Location: Freehold Estate Slave Pits & Hidden Passages, Arvia Province
Time: Spring equinox, Year 2851 of the Lower Realm
Nine years old, and Jade had learned to read darkness like other kids read picture books. Every shadow meant something—guard rotations, prisoner movements, tiny signs that marked safe passage through the underground maze honeycombing beneath the Freehold estate.
Four years. Four—what was that word the voice sometimes used?—kriffing years in these pits had carved survival into her bones. She'd grown lean and wiry, all sinew and scars, moving with careful precision 'cause wasted motion meant pain. Always pain. The latest scars were still pink and puckered—souvenirs from last month's encounter with Saphira's new favorite spell. Fire Claw transmutation that left burning gouges in whatever it touched.
(Bitch.)
But tonight wasn't about avoiding family cruelty. Tonight was about the Network.
"Three knocks, pause, two knocks," Zhek whispered from the adjacent cell, voice barely audible above the constant drip-drip-drip of moisture from stone walls. "Remember the pattern, little one. Wrong signal gets you a knife between the ribs."
Jade nodded in the darkness, though he couldn't see her. The signal was burned into memory alongside a dozen others—codes and countersigns that marked the difference between ally and enemy in the slave underground that existed beneath the estate's official hierarchy.
Six months. That's how long the Network had been part of her world. Or maybe she'd been part of theirs.
Hard to say which when survival meant learning to see connections others missed. Patterns others ignored.
Smart, that inner voice'd said when old Henrik first approached her in the laundry caverns. But careful. Underground resistance movements are dangerous. Lots of ways to get betrayed.
The voice had grown stronger over the years. Offering advice that felt... experienced. Like it belonged to someone who'd navigated similar dangers before. But Jade was nine years old—what could she possibly know about resistance movements?
(Everything, apparently. Which was—that Federation curse word again—kriffed up beyond belief.)
Still, the advice proved sound. Henrik was trustworthy—an old soldier who'd been captured during some long-ago border conflict, sentenced to slavery for refusing to betray his unit. But Mira? Kitchen slave who always smiled too widely? She reported to the guards for extra food rations.
Jade had learned to tell the difference.
"Time," Zhek breathed.
The guard change happened at midnight like clockwork. Night shift guards were predictable—two rounds per hour, stopping at the Overseer's station for cheap wine and cheaper conversation. That left exactly seventeen minutes of minimal supervision.
If you knew where to go. How to move.
Jade pressed herself against the back wall of her cell, fingers finding the loose stone she'd been working on for months. Patient, careful work—using a bent nail to scrape mortar away grain by grain. Never enough damage to be noticed. Never fast enough to raise suspicion.
(Gods. I'm nine years old and I'm planning escape routes. This is so wrong.)
The stone shifted, revealing a gap just wide enough for a malnourished nine-year-old to squeeze through. Beyond lay a maintenance tunnel that predated the slave pits. Part of the estate's original foundation work.
The Network used these forgotten spaces like arteries in a hidden body. Moving information and supplies through the estate's bones. Tonight, Jade was carrying both.
She slipped through the gap with practiced silence. Bare feet finding purchase on ancient stone. The tunnel was cramped and airless—forced her to crawl on hands and knees through passages that reeked of mold and rat droppings.
Good fieldcraft, the voice observed with something like approval. Stay low, move quiet, check your corners.
Fieldcraft. Another word that felt borrowed. Like knowledge from someone else's life bleeding through into her thoughts. But there wasn't time to puzzle over it now.
The tunnel opened into a natural cavern deep beneath the estate's foundation—a space that didn't appear on any architect's plans. Hidden from the world above by tons of rock and generations of careful secrecy. Oil lamps flickered against rough walls, casting dancing shadows that made the dozen figures gathered there look like conspirators from a children's story.
Which, Jade supposed, they were.
"Little Ghost," Henrik greeted her with genuine warmth. The old soldier'd given her the nickname after she'd appeared in his cell one night without triggering any alarms—slipping through the Network's hidden passages like smoke through stone.
"Uncle Henrik," she replied, using the title that marked him as trustworthy in the Network's careful hierarchy. Not blood family—that'd failed them all—but chosen family. Forged in shared darkness.
The cavern held the core of the Freehold slave underground. Fifteen souls who'd refused to let the pits break them completely. Farmers and soldiers, crafters and merchants. All reduced to property but still clinging to stubborn humanity.
"What's the word from above?" asked Tomas, a scarred blacksmith whose hands shook from years of beatings but still remembered their craft. The Network needed intelligence about guard schedules, family movements. Anything that might create opportunities for their quiet rebellion.
Jade settled cross-legged on the cavern floor. Nine years old but treated as an equal by people three times her age. Survival had a way of aging children quickly in places like this.
(Understatement of the century.)
"Saphira's been practicing new combat spells," she reported. "Fire Claw transmutation, but she's having trouble with the stability matrix. Kept failing during training yesterday."
Valuable intelligence. Knowing the family's magical capabilities helped the Network predict threats. Plan accordingly.
"Edvard's been assigned to the eastern patrol rotation," she continued. "Twice weekly inspections of the outer work details. Always brings two guards. Always the same route through the quarry."
Henrik nodded grimly. The quarry work details were death sentences—backbreaking labor in unsafe conditions. Designed to work slaves to death as efficiently as possible. But knowing Edvard's schedule meant knowing when the quarry would have minimal supervision.
"And Za'thul?" This from Meren, a former merchant whose crime had been selling grain to refugees during a clan-imposed famine. "Any changes to his routine?"
Jade shook her head. "Same pattern. Morning audiences in the great hall, afternoon meetings with clan elders, evening inspections of estate security. But..." She hesitated. Uncertain how to voice what she'd observed.
"But?" Henrik prompted gently.
"He's been receiving visitors. People I don't recognize. They arrive after dark, leave before dawn. No clan markings. No obvious affiliation."
Foreign intelligence officers, the voice in her head identified immediately. Probably military advisors or political operatives. Could be planning something big.
The assessment felt disturbingly accurate. Though Jade had no idea how she could recognize intelligence operatives on sight. She was nine years old. What did she know about political conspiracies?
(Apparently more than I should. Kriff my life—another strange word from the voice.)
"Interesting," Henrik mused. "Could be clan business. Could be something larger. We'll need to—"
A sound echoed through the cavern. Three knocks, pause, two knocks. But the right rhythm. Wrong timing.
Everyone froze.
The signal meant an ally approaching, but it was being given thirty minutes early. Either someone'd made a mistake, or...
Trap, the voice said with cold certainty. Someone's compromised the Network. Get out. Now.
Jade was already moving before conscious thought caught up. Muscle memory taking over as she rolled toward the tunnel entrance. But heavy footsteps were echoing from above. Too many voices for a simple guard patrol.
"Scatter," Henrik hissed, but it was too late.
Too damn late.
The first guard dropped through the cavern's main entrance like death from above—armored, armed, moving with the deadly precision of someone who'd done this before. Behind him came others. Filling the space with steel and harsh lamplight.
"Well, well," a familiar voice called from the tunnel mouth. Guard Captain Thorne lowered himself into the cavern with theatrical care. Scarred face split by a predator's grin. "Look what crawled out of the woodwork."
Betrayal. Someone in the Network had sold them out for extra rations. Reduced beatings. Simple survival. It happened more often than anyone wanted to admit.
(It always happens. Someone always breaks.)
Combat assessment, the voice snapped. Fifteen guards, full armor, weapons drawn. Narrow escape routes, limited cover. Casualties are inevitable.
The analysis was cold. Professional. Completely accurate. This wasn't a raid—it was an execution.
"Nobody move," Thorne commanded, hand resting on his sword hilt. "You're all gonna walk out of here nice and quiet. We're gonna have a conversation about unauthorized gatherings."
Jade pressed herself against the cavern wall. Trying to become invisible in the dancing shadows. Nine years old and already calculating escape routes. Already thinking like a soldier in a war zone.
But there was nowhere to run. The guards'd positioned themselves to cover all exits. The tunnel she'd used to enter was blocked by armed bodies.
Wait for an opening, the voice advised. There's always an opening if you're patient enough to find it.
But patience was a luxury they didn't have. One by one, the Network members were being dragged from their hiding places—beaten, shackled, prepared for whatever punishment awaited slaves who dared organize against their masters.
Henrik caught her eye across the cavern. Weathered face grim but determined. The old soldier was calculating odds. Weighing options. Preparing for a final play.
"Run, Little Ghost," he mouthed silently. "Remember what we taught you."
Then he moved.
The old soldier might've been broken by years of captivity, but muscle memory died hard. His attack on the nearest guard was swift. Brutal. Completely suicidal—designed not to win, but to create chaos.
Chaos was an opportunity.
Jade didn't think, didn't plan. Just moved as the cavern erupted into violence. Bodies collided, steel rang against stone, and men shouted orders that were lost in the confusion of close combat.
She slipped between fighting figures like smoke. Nine years old and already thinking three moves ahead. The tunnel mouth was blocked, but there were other ways out if you were small enough. Desperate enough to use them.
The drainage channel carrying runoff from the upper levels was barely two feet wide. Cut into the cavern's eastern wall, covered by a rusted grate. Too small for an adult.
But Jade wasn't an adult.
She hit the grate with both hands. Rusty metal shrieking as it gave way. Behind her, the fight was ending badly—Henrik down, blood pooling beneath his still form. Other Network members surrendering. Dying.
"There!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Some brat! Don't let him—"
But Jade was already gone. Squirming through the drainage channel like a serpent fleeing a hawk. The passage was flooded with ankle-deep water that reeked of sewage and decay, but it carried her away from the killing ground toward uncertain freedom.
Behind her, sounds of violence faded into the distance. Echoing stone. Henrik was dead. The others were captured. The Network that'd given her purpose and belonging had been shattered in a single night.
She was alone again.
Always alone.
No, the voice said firmly. You're not alone. I'm still here. And you learned something tonight.
"What?" she whispered to the darkness. Water soaking through her ragged clothes as she crawled through the estate's hidden arteries.
You learned how to survive when everything falls apart. You learned that trust is dangerous but necessary. You learned that someone will always betray the group for personal advantage.
The voice paused. When it continued, there was something like pride in its tone.
Most importantly, you learned that even when the organization dies, the mission continues. Henrik and the others didn't die for nothing if you carry forward what they taught you.
Mission. Another word that felt borrowed. Like knowledge from someone else's life. But it resonated in ways Jade couldn't explain.
(Or maybe I can. Maybe that's the problem.)
The drainage tunnel opened into a collection pool near the estate's outer wall—a forgotten maintenance area that predated current security arrangements. Jade pulled herself from the water, shivering in the night air. Trying to process what'd happened.
The Network was gone. Henrik was dead. But his lessons lived on in her memory. Along with the skills he'd taught her. The contacts he'd introduced her to.
Now what? she asked the voice in her head.
Now we go back, it replied. We return to our cell, act shocked when they tell us about the raid, and start building a new network. Smaller this time. More careful. Better security.
The plan was solid. Professional. Utterly ruthless in its calculation. It was also exactly what Henrik would've advised in her position.
(Which is terrifying when you think about it.)
Jade made her way back through the estate's hidden passages. Retracing a route she'd memorized months ago. By the time she slipped back into cell forty-seven, it was as if she'd never left.
When the guards came at dawn to announce the "terrorist raid" and the "heroic action" that'd stopped it, Jade showed exactly the right amount of shock and fear. When they asked if she'd heard anything suspicious, she shook her head with wide-eyed innocence.
But inside, she was already planning.
Henrik'd taught her well. The Network was dead, but the mission remained. Someone had to carry forward the work of resistance. Of maintaining human dignity in a place designed to destroy it.
Someone small enough to slip through cracks. Someone invisible enough to move undetected. Someone who understood that survival and rebellion were sometimes the same thing.
At nine years old, Jade'd found her calling.
The pits had tried to break her. Instead, they'd forged her into something harder.
Something that would never stop fighting.
Good, the voice said with satisfaction. Now we begin again. Better this time. Smarter.
In her dreams that night, she saw vast ships sailing between stars and a woman with emerald eyes who never surrendered. No matter how many times her organizations were betrayed or destroyed.
She still wouldn't remember the dreams when she woke. But they'd leave their mark.
They always did.
The Network was dead.
Long live the Network.