Chapter 16: The Rebel Meeting, Chaos & The Aftermath

Braxton led Nyra deeper into the heart of Halthor, toward the older part of the city where the buildings leaned closer together, their facades crumbling with age. They reached a small, unassuming tavern tucked between two larger buildings, its sign faded and unreadable.

"Here?" Nyra asked, frowning.

Braxton nodded, his expression unreadable. "Come on."

Inside, the tavern was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale ale and smoke. There were a few patrons scattered around, but none of them looked up as Braxton and Nyra entered. Braxton led her to a back room, knocking twice before opening the door.

Nyra's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she saw a group of people gathered around a table. They looked up as Braxton entered, their expressions wary.

"This is Nyra," Braxton said simply, gesturing for her to follow him inside. "She's someone you'll want to know."

Nyra's heart pounded as she stepped into the room. She could feel their eyes on her, judging her, sizing her up. She met their gazes, refusing to flinch.

One of the women at the table stood, her sharp eyes glinting in the low light. She was tall and elegant, with dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. Her clothes were simple but well-made, and she moved with a grace that marked her as someone used to command.

"I'm Lyra," the woman said, her voice smooth but commanding. "And I don't like strangers."

Nyra lifted her chin. "I'm not a stranger. I'm a fighter."

Lyra raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "A fighter, huh? We'll see about that."

Next to Lyra, a large man with broad shoulders and a rough beard chuckled. "She's got spirit, I'll give her that. I'm Myk. Don't mind Lyra, she's just picky about who she trusts."

Nyra nodded, her pulse racing. She could sense the tension in the room, the urgency in their voices. These were people who wanted to fight, but they were also cautious—perhaps too cautious.

"What are you all doing here?" Nyra asked, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

Lyra crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. "We're trying to figure out how to fight back. The Empire's grip is tightening, and people are getting desperate. But we're not ready for a full-blown rebellion. Not yet."

"We're ready!" Myk interjected, his voice rough but passionate. "People are pissed. We've got fighters, we've got numbers. We need to strike before they crush us."

Lyra shook her head, her expression hardening. "Rushing into a fight without a plan will get us all killed. We need strategy. We need leadership."

Myk grumbled but didn't argue. The tension in the room thickened, the frustration palpable.

Nyra listened, her heart racing. This was what Braxton had meant. They were divided—some wanted action, some wanted caution, but none of them knew how to lead.

"Maybe you don't need one leader," Nyra said, her voice cutting through the tension. "Maybe you need fighters who know when to follow and when to fight."

Lyra's eyes flicked to Nyra, her expression unreadable. "And are you one of those fighters?"

Nyra met her gaze without flinching. "I'm learning."

Before Lyra could respond, the door to the room burst open, and a young man rushed in, his face flushed with panic. "It's happening!" he gasped. "Some of the rebels—they're attacking the Imperial supply convoy. Right now!"

Lyra's eyes widened in shock. "What? Who authorized that?"

"No one!" the young man stammered. "They're acting on their own. But if the convoy falls, it'll send a message to the Empire."

Myk was already on his feet, his eyes blazing with excitement. "Let's go, then. We can back them up, make sure they don't get slaughtered."

Lyra hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "This wasn't part of the plan…"

"There is no plan," Myk growled. "We've been sitting on our hands for too long. It's time to act."

Nyra's pulse quickened. This was it—her chance to prove herself, her chance to fight for something bigger. But Braxton's warning echoed in her mind: If you're going to fight, make sure it's for something worth dying for.

She wasn't sure if this was worth dying for yet, but she wasn't about to back down.

"I'm going," Nyra said, her voice steady. "I'll fight."

Lyra's eyes flickered with something—approval, perhaps, or caution. "Then let's move."

_____________________________________________

The raid was chaos from the moment they arrived. The rebels who had initiated the attack were woefully unprepared for the trained Imperial soldiers guarding the convoy. Swords clashed, arrows flew, and the screams of the dying filled the air.

Nyra's heart pounded in her chest as she drew her sword and charged into the fray. This wasn't like training with Braxton. This was raw, violent, unpredictable. She dodged a blow from an Imperial soldier, her sword flashing as she struck back, her movements instinctive and desperate.

But the battle quickly spiraled out of control. The rebels were outnumbered, and the soldiers were better equipped. Nyra fought fiercely, but she could see the tide turning against them.

And then, through the smoke and chaos, she saw someone, someone that could only be him.

Captain Idris.

The man was a storm of violence, his sword cutting through rebels with brutal efficiency. His face was cold, emotionless, as he dispatched one fighter after another. Nyra's breath caught in her throat. This was no ordinary soldier—this was a man who had seen battle, who had lived through it and mastered it.

For a moment, their eyes met across the battlefield, and Nyra felt a chill run down her spine. Idris's gaze was sharp, assessing. He saw her—saw the sword in her hand, the fire in her eyes.

And then he was moving toward her.

Nyra's heart raced as she raised her sword, bracing herself for the fight of her life. Idris's strikes were fast, precise, each one testing her defenses. She blocked, parried, dodged—but she was on the defensive, barely keeping up with the speed of his attacks.

His sword slashed at her side, and she felt the sharp sting of pain as the blade cut through her tunic, drawing blood. She gasped, stumbling back, but she refused to fall. She swung her sword in a desperate arc, but Idris deflected the blow easily.

For a moment, Nyra thought it was over.

But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Myk charging toward Idris, his massive form barreling through the chaos. Myk's wild attack forced Idris to turn, and Nyra used the distraction to retreat, her side burning with pain.

The battle was lost. She could see it now. The rebels were falling, one by one, and Idris's soldiers were closing in.

"Retreat!" Lyra's voice rang out over the chaos. "Fall back!"

Nyra didn't need to be told twice. She turned and fled, her breath ragged, her body trembling with exhaustion. The fight wasn't over—but this battle was lost.

***

Back at the tavern, the rebels regrouped, their numbers significantly reduced. The raid had been a disaster, and the tension in the room was thick with anger and frustration.

"We need leadership," Lyra said, her voice sharp. "We can't keep charging into fights without a plan."

Myk grumbled but didn't argue. His excitement from earlier had faded, replaced by a grim understanding of how close they had come to total defeat.

Nyra sat quietly, her side aching from the wound Idris had inflicted. She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the sharpness of his strikes. He was a force to be reckoned with—one they weren't ready to face.

Braxton's words echoed in her mind: If you're going to fight, make sure it's for something worth dying for.

Nyra wasn't sure if the rebellion was ready for that yet. But she was starting to understand that it could be.

They needed leadership. They needed strategy. They needed someone to unite them.

And maybe, just maybe, that someone could be her.