Underdirt Rebel

They slip through passages carved in stone and forgotten by time, torchlight flickering across sweat-damp brows. An Underdirt Rebel crouches in a corridor, listening: boots clank from above — the Dominion’s patrols. Light spills; the Rebel holds breath, finger touching damp wall, breath slow as the echo fades.   When the moment comes, their dagger slices rope, collapses a false door, sets timbers to burn. Not for glory, but for someone starving behind closed gates, for the child who never sees sky. In that darkness, they are both blade and whisper — a spark under stone.   They move again, vanishing into the earth, leaving only ruin, rumours, and hope in their wake.