The city of Vareth was built on lies.
For centuries, its cobbled streets, towering spires, and golden domes had stood as symbols of prosperity. But beneath the grandeur, a silent war had always simmered—a war of control, of deception, of magic unseen by those who lived under its rule.
Until now.
Tonight, the city would awaken.
The Gathering of the Forgotten
Lior crouched atop the crumbling rooftop, the worn shingles creaking beneath his weight. Below him, the marketplace stretched wide, normally a hub of weary merchants and wary citizens. But tonight, it had become something else—a gathering ground.
Hundreds of people crowded between stone archways, their faces shadowed by flickering torches. The scent of burning oil mixed with the dampness of the coming storm, and whispers filled the air, murmurs of fear and anger weaving together into something dangerously close to rebellion.
Sera crouched beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd. “They’re here,” she murmured. “But they’re waiting for a sign.”
Lior exhaled slowly. “They’ll get one.”
In the heart of the crowd, standing atop an overturned fruit cart, Joren raised his hands. His grizzled face was lined with age, his robes tattered from years of hardship. Yet his voice carried like a hammer against stone.
“The Veiled King has deceived us for too long!”
A hush fell over the people.
Joren’s hands trembled as he continued. “You have seen the illusions—grand castles that shine only in daylight, food that rots as soon as the sun sets, guards who vanish the moment you call for aid. Everything you believe in is a trick!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A few gasps. A few nods. A few hands tightening into fists.
Lior felt his pulse quicken. They were listening.
Then—a voice rang out, sharp as steel.
“LIES!”
The crowd parted as a hooded figure stepped forward. His stance was rigid, his voice shaking—but not with fear. With conviction.
“The king’s magic keeps us safe,” the man continued. “He has protected us from war, from famine, from the horrors that lurk beyond the mountains. If we rebel, we doom ourselves!”
The tension in the air crackled.
Lior’s fists clenched. This was the king’s poison.
Fear. It had chained these people for generations.
He leaped from the rooftop, landing heavily in the circle of torchlight. Gasps filled the night as faces turned toward him, eyes wide with recognition.
The traitor. The wanted man. The one who had defied the illusion.
Lior pulled back his hood, letting the light reveal his face. “The king keeps us safe?” His voice cut through the stillness. “Then why do we starve while his nobles feast? Why do we toil in darkness while his palace glows with light that never fades?”
The hooded man hesitated.
Lior stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Have you ever wondered why no one who questions the king is ever seen again?”
The man swallowed hard.
The people were watching. Waiting.
Lior lifted his hands—and with a flick of his fingers, he unraveled a spell.
A ripple tore through the air. The torches flickered. And suddenly, the golden glow of the distant palace… dimmed.
Gasps rang out. The illusion was breaking.
Joren seized the moment. “The Veil is not protection,” he cried. “It is a cage. And tonight, we BREAK IT!”
A roar erupted.
The rebellion had begun.
The Battle for the Market Square
A sharp horn blast cut through the chaos.
From the alleyways, figures clad in black armor surged forward.
The king’s enforcers.
Their faces were obscured by metal masks, their capes shimmering with enchantment. They moved in eerie unison, their presence alone enough to freeze the crowd in terror.
But Lior did not freeze.
He drew his sword.
The enforcers charged.
The first enemy came fast, blade glinting under torchlight. Lior sidestepped, twisting just in time to dodge the swing. He felt the air shift—illusion magic.
The enforcer vanished before his eyes.
Lior’s instincts screamed—he ducked.
A blade sliced through the air where his head had been moments ago.
Rolling away, he lashed out with his sword, cutting through the illusion.
Blood splattered onto the cobblestones. The enforcer fell, his mask clattering to the ground.
Sera was a blur beside him, her twin daggers dancing through gaps in armor. **One strike, two, three—**and another enforcer crumpled.
Joren, standing behind them, raised his hands.
Ancient words left his lips, and a wall of blue fire erupted, cutting off the reinforcements.
The rebels fought back.
A blacksmith swung a hammer into an enforcer’s skull, the sickening crunch lost in the cries of battle.
A seamstress drove a dagger into an enemy’s ribs, her hands shaking but her resolve unbroken.
Blood stained the stones. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, steel, and death.
For the first time in decades, the people of Vareth were fighting back.
But it wasn’t enough.
Lior turned—just in time to see the next wave of enforcers approaching. Too many.
“We need to retreat!” he shouted.
Sera’s dagger buried itself in an enforcer’s throat as she spun toward him. “Where?”
Lior’s mind raced. The tunnels.
“Follow me!”
A Secret in the Shadows
They ran.
The rebels poured into the underground tunnels, breathless and bleeding. The enforcers followed, but as Joren raised his hand, the stone walls trembled.
With one last spell, the entrance collapsed behind them.
For now… they were safe.
Lior turned, panting, and found Joren staring at something.
An ancient wall. Covered in runes.
And at its center…
A symbol Lior had seen before.
A prophecy.
A truth hidden beneath the city, waiting to be revealed.
He pressed his hand against the rune.
A pulse of power surged through him.
And the stone began to shift.
A door.
Beyond it… the next piece of the puzzle.
The rebellion was far from over.
It had only just begun.
To Be Continued…
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