Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Thirty-Four

Upper City.

Bright, warm sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. A crisp breeze slipped in through the open slats, a quiet whisper that winter was drawing near. Below, the city buzzed with motion—streets alive with people moving through their routines, blissfully unaware of the secrets buried beneath their feet.

Sharp brown eyes observed the sprawling web of bridges and skywalks from above, the greenery woven artfully between steel and concrete lending a deceptive softness to the city’s otherwise harsh structure.

The click of heels echoed through the chamber, sharp and steady against the polished floors. A transparent display held professionally and poised by the well-dressed woman, streams of data scrolling past as her manicured fingers danced expertly across its surface.

“Production is down three percent,” she announced, stopping just short of the tall man at the window. “That reduction has impacted the acceptable rebirth rate for sustainability. Additionally, there’s been a two percent rise in retaliation from the Lowers, Lord Haarken.”

Haarken’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. A subtle twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed his irritation.

“Has the General deployed additional guards below?”

“Yes, my lord,” the woman answered with a clipped nod. “Even so, we still lost the full three percent.” He exhaled slowly through his teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His disdain for the Lower City was no secret—nor his belief that it should have been purged years ago.

“There are reports of rebel activity,” the woman continued, “including a recent bombing during the arrest of a Lower. The target was retrieved by the rebels—female, apparently of some significance to the rebellion.”

Haarken turned sharply, fixing her with a cold stare. “Random violence? Or a targeted strike?”

“Intentional, sir. The report suggests the girl had previously eluded patrols and may possess knowledge of rebel operations.” He studied her a moment longer before striding to a wide, ornate desk near the center of the room. The surface shimmered to life with a topographic map of the Lower City. Sections of it were blacked out—sealed, restricted, or lost after years of history and knowledge being removed.

“The rebellion’s been quiet for over half a year,” he stated, mostly to himself. “Braken and his rats have gone to ground. Why stir now?”

“Shall I retrieve the full report on the bombing?”

“No,” Haarken answered flatly. “Tell me—who was the commander assigned to the arrest?”

The woman glanced at her display, fingers flickering across it like wind over water. “Commander Anton. Son of General Donovan. House Kellan.”

Haarken’s brow lifted, intrigued. “House Kellan? That bloodline traces back to the founding, it is one of the great houses. Their heirs ascend to General by birthright.” He leaned over the map, the corners of his mouth tightening. “What’s a noble son doing chasing criminals in the gutter?”

“He’s alive,” she added. “Checked into the Labs shortly after the incident. Logged his report from the guest quarters.”

“Has his family been notified?”

“Not yet. It seems he has a sister working in the Labs. The system flagged a familial link, but no further action was taken.” Haarken was silent for a beat, fingers drumming lightly on the desk. Then he straightened.

“Summon him. Immediately.” The assistant bowed and turned to leave, but Haarken’s voice stopped her.

“And find out why he was in the Lower City to begin with. Someone of his station doesn’t belong beneath the surface—unless there’s something he’s hiding.”

She nodded crisply and exited, her heels echoing one last time across the marble as the chamber fell silent again.

Haarken turned back to the window, watching the world below—clean, efficient, obedient. Just the way he liked it.

~*~

Back at the rebel base, I adjusted the straps on my pack, tightening the buckles as I followed Braken down the dim corridor toward the exit. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead cast long shadows on the steel walls, and despite the heating systems, the air still carried a draft that whispered through the base like a warning—the cold rotation was not far off.

I kept my eyes forward, steps steady, though my thoughts churned.

Braken hadn’t said much since we left the planning room. His usual charismatic air was quieter now, calculating. I couldn’t stop replaying everything he’d told me: Jerard’s involvment with the rebels, the sickness, the reactors, the truth—or what he claimed was the truth—about the Uppers’ involvement.

‘Why did they respond so fast? Why that sector? Why now?’

The questions were like weights, pulling me down, tangling my thoughts with fear and doubt. And beneath it all, that uneasy, gnawing sensation: that I was being used.

They turned a corner near the main hall just as a figure emerged from a side corridor. Zinnivia.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw us, her usual spark dulled. Her movements were smaller than normal, her eyes avoiding Braken’s. A faint bruise darkened the skin beneath her left eye, and a small cut split the corner of her lip. My heart skipped.

“Zinn?” I asked, stepping forward. “What happened?” Zinnivia’s hand flew up instinctively to touch her face, her eyes widening for just a second before the smile returned—too quick, too practiced.

“Oh, nothing,” she chirped, the cheer in her voice just a little too hollow. “Base is still kind of a mess. Wires, debris—guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Braken stepped in smoothly, voice low and calm. “I told her to stay clear of the upper floor. We’re still reinforcing the supports. Some panels gave way.”

I glanced between them. Zinnivia gave a small, flinching nod. “All my fault,” she added, eyes darting briefly to Braken before dropping to the floor. Something about the exchange tugged at my gut.

“You should rest,” Braken suggested dismissively, already turning away. “We won’t be back for some time.”

Zinnivia nodded again, her smile brittle. “Be careful, Mira,” she said softly. “Okay?”

“I will,” I replied, watching her. I wanted to say more, ask more, but Zinnivia had already turned and walked away, shoulders hunched slightly inward, the way people did when they wanted to disappear.

I stood there for a breath longer, unease blooming in my chest.

“You coming?” Braken asked, his tone neutral but with that ever-present undercurrent of control.

I followed him out of the base, our steps echoing off the stone passageway that led to the lower tunnel system. My mind raced. Was Zinnivia really just injured by accident? Or had Braken—?

‘Stop,’ I told myself. ‘You’re here to save the Lowers. Focus. Braken had saved her, he wouldn’t hurt Zinnivia.’

Still, doubt pressed harder than ever. Braken wanted proof, yes, but it didn’t feel like ti was for the sake of the Lowers. He wanted leverage. Power. An escape. But for everyone like he claimed? Or for himself?

Regardless, I was his key.

As we reached the surface, my comm unit buzzed faintly—signal returning. I blinked in surprise, then fumbled to pull it out of my pocket. Static at first, then a short vibration: a message received.

It was from Krane.

We’re safe. Hiding.

Relief washed over me so fast and so fierce it made my knees weak. I stepped behind a support pillar, fingers flying over the screen.

Heading to Restricted Sector. Meet at the building three stores up, east of the door. Be careful.

I tucked the comm unit away and returned to Braken’s side. He gave me a sideways glance but said nothing. The wind picked up, carrying the sharp scent of metal and ash from the distant industrial sectors.

I stared ahead, the towering silhouette of the Restricted Sector wall coming into view beyond the old city limits. The place where it all began. Maybe where it could all end.

‘You’re doing this for the Lowers,’ I reminded myself.

Not for Braken. Not for Jerard. But for them. No matter what happens, no matter what risks, I will do what I need for the Lowers.

And yet, in my heart, a quiet fear took root—one I couldn’t shake.

‘What if I was walking straight into a trap?’

~*~

Braken and I hid in one of the abandonded stores a few blocks down from the restricted sector door. My fingers were curled around the comm device in my bag, not sure whether no message was a good or bad sign.

Until I heard my name shouted from the entrance, my heart lurching into my throat. I stumbled toward the corridor, hope burning through the fog in my chest. Relief crashed over me like a wave when I saw him—white hair stark against the dark concrete walls, Calian trailing just behind.

They called my name again in relief, louder this time, before Krane broke into a sprint.

I barely had time to react before he slammed into me, arms wrapping tight around my waist, nearly knocking us both off balance. His head dropped into the crook of my neck, his breath shaky against my skin. My chest squeezed, and I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes, pain momentarily dulled by the overwhelming rush of comfort.

His grip tightened, and I gasped, a small cry slipping out.

Krane immediately pulled back, eyes scanning me with frantic urgency. Calian was suddenly at my side, his hand finding my arm, touch gentle, gaze locked on mine.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” Krane asked.

I winced, tugging up my shirt to reveal the medic wrap stretched across my side, already stained through in patches. Calian’s face paled, Krane’s jaw clenched as he carefully lowered my shirt again, as if touching me too roughly might make it worse.

“I’m okay,” I reasurred quietly. “A medic looked at it.”

“How the f**k did this happen?” Krane’s voice came tight, nearly shaking.

I hesitated, eyes flicking to Calian. “The guards… they found out I don’t have an ID.”

Krane went rigid, fists clenching at his sides. “They what?”

“They took a blood sample—”

“They extracted your blood?” Calian cut in sharply. I nodded, frowning at the sudden intensity in his tone. “Why did they let you go?”

“They didn’t. There was… an explosion. A bomb was set off.”

“What?” they both shouted in unison.

Krane’s expression twisted in disbelief. “What kind of i***t thought that was a good idea?”

“That would be my idiots,” came a voice from behind.

Krane instantly stepped in front of me, protective as always, arm outstretched like a barrier. Braken stood in the doorway I’d just come through, his expression unreadable, posture loose but watchful.

“Rebels,” Krane spat the word like poison.

“Unfortunately,” Braken replied coolly, “it was the only viable option to get her out alive, without mass casualties.”

“So they just hoped the blast wouldn’t kill her too?” Calian snapped, eyes narrowing.

Braken’s gaze shifted to me, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t expect her to have such… devoted guardians.”

Both Krane and Calian turned to stare at me. My face burned.

“This is Braken,” I introduced quickly, trying to ease the tension. “He’s the leader of the rebels. He found me and got me out. Took me to their base. Patched me up.”

Krane’s brow furrowed, lips drawn into a tight line. “His people nearly killed you, Mira.”

“It was better than what the guards would’ve done,” I replied sharply.

That shut him up. He knew what it meant to be caught without an ID. Dying is a mercy compared to what they could do. We’d all heard the stories—rumors of what happened to the ‘nameless.’ I saw it in his eyes then: the quiet horror. The helpless anger.

Braken took a step forward, extending his hand. “Seems we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Braken, people-appointed rebel leader. You must be Krane.”

Krane’s eyes narrowed, shoulders taut with mistrust. He didn’t move. Instead, he drew me a little closer to his side. My stomach did a strange little flip.

Braken’s smile faded slightly, the air between them thick with tension. I watched the unspoken challenge pass between them—neither one willing to break first.

Then Braken turned to Calian, smile returning. “And you must be the Upper with the city in an uproar. Calian, right?”

Calian eyed him cautiously before reaching out to shake his hand. “So they say.”

“You might be the only other person who stirs up just as much trouble down here as I do,” Braken added lightly.

“You talk like an Upper,” Krane muttered, voice ice cold. Braken’s shoulders stiffened. Calian glanced between the two of them, frowning.

“I was born down here,” Braken replied, tone sharp. “Same as you.” Krane didn’t respond. His glare said enough.

“Why’s he here?” Calian asked, steering the conversation back to the task at hand.

I stepped in. “Because he knows things we don’t. About the Lower City. About the Restricted Sector. We need his knowledge, his access. If we want to get our people out—all our people—we need him and the rebellion.” I turned to Krane, my hand finding his arm, needing him to see me. “I need you to trust me on this.”

Krane’s eyes searched mine. His body was still tense, breath shallow, but slowly—slowly—his expression softened. He let out a long, reluctant sigh.

“Of course I trust you,” he answered, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, to Braken, “but I don’t trust you. If Mira says we need you, then fine—but one wrong move, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Braken clasped his hands together, far too pleased. “Excellent. Shall we get moving? I’d rather not be a sitting duck.” We all stared at him blankly.

He rolled his eyes, gesturing with both hands in a shooing motion. “That means let’s go.” As we moved toward the exit, I caught Krane’s eye and gave him a look that said I’ll explain later. He gave a subtle nod in return.

But the unease lingered. Braken walked just ahead of us, hands in his pockets, as if none of this mattered. As if he hadn’t just blown apart the fragile stability I was clinging to.

And I couldn’t help but wonder—had I just made everything worse?