Chapter 5

POV: Lucan

The wind swept through the open courtyard, rustling the crimson banners that hung from the compound walls. Their gilded edges caught the fading light of the setting sun, a stark contrast to the shadows creeping over Newhaven. I stood on the highest balcony, gazing out at the city below. From here, the Human Quarters sprawled like a wound—a patchwork of rust, gray, and ash scarred by years of neglect. The glow of the sunset did nothing to soften its harshness.

The streets seemed calm from this distance, but the peace was a mirage. A storm was brewing in the factory district, and I could feel it in the air, tense and electric.

Behind me, Eldrin’s voice broke the silence. “It’s begun.”

I didn’t turn. “How large is the crowd?”

“Hard to say,” he replied, his tone measured, though a hint of unease slipped through. “The patrols estimate it’s growing by the minute. They’re carrying signs. Chanting.”

“Chanting what?” I asked, finally glancing over my shoulder.

Eldrin stepped closer, his silver hair catching the last light of day. “Freedom,” he said simply. “Equality. There’s talk of something else too—a phoenix.” He hesitated, then added, “The graffiti.”

The phoenix. The same symbol we’d seen etched across the city’s walls, cropping up like weeds no matter how many times the enforcers scrubbed it away. My chest tightened, the image of those intricate, defiant wings flashing in my mind. It wasn’t just a mark of rebellion anymore. It was an idea. A spark.

“They’re emboldened,” Eldrin continued, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “What do you want to do?”

I gripped the stone railing, the weight of the question pressing against my shoulders. The answer should have been simple. My father would have ordered the enforcers to crush the protest before it could spread. That was what the council would expect, what Vrax would demand.

But I couldn’t shake the memory of those chants—desperate, defiant, and heartbreakingly human. They weren’t just protesting. They were begging to be seen.

“Hold the enforcers back for now,” I said, the words heavy in my throat. “No violence unless absolutely necessary.”

Eldrin’s expression didn’t waver, but his silence spoke volumes. “You know what the council will think,” he said finally. “What Vrax will say.”

“Vrax thinks everything is weakness,” I muttered. “Let him.”

Eldrin studied me for a long moment before bowing slightly and leaving, his footsteps soft against the marble floor.

I turned back to the balcony, my gaze locked on the factory district. The crowd was growing, their movement like a tide surging through the narrow streets. Their voices rose, faint but persistent, carrying slogans that blurred together into a single roar of defiance.

“Freedom for all.”

“Burn the chains.”

“Rise, phoenix, rise.”

The words echoed in my mind, pulling me back to a memory I had tried to bury.

I was ten years old, trailing behind my father during one of his infamous “inspections” of the Human Quarters. The streets had reeked of rot and sweat, the alleys lined with gaunt, hollow-eyed figures who shrank away as we passed. My father’s enforcers marched beside us, their boots crunching against the broken cobblestones.

“This is what happens when you let weakness fester,” my father had said, his voice cold and imperious.

I had nodded, not because I understood, but because that was what he expected of me.

Ahead, a child stumbled—a girl no older than me. Her thin arms struggled to lift a bucket of water too heavy for her frame. She tripped, and the bucket fell, spilling its contents onto the dirt.

The enforcers moved instantly, descending on her with brutal efficiency. One struck her across the back with the butt of his rifle, sending her crumpling to the ground. Her cries filled the air, sharp and raw, and my stomach twisted in ways I didn’t yet have words for.

“She didn’t mean to,” I had whispered, my voice trembling.

My father stopped and turned, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone devoid of sympathy. “Weakness must be punished. It’s the only language they understand.”

“But she’s just a child,” I said.

“And so are you,” he replied, his voice like steel. “But one day, you’ll understand.”

I never did.

The shouts of the crowd below pulled me back to the present. From the corner of my eye, I saw an enforcer shift at the edge of the district. His hand drifted toward the baton at his side, his posture tense. My chest tightened.

Not tonight.

I descended from the balcony and made my way to the courtyard, where a cluster of enforcers waited. Their dark uniforms blended into the shadows, their faces obscured beneath silver helmets. The air between them crackled with anticipation.

One of them, a younger officer named Cale, stepped forward. “Orders, sir?”

“Hold your position,” I said. “No engagement unless the crowd becomes violent.”

Cale hesitated, his grip tightening on his baton. “With all due respect, Commander,” he said carefully, “if we wait too long, we could lose control.”

The subtle challenge in his tone wasn’t lost on me. My jaw tightened. “And if we strike too soon, we risk turning this into something we can’t contain.”

Cale inclined his head but didn’t look entirely convinced. The unease in the ranks was palpable, a reminder that dissent wasn’t confined to the Human Quarters.

“Stand down,” I repeated, my voice firm. “That’s an order.”

Cale stepped back, though the tension in his shoulders remained.

The protest had finally quieted, the crowd dispersing into the labyrinth of the Human Quarters. For now, the storm had passed.

But as I stared out over the city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had only been the beginning. The phoenix they chanted about wasn’t just a symbol anymore—it was a promise. And I wasn’t sure if I could stop it—or if I even wanted to.