The tower fell at dawn.
Not with a scream,
but with a silence that swallowed the whole sky.

Julin led the charge.
His coat torn. His arm bloodied.
But his voice rose like a flag.

“We are not broken!”
“We are the fire they couldn’t put out!”

Gunpowder choked the stairwells.
Smoke blurred the banners.
Rebels surged through stone and bullet.

At the top —
Ziya found the royal crest, splintered.
She took the flag hidden beneath it: red, gold, and torn.

And raised it.

High.

Above the ruins.
Above the blood.
Above the crown they had buried.

Julin reached her.
He smiled —
then staggered.

A shot had pierced his side.

Ziya caught him before he fell.

He looked up at her, a smirk through pain.

“Guess I don’t get to see the new world,” he whispered.

“You are the new world,” she replied.

She held his hand until the breath left it.
Then she stood — eyes dry, spine straight.

The city below was waking.

This was not a victory.
This was survival.