By morning, the sky over Sector Nine had cleared, but the smoke still lingered near the ground. Pale plumes drifted from gutted rooftops, clinging low to the streets like ghosts reluctant to leave.

The plaza was quieter now, the chaos of the uprising had faded into something more mundane. Shouts came from the far alleys as rebel engineers patched into the underground water lines. Cables trailed like veins from the Spire’s half-split base to makeshift power hubs the team had assembled from cannibalized parts.

Toric stretched out worn limbs and planted his feet near the barricade his team had rebuilt overnight. His coat was streaked with soot. The newly raised Bloodsparrow flag hung above the main archway, billowing in the weak wind.

Kael came down the monumental steps at the base of the spire, tablet in hand, sleeves rolled tightly around her elbows. “We’ve got twelve ration centers up and running now,” she said. “The food’s limited, but we’re trading with some of the outer fringe sectors. People are bringing what they can.”

“What about the water?”

“The pumps are holding. A few old utility guys from Nine are helping us keep them running. One of them said he used to look after the underground lines. We got teams getting those up and running again too.” She held the tablet out to him.

Toric gave it a glance, then nodded. “Get them cleared. And find housing too — no one’s gonna keep working if they’re sleeping in rubble.”

“We’re already on it.” Her voice softened. “People are showing up with tools to help with repairs. Volunteers.” 

He exhaled through his nose and gave another tight nod. He rubbed at the stiffness in his neck.  “We need to get the clinic running. Prioritize civilians. Anyone still bleeding should be under a roof by sundown.”

Kael crossed a fist over her chest in salute and then ducked out, leaving Toric overlooking the Spire.

Today there were no curfew alarms. Just swift hands put to work, with pale light cutting through a smoke-streaked sky settling on rooftops where the rebel patrols were now standing guard. Rifles slung low, eyes peeled on the horizon. The plaza, which had once been jammed with the bodies of the desperate, had thinned to something else. People trying to rebuild. Every able body was hauling crates, and hammering what could be patched. For the first time in years, there were no Unified uniforms on the streets pressing people into strict protocols.

And yet, Toric still didn’t feel quite triumphant. He moved through the square, taking in the repairs, trading brief nods with his recruits, making his way back to the steps leading into the Spire. He took them, two at a time.

The air in the Spire held an undertone of hot metal from the welding teams. His boots echoed against the polished stone, past doorways where runners rushed by, arms full of supplies, and medics congregated around stretchers in the hallway. The narrow windows cast the slats of late light against the wall, over his shoulder with every turn of the steps.

The noise below had thinned to a distant clatter. In the former Castellan’s office, he pushed through the balcony doors into open air, the wind cutting sharp against his face. From here, the city stretched wide beneath him, the square alive with motion.

Their work was fast.. These were people who had learned to survive despite the cruelty of the Unified government, not because of it.

Another of his captains, Ravi, stepped up beside him. His tan skin was weathered from weeks in the field, and the hard lines of a regulation haircut made his face look even sharper. Dirt clung stubbornly beneath his fingernails as he passed Toric a slate.

“Here’s the new map.  We’ve finally finalized the Patrol rotations. We’ve got squads in place at every entry point, and one at the border perimeter of the Spire in case the Unified Government tries anything stupid. You saw them on the way in.”

Toric skimmed the data, nodding thoughtfully. “Medical?”

“We’ve got the clinic open. We are running on backup power, but it's functional until we get everything restored. There’s two surgeons and three medics cycling through.”

“Start rotating civilians into more stable roles. We need hands on food distribution, water, city clean up. Anything we can delegate, we should.”

“They want to help.” Ravi nodded back. “We’ve already got over a hundred names logged. Half of them showed up with weapons.”

Toric’s brow twitched. “Then put them to work.”

***

Around the table sat four field captains for Toric’s unit. Kael. Ravi. Michael, an up and coming young man. And Gideon, the oldest, closest to the council, with eyes like scorched iron.

The air was thick with tension. At this table, no one was celebrating. 

“Casualty reports are in on civilians,” Michael said, tapping his screen. “Seventy-three dead. One-forty-seven wounded.”

Toric nodded, jaw locked tight. “We expected worse.”

“Still,” Ravi muttered, “we need to regroup. Make sure this doesn’t slip out of our hands.”

“It won’t,” Kael said quietly, but sure. “Not unless we let it.”

But they all knew what she meant.

It wasn’t Solen they were afraid of now.

It was the metahuman. 

That god of hovering in the air, in all white like a saint, or a savior.

“What do we know about the metahuman?” Gideon asked, eyes cutting toward Toric. “The one who dropped the riot line without even touching a weapon.”

Kael leaned forward. “They call him Vox. People say he’s appeared in other sectors during raids and other protests. He always shows up just when the pressure’s about to boil over.”

“He doesn’t have an army,” Michael added. “He just...shows up.”

“And turns the tide,” Ravi finished.

Toric bristled. “That’s exactly the problem. He’s turning tides we’ve been building for months. Years.”

Gideon raised a brow. “You think he’s trying to take credit?”

“I think people are desperate for miracles,” Toric said, voice low and clipped. “And if they start believing in one man, we’re fucking dead in the water.”

Kael gave him a look. “You think he’s a threat.”

“Raw power like that doesn’t need banners. It’s the first step towards tyranny.”

Silence followed and no one disagreed. That was the worrisome part.

Toric exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. “The council sent word about another high-priority op in Thirty-Six. You all know the supply lines are critical to our Northern push. Our intel says regime presence there is thinned out, maybe stretched too far. Our team has the right numbers for it.”

“It also fits the pattern for Vox,” Michael said from the far side, drumming his fingers once against the tabletop before going still again.

Toric’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take the bait. “We refuel tonight, leave tomorrow. The core team only.” He turned his head. “Ravi, you hold this sector and keep morale up. The rebuild needs to keep moving. There will be no gaps in patrol.”

Ravi saluted silently. 

Toric chewed the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood cut through the stale air. “We don’t need the meta. Stay sharp—the mission hasn’t changed.”

A pause lingered before Ravi spoke up, careful, but firm. “If he’s showing up at active zones, maybe we  shouldn’t turn our backs on it so fast. He dismantled a line of thirty soldiers without even touching the ground, Toric. You said it yourself—people are desperate. If he can be turned into an ally—”

“He’s not an ally,” Toric cut in, voice booming with authority. “He’s a nuke.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “—Are you sure about that, Draeven? You think the people will still follow us when there's a man who tears tanks in half and disappears into smoke?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Toric snapped, then caught himself— lowering his voice to an inconspicuous level. “We don’t need a god. We need reform, restructuring.”

Kael was quiet. Watching him with a reserved kind of concern. 

Gideon folded his arms. “You’re afraid of him.”

“It’s not fear,” Toric said. “I’ve seen what happens when we stop trusting ourselves. If we start depending on him, even a little, we’ll forget how to win without him.”

The room went quiet.

He pushed away from the table, boots heavy against the tile. “Get some sleep. Gear up. We’ll move at dawn.”

And without waiting for agreement, he left the room, the scent of static following him into the hallway, bitter as ash on his tongue.