The Figsty pulsed with life.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and bodies, the murmuring voices of the crowd blending into the rhythmic hum of the district’s old, rusted generators. Fig trees lined the streets, their sprawling roots breaking through the cracked stone pathways, a silent testament to a place that had grown despite the weight of oppression.

It was here, at the heart of the Figsty, that Terri Dobson stood before his people.

His voice carried through the square, firm yet impassioned, echoing against the iron-plated buildings that loomed over them. He was not a soldier. He was not a politician. But in this moment, he was something greater—a symbol of hope for those who had been told they were nothing.

“We were given scraps and told to be grateful!” he called, his voice raw with conviction. “We were stripped of our names and given numbers! They tell us that being ‘Honorary Aethan’ is a privilege, but tell me—what kind of privilege is it to beg for humanity?!”

The crowd roared in response, voices raised in fury, in desperation, in defiance.

Beside him, Skyla Mellow stood with her arms crossed, her jaw tight, eyes scanning the restless crowd. She had always been the fire at his side—sharp, relentless, his anchor in the storm.

Koeper Lynch, their closest friend, stood just a step behind them. His gaze flickered between Terri and the surrounding rooftops, unease settling in his gut. He had learned, long ago, that Millinggarde was no longer safe for voices like theirs.

And yet, Terri had never been one to run.

He lifted his arms, palms open, inviting the crowd’s voices to meet his own.

“We are not dogs,” he continued. “We are not tools. We are people! And we will not bow to the hands that stole our homes! We will not—”

The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

For a moment, time fractured.

Terri’s body jerked backward, his words caught in his throat as the impact sent him stumbling. His breath hitched, and for a second, his legs still tried to hold him.

Then, the blood came.

A dark bloom spread across his chest, soaking through his shirt as his knees gave out.

Skyla’s scream tore through the air as she caught him before he could hit the ground.

The Figsty erupted into chaos.

Koeper moved first.

His instincts took over as he dropped to a crouch, scanning the rooftops, searching for the glint of a rifle, the shadow of a killer. Nothing. The assassin was already gone.

Terri’s breaths came in shallow, wet gasps.

Skyla cradled his head in her lap, pressing both hands against his chest, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. Her hands shook, stained red, her composure unraveling with every second that passed.

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“You’re okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re okay, you hear me?”

Terri’s lips parted, but no words came.

His gaze locked onto hers, his eyes wide, not with fear, but with regret.

Koeper fell to his knees beside them, his own hands trembling. “Terri—stay with us!”

Terri exhaled—a weak, fragile thing.

And then he was still. The world tilted.

Skyla’s breath hitched, her hands still pressing against his wound as if she could force him back to life.

The crowd surged in panic—some fleeing, some crying out in horror, others frozen where they stood, watching as the man who had given them hope bled out before them.

Koeper clenched his fists, his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

This wasn’t just a killing.

This was a message.

Aether had silenced Terri Dobson in front of the very people he had sworn to fight for. They hadn’t taken him in the dark. They had executed him in the light.

Skyla trembled. Then, she let out a slow, shuddering breath.

And when she looked up, her violet-blue eyes burned.

She released Terri gently, laying him down with reverence. Then, slowly, she stood.

The Figsty had not yet stilled. The people around her were breaking, unraveling—but not running.

She turned to face them, her face streaked with tears and blood, her hands curled into fists.

“Look at him!” she shouted.

The crowd stilled.

“LOOK AT HIM!” Her voice cracked as she pointed to Terri’s lifeless, bloodstained form. “This is what they do! This is what they will KEEP DOING if we let them! We stand here, we cry, we scream—but what do we do?”

Silence.

Skyla’s chest heaved with fury, with grief too big to carry.

She swallowed. Steadied herself.

Then she took a step forward.

“I refuse to let them write this day as a footnote in their history books.” Her voice trembled, but it did not falter. “I refuse to let them turn him into just another name lost to time.”

She looked at the faces before her, at the people Terri had fought for.

“This is not the end.”

Koeper could not find words.

He remained kneeling beside Terri, staring at his best friend’s lifeless form, his mind struggling to catch up.

This morning, Terri had laughed.

This morning, Terri had held Skyla’s hand, had clasped Koeper’s shoulder, had breathed.

Now, he was gone.

But something had changed in the Figsty.

The people, though grieving, did not leave. They did not scatter, did not fade into the alleys and side streets.

They stayed.

And Koeper knew, in that moment, that Terri’s death had not ended their fight.

It had ignited it.

Later that night, the streets were eerily still.

Terri Dobson’s name had already been stripped from the official logs. Aether had erased him before his body had even grown cold.

But the Figsty did not forget.

A single phrase had been carved into the walls of a dozen alleyways by morning.

A phrase that had been scrawled in Terri’s own handwriting on the back of every speech he had ever written.

"They can take my voice, but they cannot take my words."

And with that, his fight lived on.