Chapter 8 Thorne's Gambit

• The man giving the kill order wore the same badge as Eron once did.
• Thorne didn’t wear insurgent colors. He wasn’t draped in Drog’s sigil or any faction banner. He wore a neutral exo-cloak—ghost-gray, reinforced with layered Kevlar mesh and scavenged drone plating. His armor was unmarked, but his eyes were filled with fire.
• He looked more alive than Eron had ever seen him. And that made him infinitely more dangerous.
• “Bring me the traitor,” Thorne had said.
• Now boots thundered across the chapel square, mercenaries sweeping the perimeter with high-frequency jammers and electromagnetic pulse grenades. Eron ducked behind a collapsed support beam, checking his ammo. Half a clip. Two frags. No comms backup. Layla crouched beside him, her pistol drawn. She spoke without turning.
• “He’s not bluffing.”
• “No. He’s here to finish what someone started back in Caelon.”
• “Orders?”
• “Don’t die.” She gave him a dry look. “Inspirational.”
• They moved as one.
• Eron tossed a smoke canister toward the front entrance as Layla darted left, drawing fire. The stained-glass above the altar shattered as bullets ripped through the windows. The old chapel, once a sanctuary, became a warzone of ricochets and blood.
• Eron vaulted a pew, firing two quick shots into the closest merc. The man dropped with a gurgle. Another advanced from the rear hallway—tactical shotgun raised. Eron dove, letting the blast tear through the altar before stabbing upward with a combat knife.
• By the time Layla returned to cover, three bodies were down—but more were coming.
• Thorne hadn’t just hired killers. He’d brought a clearing squad.
• Professionals trained to wipe urban resistance groups out in under ten minutes. Fast, efficient, surgical.
• And here they were, in the heart of Varkas, hunting the man they once called an ally.
• “We’re boxed in,” Layla said between breaths. “West exit is blocked. They’ve already looped drones over the roof.”
• “We push down,” Eron said. “Sublevels.”
• “You think this place has sublevels?”
• “It’s a chapel in a war-torn city. Everyone here has escape tunnels.”
• Sure enough, behind the altar, under a loose stone slab, Eron found a concealed hatch. He pried it open, revealing a narrow stairwell winding down into darkness.
• They slid inside seconds before a frag grenade bounced through the main door. The explosion shook the walls, but they were already gone.
• The tunnel was cold, wet, and steep.
• They descended fast, rifles ready, the flickering light from Layla’s wristband illuminating mold-streaked stone. The place smelled like time—rot, blood, old oil. Probably once a storm drain converted into a bunker during the first wave of war.
• After several minutes, they reached a sealed utility door marked with faded glyphs from the Republic era.
• Eron slammed the manual override. The door opened with a screech.
• Inside: silence. A generator flickered weakly in the corner. Dust danced in the beam of Layla’s light.
• And then they heard the hum.
• “Movement,” she whispered. “Thermals.”
• They raised their weapons—only to freeze.
• On the far side of the room, a terminal flickered to life. A projection shimmered in midair.
• Thorne.
• Not live. Pre-recorded.
• ~ “If you’re seeing this,” Thorne’s image said, “then I failed to capture you. Not surprising. You’ve always been lucky, Eron.”
• Layla hissed. “It’s a trap.”
• ~ “I didn’t betray Alric. I served him. Until the council made him weak. Until he let ghosts like you back into our ranks.”
• ~ “We were building something stable. Structured. Clean. Then you came with your vengeance and your fire and turned it all into ash.”
• ~ “So I made a new deal.”
• The screen shifted. A new figure appeared—shadowed, masked by digital blur.
• But the voice was unmistakable. Victor Rane.
• ~ “Hello, nephew.”
• ~ “You’ve cost me a great deal. Lives. Credibility. Momentum. But you’ve also proven... effective.”
• ~ “Thorne believes in a stronger order. I offered him one.”
• ~ “And I offer you the same.”
• ~ “Varkas is a distraction. One you’re walking straight into. My real plans lie east.”
• ~ “But you won’t live long enough to stop them.”
• The feed cut out. Eron’s hands trembled with rage. Layla stepped back. “They wanted us here. Victor sacrificed Varkas just to pin us down.”
• Eron nodded. “And now he’s moving on the Eastern Corridor.”
• They barely made it out of the tunnel.
• The chapel above was overrun. Thorne’s men had burned the altar, shredded the stained glass, and used the courtyard as a staging ground. But they hadn’t swept the water access lines beneath the city.
• Eron and Layla emerged hours later in a ruined aqueduct outside the perimeter, soaked, coughing, but alive.
• They regrouped with Gavik and the surviving militia near an old rail junction under a deactivated overpass.
• Eron addressed the survivors himself.
• “Thorne has turned,” he said. “He’s working with Victor Rane. Varkas wasn’t a target—it was bait.”
• Some gasped. Others cursed.
• “We lost good men,” Eron continued. “But this fight isn’t over. If anything, this proves we’re getting close. Close enough that Victor’s afraid to face us in the open.”
• Layla stepped forward. “Varkas is lost, but the people aren’t. We evacuate who we can. We leave the city behind.”
• “And then?” someone asked.
• Eron looked east, toward the mountains where the Eastern Corridor began.
• “Then we burn the lie at its root.”
• Later that night, Eron sat alone in a burned-out tram car turned command post. The silence buzzed around him like static.
• Layla entered quietly, two mugs in hand.
• He took one without a word.
• “I can still smell the chapel,” he said after a while.
• “It was sacred ground once.”
• “Victor desecrated it like everything else he touches.”
• She sipped her drink. “We lost this one.”
• “I know.”
• “You don’t sound angry.”
• He looked at her. “I’m not.”
• “I’m focused.”
• At that moment, Gavik burst into the tram car.
• “Commander,” he said breathlessly, “we have something.”
• Eron stood. “What?”
• “A prisoner. Caught him trailing our evac column. Says he was with Thorne.”
• Eron’s eyes sharpened. “Where is he?”
• “Being held in the underpass cage.”
• Eron walked out without another word.
• When he reached the cell, he stopped cold.
• The man inside was young—no older than twenty—dressed in civilian rags, hands trembling.
• But his voice was steady.
• “I have a message for Eron Rane,” he said.
• Eron stepped forward. “You’ve found him.”
• The boy swallowed hard. “Victor wants you to know... the next city he burns will be your fault.”