The city woke to fire.
By dawn, the depot was nothing but charred beams and molten iron. The convoy's ruins still smoldered in the harbor streets, cobblestones blackened, corpses covered with cloth.
But it wasn't the destruction that spread—it was the story.
Market vendors muttered over baskets of dates and grain. "They say she wears her mother's fire on her chest."
Dockhands swore they'd seen her walk through flame untouched, eyes blazing like the Emberheart itself.
Children chalked her symbol—the flame-mark—on alley walls.
Even in taverns thick with smoke, mercenaries whispered, "If she can burn the Covenant's wagons, maybe she can burn their chains too."
Yet fear rode with every rumor. The Covenant's banners unfurled across the city by midmorning. Soldiers stormed homes, dragged sympathizers into the streets, demanded names. Envoy Malrek's decree rang from brass trumpets in every district:
"The traitor Nyasha Okoye is not a savior. She is a curse. Her flames are rebellion. Her rebellion is death. Aid her, and you will burn with her."
Some spat at the decree. Others turned their eyes down, too afraid to meet the soldiers' gaze.
In the safehouse, Nyasha listened to the echoes of that voice outside the cracked window. She could see soldiers marching by, boots striking in rhythm, searching.
Zara dropped into the room from the rafters, grinning despite the tension. "They're panicking. Look at them—shaking the city, trying to scare ghosts. We made them bleed."
Kofi said nothing. He stood by the window, arms folded, jaw tight. "They'll hit back harder. The Covenant never loses face without making someone pay. We need to move before they corner us."
Nyasha looked between them, heart heavy but steady. "Then we turn their fear into ours. The people are listening. Some are afraid—but some believe. That's enough."
Zara tilted her head. "Enough for what?"
Nyasha's eyes narrowed. "Enough to make this city burn for freedom."