Chapter 8: The Rebellion That Shouldn’t Exist

Scene 1: Preparing for War

The first blow hit harder than I expected.

The impact drove me backward, my breath leaving in a sharp grunt as I slammed into the dirt. My body ached, my ribs protesting as I struggled to regain my footing. Above me, the rebel fighter I had been sparring with took a step back, waiting. He wasn’t much older than me, but his movements were sharp, controlled—nothing like the rigid drills The Order had forced me through.

"Get up."

Eva’s voice cut through the cold air, sharp as a blade.

I wiped blood from my lip and pushed myself up. Every muscle in my body was screaming, but I forced them into motion.

The fighter didn’t wait for me to settle. He moved again—faster this time. I barely dodged, stumbling backward.

“Sloppy,” Solomon muttered from the sidelines.

The others watched in silence, the weight of their eyes pressing down on me. I wasn’t just training. I was being tested.

The next strike came low. I countered on instinct, blocking with my forearm before pivoting into an attack of my own. My fist connected, but it lacked precision. The fighter caught my wrist, twisting sharply, sending me back to the ground.

"You're not fighting for power anymore, Graves," Eva called out. "You're fighting to stay alive."

I forced myself up again, panting. My whole body was shaking, but I wasn’t going to stop.

The training field was nothing like The Order’s controlled environment. There were no holographic instructors, no perfect, structured drills. Everything was raw. Unforgiving. The Hidden didn’t train soldiers—they trained survivors.

"Again," Solomon ordered.

I gritted my teeth and lunged.

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By the time training ended, my body was battered, my knuckles split. But I had learned something.

The Hidden didn’t fight like The Order.

They moved like ghosts—striking fast, never staying in one place too long. They didn’t rely on brute strength or overwhelming force. They relied on being unseen, on vanishing before their enemy could retaliate.

It was nothing like what I had been taught.

I sat on the edge of the training platform, watching as the other rebels paired off, moving through their drills. They weren’t warriors—not in the way The Order trained its enforcers. They were desperate, fighting because they had no other choice.

Across the field, a young boy—no older than twelve—struggled to lift a rifle. His arms trembled as he tried to aim, his fingers uncertain on the trigger. An older rebel knelt beside him, adjusting his stance, murmuring quiet instructions.

I clenched my fists.

This was their army? Children who had never held a weapon? Fighters who spent more time hiding than attacking?

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I muttered under my breath, barely realizing I had spoken aloud.

“How are we supposed to win like this?”

A shadow shifted beside me.

"You’re not."

I turned to find Solomon standing there, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something old and tired.

"This rebellion isn’t about winning," he said. "It’s about proving they can’t control everything."

I frowned. "That’s not enough."

Solomon exhaled through his nose. "Then you still don’t understand what they took from us."

I wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come.

The training continued around us, fighters moving like phantoms in the dark. They were ghosts of a war that should have ended long ago. And yet, despite everything, they kept fighting.

Because they refused to disappear.

I watched them move, vanishing into the shadows as if they had never been there at all.

And I realized something.

If I wanted to destroy The Order, I had to become something they couldn’t erase.

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Scene 2: A Plan is Made

The war room was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the quiet hum of stolen tech. Scavenged holo-screens flickered against the walls, displaying fragmented surveillance feeds and tactical maps of the city above. The rebels gathered in tight clusters, murmuring in low voices. There was an energy here, tense and unyielding—an anticipation that settled deep in my bones.

Solomon stood at the head of the room, his hands resting on the central table, a faded map spread across its scarred surface. Weapons lined the walls—some old, some stolen, all ready to be used.

Eva was a shadow against the far wall, her arms folded, always watching.

No one spoke until Solomon did.

"We hit three locations at once," he said. His voice carried easily, low and firm, commanding the room. "Security hubs. If we take them offline, we can move more freely."

A murmur passed through the group, but it wasn’t excitement—it was measured calculation.

An older rebel, his face lined with scars from wars long lost, spoke first. "How long before they rebuild?"

Solomon didn’t hesitate.

"Days. Maybe hours. This isn’t about taking ground. It’s about making them bleed."

Silence.

They all understood what that meant.

I stood near the edge of the room, my pulse pounding. I had spent the last few days training, learning how The Hidden moved, how they fought. But standing here, hearing them plan an actual strike, made the war real in a way it hadn’t been before.

I felt it—the anger burning under my skin. The need to do something.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself.

"Let me fight."

Heads turned. Eyes locked onto me. Some with curiosity. Some with skepticism.

Solomon’s gaze was unreadable.

"You’ve been here for barely a week," he said. "You’re not ready."

I clenched my fists. "My mother was erased. My entire life was a lie. I don’t care if I’m ready. I’m fighting."

The room was silent.

Solomon studied me for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.

He gestured for the others to leave.

Eva was the last to linger, glancing between the two of us before disappearing into the shadows.

For the first time since I had arrived, it was just the two of us.

Solomon leaned over the table, fingers pressing into the map, his expression distant. "You remind me of myself at your age," he murmured.

I stiffened.

He finally looked up, his eyes sharper than before. "And that terrifies me."

I frowned. "Why?"

"Because I know what happens to people like us."

His words settled like a weight in my chest.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Solomon sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw before straightening. "You think this is about revenge."

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

"I think The Order needs to burn."

Solomon nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

"Then I guess you’re already lost," he said quietly.

I didn’t flinch. "Then let me fight."

He studied me for a long moment, then finally gave a slow nod.

"Fine."

I exhaled sharply, relief flooding through me.

"But if you fight," he continued, stepping closer, "you fight with a clear head. Because the moment you start thinking this is about revenge?"

His voice dropped lower.

"You’re already dead."

I didn’t break his gaze.

I didn’t say I understood.

But I knew he was right.

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When the rebels returned, Solomon stood at the front of the room once more.

"We move tomorrow night," he announced.

Weapons were handed out. Final plans were made.

I stood among them—not as a recruit, not as a boy.

As a soldier.

As the war finally began.

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