Chapter 3 The Call To Vengeance

• Eron Rane wasn’t a boy anymore.
• He stood in the ruins of an old command outpost, a rifle pressed to his forehead, and met the eyes of the man his father had once trusted above all others. Major Kaine’s grip didn’t waver, but something flickered in his gaze: a fragment of recognition, or disbelief... maybe both.
• "I said give me one reason," Kaine growled, "before I decorate these grounds with your brain."
• "Because I know the names of the men who betrayed my father," Eron said, voice steady. "And I know how to kill them."
• The silence that followed was thick as clouds. Then, slowly, Kaine lowered the rifle. "Inside," he muttered. "NOW."
• The command center was buried deep under stone and steel, protected by very old biometric locks and layered doors. The outpost had long since been scrubbed from central military records, but it still pulsed with quiet life — lights powered by salvaged generators, comms units pieced together from spare parts, maps pinned to every wall. It was a war room without a war. At least, not yet.
• Kaine limped slightly as he walked, the result of an old injury, but his presence still filled the room like gravity.
• "You look like him," he said, offering Eron a drink. Eron declined. "I look like what the world made me." Kaine didn’t argue. He poured two glasses anyway, sitting at a rusted tactical table. "Start from the beginning."
• Eron told him everything. The night of the coup. His father’s execution. His years in Drog’s war camps. The indoctrination. The betrayal. His escape. Sava’s death. The locket. The ruins of Andrel. The message in the data terminal.
• When he finished, Kaine was silent for a long time.
• "I thought you were dead," he finally said. "We all did. Your mother was captured... and then vanished in a prison transfer. Some said Drog kept her alive as leverage. Others said she escaped and went underground. She is pretty unpredictable though."
• "I found her locket two weeks ago," Eron said. "On a courier's body."
• "Then she may still be out there."
• "Then I’ll find her," Eron said. "But I need more than rumors. I need weapons. Intel. A network."
• Kaine leaned back, rubbing his temple. "You want to rebuild the old guard."
• "I want to burn Drog’s empire to ash,” Eron corrected. His chin raised, "And if my uncle Victor is involved, he dies too."
• Kaine’s lips twisted into a grim smile. "You’re your father’s son. That much is clear." He stood, gesturing to the map. "We’ve kept the flame alive in pockets (cells), loyalist fragments. We don’t have a name. No banner. But there are still those who remember the old codes. The old alliances."
• "Then rally them," Eron said. "I’ll give them something to fight for again."
• ~
• The weeks that followed were consumed by motion.
• Eron moved like a man possessed — training with Kaine’s militia, decoding satellite transmissions, and digging through old war logs. His insurgent experience made him an asset, his loyalty to the cause made him dangerous. Some fighters distrusted him, called him a ghost, a traitor wearing a dead man’s name. But others? They saw in him the future they’d been waiting for.
• Eron didn’t care about being liked or accepted. He was after results. And he delivered.
• He led ambushes on Drog’s patrol convoys. Reclaimed abandoned comm towers in the western forests. Hacked into an old Rane satellite feed to broadcast messages of rebellion — brief bursts of truth hidden in the static of pirate radio. People began whispering the name again. Not "Shade." Not even "Eron."
• They called him the Last Rane. And they followed him.
• Late one night, Kaine approached him with something unexpected: a dossier. "You need to see this," he said, dropping it on the table. Eron opened it and froze. The images were grainy, but unmistakable. Weapons transports. Explosives. Flight manifests.
• All signed by Victor Rane — his father’s brother. A man who once swore loyalty to the family name.
• "He's alive," Kaine said. "Not just alive — he’s active. A broker. A political advisor. Working with Drog in the background. Arms, intel, logistics. He’s the reason the insurgency took your family down so fast."
• Eron stared at the photo of Victor smiling beside Drog at a gala in Arvestal, a glass of wine in one hand, a handshake in the other.
• "I always wondered how Drog broke through the perimeter," Eron said softly. "We had codes only a few people knew. Trusted blood."
• "And now you know who sold it," Kaine said. "He’s your Judas."
• Eron didn’t respond. He walked to the window of the outpost, where the night stretched endless and cold. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. "I’m going to kill him."
• Three days later, Eron led his first independent strike.
• It was a hit-and-fade operation targeting a known arms depot on the edge of the southern borderlands — a facility reportedly used by Victor’s network to traffic weapons. Eron’s team moved under darkness, slipping past surveillance drones and thermal cams. They planted charges, disabled vehicles, and hacked internal comms. Everything was clean. Surgical. But just as they were exfiltrating, the trap snapped shut. Explosions roared from the treeline. Mortar fire lit the night. Federal troops — no insignias, no unit IDs — descended like wolves. Betrayal.
• "Move!" Eron shouted, dragging a wounded fighter to cover. "Kaine, we’ve been compromised — repeat, compromised!"
• "Copy," Kaine, answered. "Fallback to rally point Delta. We’ll cover you."
• But Kaine never made it. His convoy was hit along the way — sabotaged before it even reached the field. A fuel truck ignited, tearing the lead vehicle apart.
• By morning, dozens were dead. The depot was gone. And Eron stood alone among the ashes, watching the sun rise over a graveyard of failure.
• Back at the outpost, morale fractured. Some blamed Eron. Others suspected a mole. Eron said nothing. He simply went to Kaine’s empty quarters, closed the door, and stared at the wall where an old photograph hung — one of his father, Kaine, and a much younger Victor Rane. Smiling. United.
• Eron punched the wall so hard his knuckles split.
• Two nights later, a courier arrived under cover of storm, carrying a package for Eron. Inside: a tablet with a scrambled recording. He decrypted it alone.
• It showed Victor — older now, seated in a darkened room, speaking to someone off-camera.
• ~ "The boy’s alive. I warned Drog he should have finished him. Now he’s becoming a symbol, and symbols are dangerous. They don’t bleed like men do."
• ~ "What do you want me to do?" The voice asked.
• Victor leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
• ~ "Let him come. Let him rage. And when he’s done making noise, we’ll cut the rebellion out at its heart."
• Eron stared at the screen long after it went dark. He didn’t feel fear. He felt clarity. Victor wanted him to come?
• Good. He was already on his way.
• That night, Eron summoned his remaining officers into the old war room. He stood beneath the faded crest of the Rane family, his shadow long across the stone floor.
• "I’m done reacting," he said. "We’re not hiding. We’re not surviving. We’re taking back what was ours."
• He tapped the map behind him, marking a city on the eastern ridge — an old fortress town now under insurgent control. "Varkas," he said. "It’s Drog’s next move. If we take it first, we send a message. And if Victor shows his face... I finish this."
• The officers exchanged uneasy glances. The mission would be suicide. Eron met each of their eyes. "I’m not asking," he said. And in the silence that followed, for the first time since the war began... They obeyed.