Chapter 6 - Vera
The boarding house smells of wax and old paper, the kind of place where footsteps echo too loudly, where secrets live pressed between the walls.
I keep the curtains drawn, the satchel pressed against me as though it were an organ I couldn’t live without.
Outside, Old Vienna wakes to a day dressed in banners and brass.
Vehicles rattle down the street, hooves striking sparks from stone, and every sound makes me flinch.
I dreamt of fire last night. Not the soft kind in hearths, but fire that eats the sky, that paints everything red.
When I woke, I was clutching the satchel so tight the straps left welts in my palms. I’ve carried it across borders, rivers, and back alleys.
Its weight hasn’t lessened; if anything, it grows heavier, as though the ledgers inside know the lives they could end.
By midmorning, I force myself out. The boarding house matron eyes me curiously but says nothing. My disguise is simple: hair tucked beneath a scarf, plain coat, boots worn enough to pass for a laborer’s. Even so, I feel exposed. The city feels like a stage, and I’ve walked into the spotlight.
The streets are dressed for spectacle. Flags of every nation hang from balconies, merchants hawk ribbons in Crown colors, and street urchins weave through the crowd, chanting about prosperity.
It’s a lie sung in unison, and it makes my stomach twist. Somewhere beneath this noise, the Crown and Cadmus move their pieces.
At the market square, I pause. My eyes trace every shadow, every pair of boots that lingers too long.
I’ve learned to read danger in posture, the slight tilt of a head, the sudden silence when someone recognizes a face.
Two men by the fountain have that look. They pretend to admire the pigeons, but their eyes keep skimming the crowd. Looking for someone. For me?
I shift course, weaving through stalls heavy with fruit and bread. A vendor presses an apple into my hand with a smile, but his gaze darts nervously past my shoulder. That’s when I know: I’m marked. The satchel seems to grow heavier. My heartbeat pounds against it.
I slip into an alley, footsteps echoing behind.
Quick, careful, too careful. Cadmus men, maybe.
Or worse, Crown. The alley narrows, twists.
I reach for the knife at my hip, thumb brushing the worn leather of its sheath.
My father’s voice whispers through memory: Never run unless you know where you’ll land.
At the alley’s end, I burst into a courtyard.
Laundry flaps overhead, and children scatter at the sight of me.
The footsteps behind quicken. I pivot, pressing my back to a wall, blade ready.
When the first man rounds the corner, his coat dark, hat low, eyes cold, I strike.
The blade bites his sleeve, shallow but enough to stagger him.
He curses in a language I don’t recognize.
The second man lunges, but the courtyard erupts with voices, neighbors leaning out of windows, shouting, brandishing brooms. Old Vienna isn’t theirs, not really.
The men retreat with snarls, vanishing into the alleys like smoke.
I sheathe the knife, hands trembling, heart racing.
The neighbors stare but don’t approach. In this city, everyone knows silence is safer.
I press on. The satchel digs into my shoulder as I head toward the river.
The opera house looms ahead, marble glowing pale in the afternoon light.
Guards stand at its gates, uniforms pressed, rifles gleaming.
The sight chills me. Somewhere inside, Declan spins his web, and somewhere near, Lucian prowls the city like a ghost. I don’t need to see him to feel it.
Our paths are converging. The thought steadies me and terrifies me all at once.
I retreat to a quieter district, ducking into a church where candles flicker against cold stone.
I sink into a pew, the satchel in my lap, and close my eyes.
My whispered prayer isn’t for salvation; it’s for endurance.
For the strength to keep moving, even when the city itself seems to rise against me.
When I leave, the bells are tolling six. Dusk spreads violet across the sky. I keep to the narrow streets, eyes sharp, senses taut. Tonight, Old Vienna is a theater of masks, and I am one of the players whether I wish it or not.
The satchel never leaves my grasp. I hold it tight against my ribs as I step back into the darkening streets, the church bells echoing in my ears.
Every clang feels like a countdown, every shadow lengthens like an omen.
Old Vienna hums with the noise of evening, the rattle of vehicle wheels, the laughter spilling from cafés, the clink of glasses raised in premature celebration of tomorrow’s summit.
They toast to prosperity. I walk with proof of rot pressed against my chest.
I move cautiously, taking unfamiliar routes.
The city is a maze of narrow alleys and open boulevards, each one a test. My eyes dart to every reflection in shop windows, every man whose stride lingers too long behind mine.
I’ve learned that survival isn’t just running, it’s listening, watching, and predicting.
And Old Vienna has a rhythm, if you listen closely.
The guards march to one beat, the revelers to another.
The hunters, though, their steps fall just out of time. That’s how you hear them.
At the Karlsplatz, music drifts from the grand concert hall.
I pause at the edge of the crowd gathered outside.
Couples stroll in gowns and suits, masks in hand for the evening’s masquerades.
I could almost disappear among them, but the satchel ruins the illusion.
It marks me as different, as dangerous. I pull my scarf tighter, turning away.
By the river, fog coils off the water, swallowing lamplight in pale haze.
I lean against the stone balustrade, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
My reflection wavers on the surface, pale and distorted.
Behind me, footsteps scrape. Too close. Too deliberate.
I don’t turn immediately. Instead, I shift, catching the glint of movement in the window of a riverside inn.
A man stands at the corner, feigning interest in a newspaper.
His hat dips low, but his attention is fixed on me.
I walk, slow at first, then quicker. The satchel digs into my shoulder. Another pair of footsteps joins the first. Two. They mirror my pace. I veer into a side street, narrow and slick, heart pounding. The men follow, their boots striking wet stone. I count my breaths. One, two, three, then bolt.
The chase winds through the labyrinth of Old Vienna’s old quarter.
Past shuttered shops, under laundry lines that slap my face, through courtyards where startled cats scatter.
The men are close. Too close. My lungs burn, but I don’t slow.
Ahead, I see a gate half open. I slip through, slam it shut behind me, and dive into a stairwell leading down to the river’s edge.
There, I crouch in the dark, the smell of damp stone thick in my nostrils. The satchel thumps against my knees as I clutch it. Footsteps thunder past overhead. One of the men curses, the sound echoing down into my hiding place. I hold my breath until silence swallows the alley.
Minutes pass before I dare climb back up. The street is empty now, slick with rain, the gate swinging gently on its hinges. I press on, shaken but alive.
By the time I reach the boarding house, the sky has turned black.
The landlady barely glances at me as I climb the stairs.
In my room, I lock the door twice, then collapse on the bed with the satchel beside me.
My hands shake as I undo the buckles. I flip through the pages, ledgers, letters, and codes.
Proof enough to turn the summit into an inferno if placed in the right hands.
One page catches my eye: a ledger entry under Belgrave’s name, linked to shipments labeled only with numbers. The figures are staggering. Enough to finance armies. Enough to topple nations. My throat tightens. This is more than corruption. It’s scaffolding for an empire.
I shove the documents back inside and press the satchel to my chest. Exhaustion drags at me, but sleep is impossible.
I lie in the dark, listening to the city pulse beyond the window.
Somewhere, Lucian moves through these same streets.
Somewhere, Declan sharpens his mask for tomorrow’s performance.
And I…I am the hinge. The satchel is the weight. When it tips, the whole stage falls.
Sleep never comes. Instead, I spend the hours listening, first to the creak of the floorboards as the boarding house settles, then to the shuffle of footsteps in the hall.
Each sound is a needle, pricking me awake.
I rise before dawn, slipping into the gray streets with the satchel strapped tight across my shoulder.
The river fog clings to my skin, heavy and damp, as though Old Vienna itself means to smother me.
The opera house dominates the district like a monarch on a throne.
Even from blocks away, I can hear the bustle of workers and guards, their voices clipped, their movements rehearsed.
Supply trucks clatter across cobblestones, laden with crates that disappear into the belly of the building.
Somewhere inside those walls, Declan is orchestrating his performance.
The thought chills me as much as it steels me.