Family system

The servants moved silently through the grand hall of the council chamber, their footsteps muffled by the rich carpets underneath their feet. The scene before them was one of gross waste: the Arbiters lying around in a drunken slumber, wine-stained robes clinging to their bloated forms, scraps of food scattered around their feet.

Years of servitude had hardened the servants, their faces once full of dreams now expressionless as they cleared the mess. But beneath their quiet demeanor glowed a well of resentment. For years, they had been treated as nothing more than tools—beaten, humiliated, and discarded when no longer useful. And now, their oppressors lay before them, oblivious and vulnerable.

As they worked, a young servant, a wiry boy no older than sixteen, exchanged glances with an older woman carrying an empty tray. The faintest of nods passed between them, and the boy slipped away, disappearing into a side passage. His heart pounded as he moved through the winding halls, his steps quick but careful.

The boy emerged in a narrow alley behind the council hall, where a shadowy figure awaited him. It was a rebel runner, his face obscured by a hood. The boy handed over a hastily scribbled note, his hands trembling slightly.

"The Arbiters are all passed out," the boy whispered. "They had a feast to celebrate the rebels' retreat. They think you've been defeated."
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The runner smirked, tucking the note into his satchel. "Good work. Anything else?"

"They're overconfident," the boy added, his voice filled with suppressed anger. "They don't expect you to come back. They've left everything up to their constructs and barriers."

The runner nodded. "That's all we need. Get back before they notice you're gone."

The boy hesitated, his gaze lingering on the runner. "You'll win, right? You'll end this?"

The runner placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "We will. Stay strong."

With that, the runner disappeared into the shadows of the night, moving swiftly through the labyrinth of alleys that Hana also once used and returned to the rebel camp.

At the camp, the rebellion leaders gathered in a makeshift command tent. All of them were exhausted, but they had experienced worse, and a little exhaustion wasn't going to stop them from advancing their plan. Lysara stood at the center, leaning over a map spread across a wooden table, while Kael paced nearby, his arms crossed.

The runner entered the tent, his arrival drawing the attention of everyone present. He handed the note to Lysara, who read it quickly. Her lips curled into a grim smile as she looked up at the others.

"The Arbiters think they've won," she announced. "They had a feast to celebrate and drank themselves unconscious. They're completely underestimating us."

Kael stopped pacing, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "They had a feast? After everything? Are they really that arrogant?"

"They are," Lysara replied quickly. "And that arrogance is going to cost them. If they think we're defeated, they won't be ready for what we'll bring tomorrow."

Sitting near the back of the tent, Amara looked up from tending to her supplies. "What about the grid? Did the report mention anything about it?"

Lysara nodded. "It's still active, but they rely on stored mana and a secondary conduit. If we can hit them hard enough tomorrow, we might be able to deplete it—or even sever the connection entirely."

Kael smirked, and his usual frustration gave way to a rare glimmer of satisfaction. "So they're fat, drunk, and blind to the fact that we're not giving up. Perfect."

Amara frowned slightly. "Let's not get overconfident ourselves. This is good news, but it doesn't mean tomorrow will be easy. Their constructs are still a problem, and we've got people who need rest and healing."

"We'll be ready," Lysara said. "This isn't about rushing in blindly. We have an advantage now—we know their weaknesses and see that their resources aren't endless. If we play this right, tomorrow we could push them back further and cripple their defenses."

When the news came in, the room buzzed with a change of mood, and they began to make plans for the next day while still optimizing rest for everyone else. Scouts would be sent to monitor the barracks, while the demolition teams would be reinforced to ensure the charges reached their targets.

As the meeting ended and the leaders dispersed, Kael's finger lingered on the map, tracing a route that stretched from the rebel camp to the council hall. His touch lingered over a specific area marked only with faint lines representing ruins that no longer existed. He frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing as if weighing some decision he wasn't quite sure of. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure the others had left the tent.

The shadows of flickering lanterns danced across his face, but he saw that everybody was gone.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. His finger moved again, circling a small area near the eastern edge of the grid—a seemingly unimportant point with no markings or notes, only empty space on the map. To anyone else, it would look like an oversight. To Kael, it was something else entirely.

He pulled a folded paper from his leather armor and laid it over the map. It was old and worn; the ink faded but still readable. The paper didn't match the rebellion's maps—it was far older, and its markings were written in a script few could read. Kael matched the faint lines on the parchment to those on the map, confirming what he already suspected.

His hand trembled slightly as he folded the parchment again and tucked it back into his armor. His mind churned with possibilities and doubts. If they knew... if they found out about this... He shook his head, dismissing the thought. The rebellion was his focus. His secret, for now, would remain his burden alone.

Kael stood straight, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the tension that was within him. He exited the tent, stepping into the cool night air. Around him, the camp buzzed with calm activity—rebels who weren't sleeping were sharpening blades, tending wounds, and preparing for tomorrow's battle. They looked at him as he passed, some offering nods of respect, others murmuring quiet words of salute. He nodded back at them.

Kael had once been a part of the Arbiter forces—not a lowly enforcer or construct handler, but a high-ranking strategist. Years ago, he had walked the halls of the council chamber, rubbing shoulders with the Arbiters and crafting the defenses the rebels now fought to dismantle.

The map he carried was a relic from those days detailing hidden pathways and long-forgotten mana conduits that no one else in the rebellion knew about. But Kael had a darker reason for keeping it hidden. In his past, he had overseen operations that had cost lives—innocent lives. Whole villages had been razed under his strategies, and their people had sacrificed to maintain the Arbiters' grip on the city.

Kael's defection to the rebellion was genuine—his guilt had consumed him, driving him to turn against the system he had once upheld. But if the rebellion learned of his role in their suffering, if they discovered the blood on his hands, they wouldn't see him as a trusted ally. They would see him as a traitor.

…

The morning arrived with a soft gray light, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened rain. The rebel camp stirred to life, the groans of the injured mixing with the clang of metal as weapons were sharpened and armor repaired. The air was thick with tension but also with excitement. Today would not be easy, but they would fight nonetheless.

Kael was already awake, his armor polished and his blade strapped to his side. He stood at the edge of the camp, speaking with a group of scouts who had returned with reports of the barracks' activity overnight. His face was grim, but his orders were sharp and clear.

"Focus on the eastern approach," he said, pointing to a specific area on the map. "That's their weakest point. If we can break through there, the rest of their defenses will falter."

The scouts nodded and dispersed, their movements fast and silent.

In the center of the camp, Amara worked tirelessly in the makeshift medical tent. Rows of injured rebels lay on cots, their wounds ranging from shallow cuts to grievous gashes. Amara's hands glowed with a soft light as she moved from patient to patient. Her power wasn't merely healing—it was renewal. When she touched someone, it wasn't just their wounds that closed; their energy also returned.

A young rebel groaned as she approached, his leg bandaged but blood seeping through the cloth. Amara knelt beside him, her glowing hands hovering over the injury. The light spread like a soothing wave, and the bleeding instantly stopped. His ragged breathing steadied, and his eyes fluttered open.

"You're not going anywhere today," Amara said gently but in a commanding tone so the boy would know he should listen. "Stay off that leg until it's fully healed."

The young rebel nodded, gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Amara. I thought I'd—"

"You'll be fine," she interrupted, moving to the next cot. "Just follow orders and rest."

Her ability to heal without tiring was a gift, but it came with its own cost. Each touch carried a piece of her vitality, not physical exhaustion but emotional weight. She felt the pain of every wound, the fear of every rebel who thought they might not see another day, yet she carried it all with grace.

Lysara paced near the command tent, her sharp eyes scanning the camp. She yelled out orders to the supply teams, making sure that the demolition squads had enough charges and that every soldier heading into battle was armed and fed.

"Where are the reinforcements from the northern sector?" she asked a logistics officer.

"They should arrive within the hour," the officer replied.

"Good. Make sure they're ready to move as soon as they get here. We're hitting the barracks hard today, and I don't want any delays."

Lysara glanced at the map on the table beside her. Tracing a route with her finger, her thoughts raced.

Kael arrived at the medical tent, commanding attention when he entered. "Amara," he called out.

Amara looked up from where she was wrapping a young woman's arm. "What is it?"

"Is Lira ready?" Kael asked, glancing at the cots. "We'll need her at the conduit again."

"She's resting," Amara replied, tying the bandage with a practiced hand. "I've checked on her; she'll be ready when the time comes. But don't push her too hard. You saw what happened yesterday."