The meeting house was a patched-together ruin at the heart of the Solokhian quarter—beams salvaged from gutted storefronts, walls lined with mismatched tarps and wooden slats. Smoke from the hearth curled along the ceiling, heavy with the scents of oil, sweat, and boiled grain. Shale stood near the fire, arms crossed, watching the room fill. Beside him sat the White Lion, the Solokhian elder whose quiet strength and measured voice had kept the quarter from tearing itself apart in the worst days of famine. His silver-streaked hair framed a face carved from patience and hard choices.

  Sempir arrived first, muttering to himself in thick Solokhian, his mustache bristling as he paced. Behind him came Faedra Blackvine and her Glaives, their boots thudding against the worn floorboards, weapons slung loose but ready. Ariana and Nyxie drifted in last, the maenad's ears pinned back, eyes darting between the gathered rebels.

  Everyone spoke at once.

  The Solokhian tongue rose sharp and fast, Sempir cursing, gesturing wide. Whenever his nadic would falter, Shale translated under his breath, smoothing crude speech into something coherent. Faedra's voice barked over the others, her Nadic clipped but clear, while Ariana murmured in soft agreement. Nyxie stayed silent, shrinking into the shadowed corner near the door. The fire’s glow blurred for a moment, reminding her of the soft alchemy flames of her colony. No plans made there. No weapons drawn. Just the slow rhythm of life, now gone.

  "Bullshit," Sempir spat, clear enough for all. "What empire did in brothel—is bullshit. Cannot stand."

  Shale reiterated his Nadic anyway, out of habit. "We agree. It cannot stand."

  A round of growls, curses, and nods passed between them.

  "So we hit them," Faedra said, planting the butt of her staff hard against the floor. "Now."

  Sempir jabbed a finger toward her, "Yes. We hit them hard."

  "Where?" Shale asked, voice level.

  Sempir grinned, teeth flashing. "Granaries. Imperial stores. We take food—give to quarter. Starve their garrison."

  Faedra folded her arms. "We hit the Black Cloak headquarters. Cut their tongues, blind their eyes."

  Sempir waved a hand, grumbling in Solokhian before spitting in Nadic, "Always precision with you Glaives. War needs noise."

  Faedra’s eyes narrowed. "Noise gets civilians killed."

  Shale stepped between them, lifting a hand. "Both points stand. Precision where it counts, noise where it hurts."

  Ariana pounded her fist on the table, "My sisters will not stand idly by while we are harvested from our treehouses like weeds. We have to join the fight!"

  Shale's jaw tightened. "Maenads? Are you serious? No offense to you, but your people aren't exactly warriors."

  Ariana's eyes narrowed, ears flicking. "They deserve the choice."

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  Nyxie stirred, the memory of the psyad's hand around the kitten burning hot behind her eyes.

  "Fine," Shale said, voice softer. "Ariana and I will speak to them. See who stands."

  The plan took shape: Sempir and his Solokhian fighters would raid the granaries. Faedra and her Glaives would strike the Black Cloaks. Shale, Ariana, and Nyxie would try to rouse the maenads.

  The White Lion listened, arms folded. When the plans settled, his voice cut through the smoke-softened air, calm and steady.

  "Make your strikes sharp and fast. Feed the people, yes, but leave the empire chasing shadows. Burn their granaries, but not all of them—leave some for their garrison to fight over. Strike the Secret Police, but do not stay long. Kill a few, leave a message. Remind the empire they are vulnerable."

  His gaze swept the room, pausing on Faedra. "We strike to survive, not to die glorious deaths. Patience is the soil where revolution grows."

  His words drew nods even from Faedra, though her jaw tightened. The room quieted further, the plan now settled under his authority.

  For a while, the fire snapped and hissed, the only sound in the room.

  "We need name," Sempir said, breaking the silence.

  Faedra rolled her eyes, but she glanced toward the White Lion, as though seeking his judgment. "We don’t need banners. We aren't the blighted empire."

  "No," Sempir grinned. "We need name. For empire. For psyads. To let them know who they fight."

  Shale sighed. "Fine. What?"

  Sempir leaned back, his grin widening. "Friends. Capital F."

  Faedra snorted. "That’s stupid."

  "Exactly," Sempir said, spreading his arms. "Empire catch us, ask who we with? We say, 'Friends.' Honest truth. Psyads read minds—find nothing but Friends."

  Ariana chuckled. Even Shale's lips twitched. Faedra, however, shook her head, muttering, "You'll die with your jokes, Sempir."

  Sempir only grinned wider. "Better with laugh than scream. Also, stupid is why it works."

  The laughter faded, the fire snapping in the quiet. The White Lion leaned forward, his gaze circling the room once more.

  "Names hold power," he said. "Even foolish ones. If it gives you strength, if it muddies the empire's water, then Friends it is. But remember, names do not win wars. We do."

  His voice steadied them again, anchoring the moment in purpose.

  "The empire will hit back," Faedra warned. "They don’t stop at the guilty."

  "Reinforcements on roads already," Sempir muttered. "Psyad kill-teams. Patrols doubled near granaries. Empire smells fear."

  Faedra added, "They've hung fresh banners over the quarter. More eyes on every street."

  Shale nodded grimly. "Then we hit first."

  As the group prepared to split, Ariana pulled Nyxie aside, her voice soft. Nyxie shifted awkwardly beneath the maenad's gaze, her arms crossed tight, ears pinned low. The others—seasoned fighters, rebels with plans—moved with purpose. Nyxie felt like a weed among oaks, unsure where her roots belonged.

  Ariana's eyes softened. "When you come with us, you should speak to the others. Our sisters in the wild. Tell them what you saw."

  Nyxie's tail curled close, the words lodging in her throat. "I’m no leader."

  Ariana reached out, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're the only one who lived through it. The others—they need to know what's really at stake."

  Nyxie glanced back toward the fire, where the shadows of the rebels... the Friends... stretched long across the battered walls. Her claws flexed against her palms, but she nodded slowly, still unsure if she believed it herself.

  The Friends left in pairs and threes, melting into the streets. Nyxie lingered by the fire, staring into the flames, the word Friends circling in her mind, bitter and necessary. The rebels had left in streams—Solokhians muttering sharp jests in their tongue, Glaives silent but fierce, Shale and Ariana walking in low conversation. She stayed behind, her voice still untested, but the fire’s warmth clung to her, a flicker of something like resolve.

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