Reversal Of Fate: From A Pawn To A Mafia Billionaire

The Cost Of Concord

The mill smelled of sweat, blood, and ash. Dawn’s light crept through the shattered windows, casting long shadows over the survivors huddled on the upper floors. The haze had retreated, but its silver pulse lingered at the horizon, a predator circling a wounded prey. Jason stood by the window, his knife crusted with dried blood—red and silver—his hands trembling from exhaustion or guilt, he couldn’t tell which.

The ash concord had held. Barely. Half their number lay dead or dying below, their bodies stacked against the barricades like offerings to the haze. The survivors—maybe twenty now—moved with the sluggish purpose of those who had no choice but to keep going. A woman bandaged a boy’s arm, her hands steady despite her tear-streaked face. Two fighters, strangers yesterday, shared a canteen, their laughter brittle but real. A child swept ash from the floor, her small hands clutching a broom like a weapon.

Jason watched them, his chest tight. This was his concord, born of his words,