The first light of dawn crept softly over the rooftops, casting a faint glow over the quiet city streets, a fragile peace lingering in the air. But that peace was deceptive; below its surface, the tension was palpable, simmering, ready to erupt. As the morning progressed, footsteps and murmurs grew louder, blending into a rumble of voices gathering strength. Like an incoming storm, people flooded the city square from all directions, drawn by whispers of unrest that had been building for days, whispers that spoke of hope, of revolution, of a chance for change.

  In the heart of the crowd, Antara stood quietly, his figure slightly stooped, his face set in a somber determination. His clothes were soaked through, the pungent smell of gasoline lingering in the air around him. Eyes glanced his way, curious, confused—until he stepped forward, breaking through the sea of people. Slowly, he turned to face the mass of citizens, his gaze sweeping over them, drinking in the sight of people who, like him, were no longer willing to be silent.

  He took a deep breath, his voice rising above the clamor as he cried out, “We want justice! We want freedom!”

  The crowd stilled, his words cutting through the morning fog, electrifying those who heard them. And then, as they watched, his hand came up, fingers steady despite the weight of what he was about to do. He struck a match, the tiny flame bright against the pale dawn, and in an instant, he was engulfed in fire. The crowd gasped, stepping back in shock, the flames licking up his figure, a beacon of raw defiance, of sacrifice, of courage.

  The silence that followed was profound, heavy, as if the whole city held its breath. Some dropped to their knees, eyes wide with horror, others stood frozen in awe, unable to look away from the raging inferno, in this world where public executions where seen every week, such a sight wasn’t as horrifying yet it was so impactful. It was Antara’s final message, a declaration that he would no longer live in silent suffering, that he would become a symbol, a torch to light the path toward justice.

  As the flames subsided, the crowd swelled, the stillness shattered by a roar that erupted from their throats—a collective cry of pain, anger, and resolve. The people surged forward, voices raised in unity, filling the square with shouts that echoed through the city’s narrow streets and stone walls. The fire had spread; the city itself seemed to burn with the fervor of their cries.

  Adam never intended for this, he wanted Antara to comeback and make an impact with his words and voice, he was a beloved person in the community someone of influence, he wanted to give him purpose, but Antara's point of view was different, he did indeed contribute in his own way, just like Adam asked him to.

  Word of the act spread like wildfire, reaching every corner of the city, fueling the anger that had been festering in the hearts of the people for too long. Shops and homes emptied as people rushed into the streets, joining the masses that gathered near the city’s heart, their voices merging into a single roar of defiance. The crowd swelled to thousands, pressing toward the palace gates, a surge of humanity moving with purpose, their chants punctuated by the pounding of their fists against the iron barriers.

  By midday, the palace grounds were surrounded by people demanding justice, an unyielding tide that grew stronger with each passing hour. Sensing the mounting danger, the king’s advisors rushed to quell the rebellion, issuing orders for increased security, deploying soldiers to disperse the crowd. Yet even as the soldiers moved to form a line between the protesters and the palace, they hesitated, eyes flicking nervously to the people standing before them.

  In the midst of the gathering, an older man took up the chant, his voice carrying across the crowd: “Down with tyranny! We are one people!” The chant spread quickly, a single phrase repeated by thousands, a unified declaration that resonated deeply, stirring something within even the soldiers who stood at the ready.

  Sweat beading on their brows, many soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, their fingers twitching, torn between duty and loyalty to the people they once called family. Shouts came from all sides, cries to hold their fire, pleas to lay down their arms. And then, one soldier lowered his rifle, taking a step back. His comrades watched, glancing from him to the faces of the crowd. Another soldier followed suit, then another, their weapons dropping to the ground, hands raised in surrender.

  The crowd cheered, the sound swelling, echoing across the square. In that moment, the line between protector and protected blurred, and the tide turned. Several soldiers crossed over, joining the ranks of the protesters, faces resolute, eyes set on the palace that loomed before them. The palace gates rattled as fists beat against them, a steady rhythm of defiance.

  Inside the palace, panic took hold. The king paced in his chamber, his face drained of color as he listened to the distant roar of the crowd, the sound of his kingdom slipping from his grasp. Advisors begged him to take action, to crush the rebellion before it could spread further, before his hold on power was lost completely.

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  “Order the guards to fire,” the king commanded, his voice shaking with barely controlled fear. “They must be stopped.”

  “But, Your Majesty,” one advisor pleaded, “the soldiers… they are defecting. Many have joined the people. They will not raise arms against their brothers.”

  The king’s face twisted in frustration, his gaze darting from the window to the trembling advisor. “Then find others who will! I will not lose my kingdom to a mob!”

  As the desperate orders were relayed, some officers still loyal to the king attempted to enforce his command, but they found little cooperation. Many of the guards had family among the crowd, friends who suffered under the very regime they were sworn to protect. Some officers joined the crowd outright, others melted away, unwilling to turn their weapons on their own kin.

  With chaos reigning outside, a figure strode through the castle halls with an air of unparalleled confidence. This was General Kassim. He entered the chamber to find the king pacing frantically, his face a portrait of stress.

  “Your Majesty, do not worry—it will be under control,” Kassim declared, his voice calm and steady.

  “The fuck do you mean under control?” the king snapped. “There are people right in front of the goddamn palace!”

  “They’ll disperse. I’ll see to it personally.”

  The king stopped and glared at him. “Alright, then. What do you have for me?”

  “Your Majesty, I need you to trust my judgment. You should move your family to the other castle—for their safety.”

  “What?” the king exclaimed, his tone sharp with disbelief.

  “It’s for their security. You don’t need to leave right now, but your family does. Just in case.”

  “How can a king abandon his kingdom in such a state?”

  “You won’t be abandoning anything, Your Majesty. You’ll be returning soon, but right now, containing the unrest and ensuring your family’s safety are our priorities.”

  The king frowned. “I heard people are looting? Inside the castle?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. They’ve already been caught trying to deplete the stores—food, supplies. We need to restore order, and I can’t guarantee the safety of your family while the situation is so volatile.”

  His estate sprawled over vast grounds—so immense that the food pantry was a couple miles away from where he stood now, connected by winding halls and underground passages. Even within these walls, his dominion felt like a small city.

  The king’s fist clenched. “You serve one king. My kin are your lords as well, General.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. But you know me—I will do whatever it takes to ensure your safety. Always.”

  The king sighed, the weight of the decision heavy on him. “Fine. Evacuate the family. Use the tunnels. Depending on how things unfold, I may join them in a day.”

  “A wise choice, my lord,” Kassim said, bowing slightly. “As expected of you.”

  General Kassim? He had no intention of the king ever coming back. This was a coup—an elegant, calculated one.

  The king watched from his balcony, his face growing paler with each passing minute, as the walls of his palace seemed to close in on him. His advisors scattered, some slipping out of side doors, hoping to evade the wrath of the people. Whispers circulated through the halls—the king was planning his escape.

  By nightfall, the palace lay nearly deserted, only a handful of loyalists remaining by the king’s side. Under the cover of darkness, he fled, slipping through a hidden passageway, leaving behind the throne he had once guarded so jealousy.

  As dawn broke over the city on the third day of unrest, the palace gates lay open, abandoned by the forces that had once kept them locked. The people surged forward, filling the once-restricted grounds, their cries of triumph ringing out across the city. Antara’s sacrifice had sparked a fire in their hearts that no force could extinguish, a fire that had consumed the walls of oppression, tearing down the pillars of tyranny.

  The streets of the capital were in chaos. Smoke billowed from distant fires, and the sound of shouting echoed off the ancient stone walls of the city. The rebellion that had simmered for months had finally boiled over, and now the impossible had happened.

  A lone figure sprinted down the main avenue, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade. His clothes were tattered, his face streaked with soot and sweat, but his eyes burned with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration.

  "Gaib RAN ! Gaib IS OUT!" he yelled, waving his arms wildly as he darted past bewildered onlookers.

  Shopkeepers stepped out from their stalls, their faces a mix of confusion and hope. A mother, clutching her child, paused to listen, her tired eyes widening as the man’s words sunk in. Another young man, holding a makeshift spear, dropped it in astonishment.

  "Gaib RAN !" the runner repeated, collapsing to his knees in the middle of the square. A crowd began to form around him, their murmurs swelling into a roar as the news spread. "The King ran away! The tyrant has fled!"

  Within moments, the entire square erupted into cheers, tears, and shouts of relief. The palace guards, once so imposing, had vanished. The banners of Gaib's rule were being torn down, trampled underfoot by a sea of people reclaiming their city.

  Above it all, the man who had delivered the message sat slumped against a fountain, grinning despite his exhaustion. His voice was hoarse, but he had done his part. The people were free—or at least, they believed they were.

  The king was gone, the throne left empty, and for the first time in generations, the people stood in control of their own fate, united by a courage they had discovered within themselves. And as they looked up at the dawn sky, they knew that Antara’s flame still burned, guiding them toward a new day, a day that belonged to them.