Chapter 5 The Betrayer's Shadow

• Betrayal has a scent. Burnt wire. Blood on cold steel. The sterile rot of old secrets. Eron knew it the moment the first detonations rocked Varkas.
• The strike was supposed to be swift and surgical — hit Drog’s operatives embedded in the neutral city before they could gain control. But instead, the moment Eron’s teams crossed the outer checkpoints, the entire eastern grid collapsed.
• Power went dark. Communication lines were severed. And then the city began to burn.
• He watched from the lead transport as a column of fire erupted from a fuel station near the water district — one of their own rally points. Civilians screamed in the streets, caught between insurgents posing as aid workers and militia units overwhelmed by chaos.
• "It’s a setup," Layla said over the comms, her voice tight. "They knew we were coming. They have wired the power grid. Backup batteries are already overloading."
• Eron swore. "Pull back and regroup at checkpoint Echo. Send all available medics. Civilian extraction is priority."
• "Too late,” came another voice — Captain Harrow, pinned down in the north ward. "They’ve got snipers in civilian towers. We are boxed in."
• Eron gritted his teeth. "I’m going in."
• They moved through the city block by block, forced to fight through every alley and stairwell. Insurgents had disguised themselves as local authorities, their ambushes swift and coordinated. Eron’s men were trained, disciplined — but nothing prepared them for this level of infiltration.
• "They turned the city into a trap," Layla said as she covered a stairwell, picking off a rooftop shooter. "Months of planning. This isn’t just Drog."
• "No," Eron said. "Someone gave him our playbook." And deep down, he already knew who.
• It wasn’t until the seventh hour of fighting that the puzzle fell into place. Eron and Layla had pushed into a collapsed communications hub where the remains of a data archive had survived the initial blast. Dust and smoke hung thick in the air, static buzzing from ruined terminals.
• While Layla rerouted emergency frequencies, Eron scanned through encrypted fragments from the insurgents’ side. That’s when he found the message.
• ~ From: V. RANE
• To: K. DROG
• Subject: “Clearance & Tactical Window”
• The operation must appear to fail at first — ensure Eron is allowed partial success to maintain credibility. Leak false intel on Varkas’ vulnerability. Then collapse the grid once he commits. Damage must be visible. Civilian. Personal. He must believe it’s his fault.
• Eron stared at the name at the top of the message.
• Victor. His uncle had not just betrayed them years ago. He was still orchestrating the fall currently. Every loss, every misstep, every massacre — it was part of a long con designed not just to kill Eron, but to break him.
• Behind him, Layla stepped closer. "What is it?"
• Eron handed her the tablet. She read the message, her face hardening. "Your uncle... he’s the one?"
• Eron nodded, numb.
• "He gave Drog the codes the night my father died. I always suspected. But this — this confirms it. He’s playing both sides. Still feeding Drog our movements."
• Layla glanced at him. "What are you going to do?"
• "Find him," Eron said, voice low. "And end this."
• In the days following Varkas, the fallout was brutal.
• Over seventy-eight civilians were killed. Hundreds displaced. Drone footage of the wreckage circulated across eastern networks, fueling a wave of propaganda that painted Eron as reckless, dangerous, unstable.
• The rebellion fractured. Some commanders pulled support. Others demanded a tribunal. Governor Dane weathered the political storm, but barely.
• In the war room, Layla slammed a datapad onto the table. "We’ve lost the border militias. Three districts froze supply lines. And Halden — my uncle’s finance director just cut off our credit flow. Says we are ‘an ungovernable liability."
• Eron didn’t flinch.
• "I told you this would happen," he said. "Drog doesn’t need to win battles. He just needs us to lose faith."
• Layla exhaled slowly. "You were right."
• She looked at him — really looked at him — for the first time since the city fell. "You carry this weight like it belongs to you. Like it was your fault."
• "It is," he said. "I walked us into that city blind. I underestimated Victor. Again."
• Layla stepped closer. "You trusted the wrong people. But that’s not the same as betrayal."
• "Tell that to the mothers burying their children," Eron said quietly.
• ~
• That night, she found him alone in the lower courtyard, sitting beside a shattered statue of the old republic—a relic from before the war. He was cleaning his sidearm, methodical and silent.
• "I used to think I understood this war," Layla said, approaching. "Good versus evil. Tyrants versus reformers. But it’s not that, is it?"
• "No," Eron replied. "It’s rot versus fire. And the fire burns everything."
• She sat beside him. "I used to believe in structure. Orders. The chain of command. But now... I don’t know what I believe in."
• "Believe in survival," Eron said. "It’s all we have left."
• She looked at him. "Is that really enough for you?"
• He met her eyes. For a moment, the walls dropped.
• "No," he admitted. "Not anymore."
• And then, for the first time, she reached out and took his hand.
• The next morning, Layla brought him something unexpected. A decrypted financial trail.
• "Alric won’t approve this," she warned. "But I pulled it from Halden’s shell companies."
• Eron scanned the files. It was a web of offshore accounts and covert shipments — arms, surveillance tech, bribes. All routed through a neutral trade port known as Ferrar’s Gate.
• And every route traced back to one name: Victor Rane.
• "He’s operating out of the upper Kharrow zone," Layla said. "Rumor is, he’s trying to broker a deal between Drog and the eastern holdouts. If he succeeds, they’ll crush everything between them."
• Eron’s jaw clenched. "Then I’ll intercept him before that happens."
• Layla hesitated. "You can’t go in alone."
• "I won’t." He turned to the war table and began marking positions.
• "We hit his convoy at the pass. No signals. No survivors. We take him alive—if possible."
• Layla, "And if not?"
• Eron didn’t answer.
• That night, as the strike team prepared for deployment, a low-priority transmission pinged across a forgotten secure channel — one of Eron’s old insurgent comm frequencies.
• He opened it in private. The video feed stuttered before clearing. It was Victor. Older. Wearing a high-collar coat, silver hair swept back, eyes sharp and cold.
• ~ "Nephew," he said with a smile. "So it’s true. You survived."
• ~ "You want to kill me, I understand. But I hope you understand this first…" He leaned closer to the camera. "You’re playing a game I designed. And every time you move against me, you’re stepping exactly where I want you."
• The feed cut out. Behind Eron, the strike sirens began to sound. Victor Rane had made his move.
• Now it was Eron’s turn.