Chapter 5 - Lucian
The road into Old Vienna is slick with rain, the tires of our borrowed car hissing over cobblestones that shine like black glass.
Rourke drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh.
He pretends it’s nothing, just a habit, but I’ve known him long enough to read nerves when they pulse through his skin.
Old Vienna unsettles him. Good. It should.
The city looms ahead, its spires piercing the night sky, domes glistening under lamplight.
Once, I walked these streets as a soldier of the Crown, boots polished, medals gleaming, the illusion of honor pressed into my chest like a brand.
Now I return as a ghost, unshaven, mud-streaked, a fugitive moving toward a stage lit for men like Declan St. Croix. The thought curdles in my stomach.
We park two streets away from the river.
Marta’s contact was supposed to leave an apartment key under the third step of a boarding house.
Rourke retrieves it, hands it to me, and we enter a room that smells of old wood and mildew.
Sparse furniture, a single window overlooking a narrow street, curtains moth-eaten. It’s enough.
I drop the duffel on the table. Inside: the ledgers, the stolen drives, evidence that stitches Cadmus and the Crown together like Siamese twins.
Rourke stares at them as though they might ignite on their own.
“If this gets out,” he says quietly, “it won’t just be Declan who burns. The whole order falls.”
“Then we make sure it falls on the right heads.”
He laughs, sharp and humorless. “You still believe in right and wrong?”
I don’t answer. My silence is a blade he can’t dull.
Through the window, Old Vienna hums. Vehicles rattle, bells toll, footsteps scatter over cobblestone. Music drifts faintly, violins, piano, laughter spilling from ballrooms. The summit is already seeding the air with champagne and deceit. Declan is near; I feel him like a splinter under the skin.
I clean my rifle in the lamplight, each motion methodical. Steel, cloth, oil. Ritual. It calms me. Rourke sprawls on the bed, restless. “You think she made it here?”
Vera. Her name flickers in the silence like a match. I don’t look at him when I answer. “She’s alive.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.”
He doesn’t press further. But I can feel his eyes on me, weighing, questioning. Trust is a thin wire between us, fraying with every step we take into this city.
Near midnight, I step outside. The rain has eased into mist, clinging to stone and skin.
I walk the streets alone, memorizing routes, alleys, choke points.
The opera house towers above the district, its marble facade glowing pale against the dark.
Workers carry crates inside, preparations for the summit’s masquerade.
Guards watch from shadows, rifles slung casual but ready. Every angle is a snare.
I mark them all. Tomorrow, I’ll return. Tomorrow, I’ll find the cracks.
As I turn back toward the boarding house, a thought presses sharp against me. Somewhere in this city, Vera is walking the same streets, carrying the same blade disguised as evidence. If the threads converge here, it will not be an accident. It will be war.
***
The morning comes gray, muted, as if the sky itself doesn’t trust Old Vienna.
I wake before dawn, rifle across my chest, the floorboards cold beneath my boots.
Rourke mutters in his sleep, caught in dreams I don’t envy.
When he stirs awake, I’m already at the window, watching the first carts rattle down the street, vendors setting up stalls, women carrying baskets of bread.
Ordinary life, an illusion draped over the rot.
The land feels caught in another century, a world of smoke-stained cottages and fields that struggle against the soil.
But I know better. This is not backwardness; it is design.
Years ago, the Crown bought these villages outright, using shell companies and government proxies.
Outskirts of Vienna, far enough that no one in the city cared to look, yet close enough to exploit its arteries.
Since then, progress has been stripped away piece by piece.
No investments. No infrastructure. Every advance choked off until what remains is stagnation.
It was never neglect. It was groundwork. Control disguised as poverty over time.
I pass a cart pulled by a swayback horse, its wheels bound with rope to hold them together.
Children stare at me from doorways, their eyes too old for their faces.
The outside world would call this place forgotten, but nothing about it is accidental.
The Crown carved these towns and villages into silence so it could bury its operations here. That’s why I’m here too.
We eat stale bread and bitter coffee bought from a vendor below. Rourke chews without appetite, eyes flicking to the duffel. “We can’t hold onto those ledgers forever,” he says. “The longer we sit, the more we bleed time.”
“They’re leverage,” I answer. “Not evidence for the world. Evidence for us. We use them to cut into Declan’s armor.”
Rourke snorts. “You think Declan St. Croix wears armor? He wears charm and arrogance. Armor is for men who bleed.”
I clean the knife at my belt, the blade flashing in the weak light. “Everyone bleeds.”
By midday, we’re in the streets. I keep my collar turned up, cap low.
The air smells of roasted chestnuts and coal smoke, a scent that clings to Old Vienna like perfume.
Vehicles clatter past, their occupants dressed in silks and fur, oblivious to the weight of the summit pressing down on their city.
Posters plastered on walls trumpet economic unity, progress, and prosperity. Lies written in bold ink.
We circle the opera house again. Today, it’s swarming with activity, delivery supply trucks stacked with cases of wine, tables, and decorations.
Guards check manifests, rifles gleaming under the weak sun.
I note their positions, the blind corners, the rhythm of their patrols.
Rourke trails a few paces behind me, eyes always scanning for tails.
“Too many,” he murmurs. “If you’re thinking of slipping inside, you’ll need more than shadows.”
“I’m not thinking of slipping inside.”
He arches a brow. “Then what?”
“Mapping exits. Counting steps. Knowing how long it takes a guard to smoke a cigarette.” I glance at him. “Details win wars.”
Rourke chuckles. “And here I thought you only knew how to burn things down.”
We stop at a café across the street, with small tables beneath an awning.
I order coffee I won’t drink, my eyes fixed on the opera house facade.
Men in tailored suits pass through its doors, briefcases in hand, arrogance in their stride.
Among them, I see glimpses of uniforms, Crown insignia discreetly stitched into coats.
Cadmus men linger nearby, their presence quieter, colder.
Two predators circling the same carcass.
One figure catches my attention: tall, immaculate, his smile too polished, his handshake lingering too long.
He greets a Crown dignitary as though they’re old friends.
Even from this distance, I recognize the swagger.
Declan St. Croix. My teeth clench. For a moment, the city fades, and all I see is the man who threads chaos like a needle through silk.
Rourke follows my gaze. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer. My silence says enough.
Declan disappears inside, swallowed by marble and chandeliers. The sight leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Rourke leans back in his chair, muttering, “You’ll never reach him through the front. Not with that circus.”
“We won’t reach him through the front,” I agree. “But everyone leaves by a door. Even gods.”
We leave before suspicion can root. On the walk back, I notice a man shadowing us, a hat pulled low, stride too careful. I take three turns down narrow streets. He follows. When I slip into an alley, he hesitates at the mouth, scanning. Rourke grips my arm, whispering, “Not here. Too exposed.”
He’s right. I let the man pass, memorizing his walk, the cut of his coat. Crown agent, perhaps. Or Cadmus. In Old Vienna, it hardly matters; their blades point in the same direction.
***
Back in the room, I sit with the ledgers spread before me. The numbers whisper betrayal, every column proof that the Crown and Cadmus feed from the same trough. I picture Vera’s satchel, her handwriting on the tabs, the way she must clutch it as I do these pages. The thought steadies me.
Rourke sprawls on the bed again, staring at the ceiling. “If she’s here, she’s already walking into a trap.”
“Then I’ll break it.”
He laughs, soft and disbelieving. “You really think you can save her?”
I look at him, voice cold. “I don’t save. I destroy. Saving is just what’s left when the ashes settle.”
The city bells toll seven. Outside, Old Vienna glitters under gaslight, oblivious to the blood lining its foundations. Tomorrow, the summit begins. Tomorrow, Declan steps onto his stage. And tomorrow, if the fates align, Vera’s shadow will cross mine in this city of masks.
The night is restless. Every creak in the boarding house sounds like a footfall, every gust of wind through the shutters like a whisper of pursuit.
I sit at the table long after Rourke’s breathing settles into an uneasy rhythm, the ledgers spread before me.
Columns of numbers blur together until they start to feel like maps of veins, the city itself pulsing with corruption.
The Crown and Cadmus are one organism. Cut in the wrong place, it won’t die; it will adapt.
I close the ledgers and slide them back into the duffel. My hands itch for violence, but not yet. Old Vienna is a stage, and if I strike too soon, the curtain falls before the play begins.