No one knows who whispered it first, but by dawn the whole capital was repeating it: “The Duke lives.” One sentence, spreading faster than Antonov’s patrols could stomp it out — and with it, Droxmar began to tilt.
THE CELLS MOVE IN THE DARK
Before the sun cleared the smog belt, the first strikes hit. Power relays blew out in government districts, dropping entire avenues into blackout. Troop carriers went up in sudden fireballs along patrol routes. Couriers never arrived at their posts — their speeders found abandoned, orders replaced with forged directives sending loyalist squads chasing ghosts.
And in alleys and shuttered apartments, old debts were settled. Names whispered during the Yamato purge turned up dead, quietly, efficiently. Different neighborhoods. Different teams. But the rhythm felt the same, like someone unseen was conducting an orchestra of sabotage.
THE PEOPLE TAKE THE STREETS
By midday, the civilians had reached their breaking point. Dockworkers, shopkeepers, families who lost everything when Count Ryn Yamato fell — they surged into the capital square, roaring a single demand: “Justice for the Duke!” “Down with the pig!” Roads clogged. Towers sealed themselves from within. Loyalist officers watched from behind blast shutters as the city they claimed to rule slipped out of their hands. Then the moment no one could take back arrived.
THE FIRE AT CAPITAL HALL
A splinter mob, rattled by rumors of purge squads and unnerved by the blackouts, pushed toward the Capital Hall. They carried whatever they’d scavenged — welders, flares, solvent canisters. Chanting became shoving. Shoving became breaking glass. Breaking glass became flame. The marble façade lit up in a sheet of orange, casting long shadows of fleeing guards as debris tumbled from above. Droxmar had crossed its line.
THE DROID MARCH
Before the smoke even thinned, a new sound cut through the chaos — hard, metallic, perfectly timed. From the haze stepped Yamato Battle Droids. Restored. Repainted. Crest gleaming like a returning banner. They took formation with an elegance that felt almost ceremonial, as if resurrecting a choreography from the Syndicate’s golden age. Loyalist guards froze. Some lowered their weapons without being asked.
The crowd fell into stunned silence. History had walked out of the fire. If the rumor was the spark, this was the confirmation: The Duke wasn’t just alive. He was taking Droxmar back.