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Chapter 85 – The Children of Cinders
The sky above Avareth's ruins was no longer just empty.
It listened.
Even as the light from the memory-node faded, a low hum persisted beneath the soil—like something ancient had stirred, half-awake, blinking through dust-coated eyes. The rebels stood at the center of it, uncertain whether they had unearthed a relic or planted a revolution.
Erevan stared up. For the first time in what felt like days, he allowed himself to exhale.
But the peace didn't last.
A low-pitched chirrrr crackled through the remnants of the broken Tower conduit near the north slope. Lira spun around instantly, scanning with her scope.
"Movement," she said. "Three signatures. Not Chainborn. Not Tower."
Yuren adjusted his sensor-link, narrowing his eyes. "Wait… they're not fully human either. They're spliced. No uniform resonance."
Erevan's expression sharpened. "You're saying they're hybrids?"
Before anyone could answer, a child stepped from the ash.
Barefoot. Cloaked in cloth that looked salvaged from shredded flags. His hair was the color of dried blood, skin marked with faint glowing lines that pulsed like dormant circuits. Two others followed—another child, maybe ten, and a third that looked like a teenager but moved with the guarded posture of someone far older.
They didn't speak.
They just watched.
Lira raised a hand. "Wait. Don't scare them."
Erevan took a cautious step forward, lowering his aura, quieting his presence. "Who are you?" he asked gently.
The eldest of the three stepped forward. Her voice was clear but carried the weight of someone who had learned to ration words like water in a desert.
"We are the Children of Cinders."
Yuren blinked. "That's… poetic."
"No. It's what they called us," she said. "When they left us behind."
"Who?"
"The Tower. The ones who came after you fell. They tried to erase this place, but we clung to the cracks. We nested in memory-fragments. We stitched ourselves together from dreams and protocol scraps."
Serah's eyes widened. "You survived Reclamation?"
The child nodded. "Barely. We don't have names. Only echoes. The node sang to us once, long ago, before it went quiet. Then you came. And it woke up."
Erevan looked at them carefully. The marks on their skin weren't mutations. They were interfaces. Living memory-threads—stitched directly into their bodies.
"They're not just survivors," he murmured. "They're living archives."
Lira crouched down, voice softer than Erevan had ever heard it. "What do you remember?"
The youngest boy raised a charred data-slate. He pressed a finger to it, and images blinked to life—not perfect, but clear enough.
The last days of Avareth. Families fleeing. Codes being encrypted. Someone screaming for help. A girl huddled in a chamber as cleansing fire flooded the sky.
And then static.
And then… singing.
One voice, trembling but defiant, singing through the flames.
"I remember that voice," Serah whispered. "She was one of the resistance singers. Kara Venn. She stayed behind to hold the node."
"She became the seed," the teenage girl said. "The memory-tree you awakened. She burned—but she remembered."
A long silence followed. No one dared to speak.
Then Erevan stepped forward and knelt to meet their eyes. "You don't have to hide anymore. You're not just Children of Cinders. You're the next note. The one the Tower failed to silence."
The youngest tilted his head. "But we don't know what to do."
"You don't need to yet," Erevan said gently. "You're not soldiers. Not tools. You're proof."
"Of what?"
"That memory cannot be erased if someone lives it."
Behind them, the node pulsed once again—this time fainter, but steadier. It had accepted the presence of the children. Recognized them. Bonded.
Yuren was already scribbling in a fieldpad. "If we can record their neural resonance and compare it to pre-Reclamation Tower archives, we might be able to reconstruct entire subnodes. We could use that to trace other erased sanctuaries—"
"No," Erevan said quietly.
Yuren looked up. "No?"
"They're not tools. They're not blueprints. They're people first. We protect them. We let them decide how to share what they remember. If we force it… we're no better than the Tower."
Yuren hesitated, then slowly nodded. "You're right."
Serah stepped up beside Erevan, her voice steady. "They come with us."
The eldest girl narrowed her eyes. "To where?"
Erevan rose. "To the Archive."
"The one in Vestigial-3?"
"No. A new one. One we're building with our own stories. And yours. A place the Tower can't erase."
The three children glanced at one another. Slowly, they nodded.
Serah offered her hand to the youngest, who looked at it, then took it.
"Do you remember your name?" she asked softly.
He shook his head.
"That's okay," she whispered. "You'll find it again."
As the group began to move, Erevan paused to glance back at the plaque. The winds had begun to shift, scattering some of the ash. Under the grime, one more line became visible beneath the rebel creed.
"Some truths burn. Others light the way."
He smiled faintly. "Let's make sure this one lights the way."
And with that, the Cosmic Tyrant turned from the grave of a forgotten sanctuary, now reborn not as a ruin—but as a seed.
The children followed.
And the sky listened.
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Author's Note:
Chapter 85 brings us a quiet miracle: proof that even the most forgotten ashes can give birth to something new. The Children of Cinders carry not just memories—but hope. Erevan's journey deepens with each soul who remembers.
Let's keep this fire alive.
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Thank you for being part of this rebellion.
— Dorian Blackthorn
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