The room was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of herbs. Rondan opened his eyes slowly, a dull pain throbbing in his side. His vision cleared enough to see the faint silhouette of the young woman from last night—Nora—sitting beside the bed, carefully grinding herbs in a wooden bowl.
"...Where am I?" Rondan's voice was hoarse.
She looked up, startled for a moment, then softened.
> "Safe," she said. "You're in my home. I treated your wounds. But you need rest… or you won't last long."
Rondan slowly sat up, wincing at the pain. The events of last night rushed back to him—the masked enforcers, the fight, the blood. He clenched his fists.
> "I can't stay here," he muttered. "They'll be looking for me. If they find me—"
> "If you go now, you'll die," Nora interrupted sharply, her crimson-brown eyes flashing with determination. "Do you think you're the only one they're after? This city is crawling with their spies. You'll lead them right to me… and everyone else."
Rondan hesitated. There was strength in her voice, the kind born from living under fear for too long.
> "Who are you, really?" he asked.
She smiled faintly.
> "Just a medic… but I've seen enough to know that we can't live like this anymore. The regime is bleeding this city dry."
Nora set the herbs aside and leaned closer.
> "You fight like no one I've ever seen. If we want to change things, we need someone like you. Someone who isn't afraid."
---
Later that night…
Rondan sat by the small window, watching the flickering lights of the city beyond. He thought of his family, of the people in the streets starving while the government's soldiers lived in luxury. His fists clenched tighter.
> "I can't keep running," he thought. "I need to strike back… and not alone this time."
Nora entered the room quietly, holding a map. She unfolded it on the table; it was marked with symbols—hidden meeting points, supply caches, and patrol routes.
> "There's a network of people like me," she explained. "We call ourselves the Ember Circle. We're small… but growing. And we need someone to lead the fight, Rondan. Will you help us?"
He stared at the map, then at Nora. She was risking everything by trusting him. He remembered the fire in her eyes, the same fire that burned within him.
> "Yes," Rondan said finally, his voice firm. "If we move together… we'll light a fire they can't put out."
---
The training began.
Within days, Nora's safehouse became a haven for the young and desperate who were ready to rise against the regime. Rondan trained them relentlessly, his movements blending martial arts with the fluid grace of dance. He taught them how to fight, how to disappear, how to survive.
Every strike, every spin, every leap was not just a technique but a symbol—a promise that they could stand against the darkness.
And for the first time, Rondan felt he was not alone.
---
But in the depths of the city, the regime was already watching.
A masked commander knelt before a shadowy figure in a grand office filled with the glow of monitors.
> "The fugitive… Rondan," the commander said. "We believe he is building a resistance. Orders, sir?"
The figure leaned forward, his face hidden in the light.
> "Let him gather his followers," he said coldly. "When the time is right… we'll burn them all together."