The morning after his choice, Fred moved like a ghost through the Hollow.
His face betrayed nothing.
Inside, however, his mind was a storm of knives.
Every step was dangerous now.
Every breath could be his last.
He found Bran first — the brute with fists like hammers but a heart soft enough to protect the weak.
Bran was shoveling coal in the lower pits, sweat pouring off him in rivers.
Fred approached, keeping his voice low.
> "Midnight. North tunnel. Bring what you can carry."
Bran shot him a confused look, but Fred said no more.
Bran grunted once, barely nodding, and kept working.
Fred moved on.
Nia was harder.
She was suspicious.
Smart.
When he passed her sharpening stolen blades in the armory ruins, she almost stabbed him for getting too close.
He dropped a crumpled scrap of cloth — a silent message only she would understand.
Tomorrow or never.
And Torin?
Torin was already waiting for him.
---
Fred found Torin in the empty library — a place forgotten by the rest of the Hollow.
Old, crumbling tomes about wars long past lined the walls.
Torin sat at a broken desk, reading by the light of a stolen lantern.
He didn't look up as Fred approached.
> "You're planning something," Torin said flatly.
Fred didn't deny it.
> "You're either with us..." Torin continued, closing his book with a soft thud, "or you're Kael's knife."
A long silence stretched between them.
Every second a crack in Fred's fragile plan.
Finally, Fred spoke.
> "I'm no one's knife."
Torin's lips twitched into something almost like a smile.
Almost.
> "Good," he said.
> "Because Kael's knives die faster than traitors."
They clasped wrists — not a handshake, but a vow.
The first real one Fred had made in months.
Maybe years.
---
That night, in a hidden drainage chamber, Fred unrolled a stolen map.
The Hollow's arteries sprawled before them — tunnels, vents, forgotten shafts.
Fred pointed at three locations circled in red:
1. The Furnace Room — where they could ignite a massive explosion.
2. The Armory Storage — where enough weapons lay rusting to arm a small army.
3. The East Gate Mechanism — the only way out that wasn't lined with spears.
> "We can't fight everyone," Fred said.
> "But we can cause chaos."
> "Enough to slip through."
The others listened, tense.
Hope flickered in their eyes, dangerous and bright.
Fred felt it too.
A foolish, reckless hope that tasted sweeter than fear.
They made their plans with whispered urgency.
Time was sand slipping fast between broken fingers.
---
But Fred knew better than to trust the night.
Kael's spies were everywhere.
Sure enough, as Fred crept back to his bunk hours later, a figure stepped from the shadows.
It was Garran — Kael's personal hound, a sadistic rat who lived to sniff out weakness.
Garran's knife pressed against Fred's throat before he could react.
> "You're very busy lately," Garran hissed.
Fred swallowed the spike of panic rising in his chest.
> "Fetching supplies. Orders from above," Fred lied easily.
Garran's eyes narrowed.
He pressed the knife harder.
A bead of blood welled against Fred's skin.
> "You wouldn't be stupid enough to plot something, would you?"
Fred let out a shaky laugh.
> "I'm too tired to plot treason."
Garran stared at him for a long, dangerous moment.
Then sneered.
Pulled the knife away.
> "Good."
> "Stay that way."
Fred didn't move until Garran disappeared down the hall, footsteps fading into silence.
His heart thundered against his ribs.
Too close.
Way too close.
One wrong move now and it wouldn't just be his life forfeit.
It would be all of theirs.
---
The next day, everything sped up.
Kael announced a surprise inspection.
Squads of guards ransacked bunks, tore apart mess halls, turned over every crate, every mattress, every stone.
Fred played the loyal dog.
He pointed out worthless contraband: dull knives, broken radios, forbidden books.
Enough to satisfy the bloodhounds.
But he could feel Kael's suspicion thickening like smoke.
Fred caught glimpses of Kael's gaze following him through the courtyard.
Measuring.
Calculating.
Tick.
Tock.
The plan had to happen tonight — or not at all.
---
At midnight, Fred, Bran, Nia, and Torin met in the forgotten cistern once more.
Their stolen supplies were pitiful:
Five working blades.
Two cracked pistols with three bullets between them.
One bottle of black powder salvaged from furnace waste.
But hope didn't need armies.
Just a spark.
Fred outlined the plan one last time.
Failure meant death.
Success probably meant death too.
But free death.
A death they chose, not Kael.
That made all the difference.
They clasped wrists again.
Not out of tradition.
Out of grim necessity.
They were bound now.
Sink or burn.
Together.
---
As they scattered into the tunnels to set their pieces in motion, Fred felt it.
Eyes in the darkness.
Watching.
Waiting.
Kael knew something was coming.
The trap was already halfway closed.
Fred pushed the terror down.
This wasn't about survival anymore.
It was about dignity.
About making the Hollow remember their names long after their bodies turned to ash.
And if Fred had to light himself on fire to do it…
He would burn brighter than all the monsters that had ever tried to crush him.
---