The plan was simple.
Break into the eastern warehouse. Steal a shipment of rationed food and medicine. Distribute it through the slums before sunrise. Make it look like the wind carried it in.
But simple never meant easy.
The rebels crept through the sleeping bones of Wyrmsreach like ghosts with unfinished business. The city held its breath, the slums pressing close with silent eyes, the alleys thick with watching dark. Three teams climbers, distractors, and haulers moved like clockwork gears greased with sweat and desperation.
High above, crouched on a cracked chimney, Riven squinted down at the warehouse compound below. Rusted walls. Spiked gates. Two guards swatting at mosquitoes and one trying to light a cigar in the wind. The flicker of his match was the only fire daring to burn.
Riven's wings were folded tight against his back, their ash-black feathers hidden beneath the shadows. Shirtless and scarred, he looked less like a boy and more like a blade that had learned how to breathe.
Beside him, Slade adjusted the sight on his crossbow, expression tight beneath his soot streaked beard.
"You sure you can't just torch the gate and call it a night?" Sera whispered, perched to Riven's left, her red scarf fluttering in the breeze like a banner of defiance.
"I could," Riven muttered, eyes fixed on the patrols. "But then the whole district lights up, and we all end up with a sword through the chest or worse..."
"A visit from Graves," Slade finished grimly.
Sera rolled her eyes. "Hmph. Thought gods didn't fear Marines."
"I don't fear her," Riven said, voice low. "I just don't like being hunted... By the way, whats with crossbow slade? You huntin vampires?"
Slade grunted. "Mmh, bolts laced with poison.... Anyway Keep your heads. We're ghosts tonight."
On the ground, Jorrin tapped a coded rhythm against the wall, three short, one long. Moments later, the sewer grate beneath the compound hissed open. Out crawled Nico, the courier boy, barefoot and wrapped in stitched rags, a sack of smoke pellets strapped to his back like stolen treasure.
The guards didn't notice him. They didn't notice anything.
"Idiots," Slade muttered. "Used to be patrols rotated. Now they drink on duty."
"Means they're fat," Riven said. "Means they burn easy."
Slade shot him a look, sharp, fatherly, tired. "No killing. Not yet."
Riven didn't answer. He just touched the hilt of his cutlass Emberfang. Once Slade's blade, 'Fang' now reforged in Lunarian fire, making it 'Emberfang', it hummed faintly with coiled heat. Riven's reflection flickered in its curved steel like flame on water.
Slade gave the signal.
Below, Nico darted forward, popped a pellet into the supply window's grate. A bloom of thick smoke curled outward, stinging and acrid. The guards coughed and staggered back, blinded.
Sera dropped like a stone from above and landed fists first.
CRACK.
The first guard went down, scarf fluttering triumphantly. Jorrin charged from the alley, wrapped a steel cable around the second's legs, and slammed him to the ground.
The third tried to draw his weapon,
and Riven was there. Just behind him. A whisper of feathers and heat.
"Nighty night."
One glowing fist to the jaw. The guard dropped like a sack of potatoes. Riven dragged him behind a cart.
Slade moved to the gate, slipped a bent nail into the rusted lock, and twisted. Two clicks, and the chain slithered free like a snake.
The rebels moved fast.
Inside, crates were stacked like towers of injustice. Stamped with the Marine crest. "For Official Use." Which meant rich folk. Manor folk. Not the starving kids in gutter alleys.
"Thirty seconds," Slade snapped. "You know what to do!"
Myra, stooped, grey, tougher than iron, shuffled forward with rope sacks. Jorrin heaved two crates into a wheelbarrow. Sera began cracking lids and sorting meds by label. Even Nico zipped from box to box, identifying stolen syringes and sealing ration bags with twine.
Riven didn't load.
He stood in the doorway. Watching.
Footsteps. Not clumsy like the guards. Heavy. Trained.
He saw them first three Marines, sidearms ready, strolling toward the warehouse like they owned the world.
He stepped into the open, wings tight, shirtless chest gleaming with soot and moonlight. He looked like an angel from a nightmare.
One Marine halted. "Hey! Kid! What're you doing here?"
Riven smiled. "Me? Practicing."
"Practicing what?"
Riven flexed his shoulders.
"Being the sun."
Flames erupted beneath him white hot, controlled, brief. He launched into the air in a streak of fire, wings flaring wide as the Marines staggered, blinded.
He landed behind them with a wink. "Tell your boss the slums got brighter."
CRICK!
Inside, Slade barked, "Move! We're done!"
Like clockwork, the rebels disappeared, crates hauled down back alleys, hidden in carts and barrels. Trapdoors opened. Rooftops whispered. And not a single soul cried out.
By dawn, twelve slums had food. Water. Medicine. Wrapped in cloth and barrels, with a crude, burnt symbol marked across them all.
A jagged sunburst with a hand print at its center.
-------------------------------------------------------
The next morning was quiet in the morning. The false walls were closed, the forge banked low.
Slade set down a steaming cup on the rooftop beside Riven, who was already up there, wings out, shirt off, face tilted toward the sun like he was daring it to rise brighter than him.
"You didn't burn anyone," Slade said, sipping his tea.
"Don't remind me."
"I'm serious. You did good."
Riven turned. His smirk was all edge. "Still think I should've barbecued that cigar smoking bastard."
Slade grunted. "Restraint's not weakness. It's timing."
Riven's face darkened. "We won't get many chances. Vortan's gonna tighten the noose. They'll come for us."
Slade looked into his cup like it held secrets. "Let them."
-----------------------------------------
Later that night, Lieutenant Marella Graves stood amid broken crates and spilled fruit, one boot crushing a soft tomato.
She held up a silver coin, sun stamped. Crude. Mocking.
"Amateurs," she spat. "Think symbols win wars."
A Marine jogged up, saluted. "Ma'am. West checkpoint's been hit. No deaths. Rifles stolen."
"Another raid?"
"Yes, ma'am. Left… this."
He handed her a parchment.
She opened it. It was a drawing.
A stick figure with wings.
Flipping the bird.
Marella's eye twitched.
"Tell Vortan. I want that forge shut down. Torch the smithy. Scorch it to the foundations."
---------------------------------
Back at the forge. They were laughing.
Sera leaned against a barrel, red scarf loose, mid joke. "I'm telling you, he wears wigs made from sewer rats. That's why they twitch."
Nico wheezed with laughter, nearly choking on his stew. Myra rolled her eyes and muttered something about manners.
Jorrin cleaned a stolen rifle like it was a violin.
Slade leaned against the doorframe, watching them.
A bunch of misfits. A baker's daughter. A dock brute. A boy courier. A forgotten smith. A Lunarian boy with wings of fire.
And somehow, they'd lit a match.
Slade turned serious.
"Listen up."
Silence fell.
"They're coming. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. You stay, you fight. You go, you stay gone. No shame either way."
Sera stood. "If I'm dying, I'm dying on my feet."
Jorrin shrugged. "Better than the docks."
Myra cracked her knuckles. "They took my sons. I owe them."
Slade looked to Riven.
The boy stood, flames curling along his shoulders, Emberfang slung across his back.
"They call us rats. Vermin," Riven said. "But vermin survive. Vermin chew through walls. Vermin spread."
He raised a burning hand.
"They took our food. Our homes. Our people. Let's take their fear. Let's take their silence. Let's take their peace."
Flame exploded from his palm, brief, hot, brilliant.
"We're not just a spark anymore."
Slade smiled.
"We're the firestorm of freedom."
And in the manor above, Lord Silas Vortan stirred from a dream of empire, his wine glass trembling.
The reports were piling.
Burned sigils.
Missing weapons.
Marines humiliated.
And always one name, spoken with disbelief, awe, and growing fear.
The Boy With Wings.