, Lysa slipped inside Kaelin’s tent.
She stood silently while he packed.
“You’re going alone, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
She sat on his bedroll. “I used to think you were boring.”
He chuckled softly. “Most days, I agree.”
“But you’re not,” she said. “You’re just tired. Tired of carrying the whole world.”
Kaelin paused.
Then knelt before her.
“You have a gift, Lysa. One day, you’ll help rebuild something better than what we lost. But only if you survive.”
She looked at him.
Then hugged him.
“You better come back,” she whispered.
Kaelin did not promise that he would.
At dawn, he left the camp alone—hood drawn, mask at his side, walking toward the ruins of the temple he died in nearly a century ago.
Not for vengeance.
Not even for closure.
But because the past would never rest until the master did.
- Writer
