Chapter 7 - Lucian
Dawn cuts Old Vienna in half, gold on the rooftops, gray in the alleys.
From the window of our room, I watch the city rise in layers: workers first, hauling crates and sweeping streets; then merchants, tugging open shutters; and finally, the delegates, their vehicles gleaming, their guards restless with polished rifles.
The summit has begun, and the city wears anticipation like perfume. Sweet, cloying, suffocating.
Rourke paces behind me, muttering half to himself. His nerves are raw, his patience stretched thin. “We shouldn’t stay here,” he says. “Too close to the opera house, too many eyes. The Crown will sniff us out before long.”
“Let them sniff,” I answer. My voice is steady, but inside I feel the same taut pull. The air itself tastes of pursuit. “We’re ghosts until we decide otherwise.”
He stops at the table, staring at the duffel of ledgers. “You’re certain she’s here?”
“Yes.” The word leaves me without hesitation. “Vera’s alive.”
Rourke’s laugh is humorless. “You sound like a priest preaching resurrection. You saw a shadow on a roof, Lucian. That’s all.”
I turn from the window. “I saw her.”
Our eyes lock, his lined with doubt, mine with the kind of conviction that frightens even me. The silence between us grows heavy, until he looks away first.
We move at midmorning. The streets are thick with color, flags of every nation snapping in the breeze, flowers draped across balconies, children selling ribbons in Crown hues.
The performance is for the world, but the menace lies beneath: Crown patrols at every corner, Cadmus enforcers melting through the crowd, plainclothes agents whose eyes flick too sharply.
The city is a snare disguised as a carnival.
I guide Rourke along side streets, past bakeries warm with bread and taverns already buzzing with cheap wine.
Our destination is a warehouse near the Danube docks, abandoned but for the rats.
Marta marked it on a map before she fell; it was to be a fallback point, stocked with weapons and papers for safe transit.
When we arrive, I find her mark etched into the doorframe: a small cross, barely visible unless you know to search.
My chest tightens. Even gone, she guides us.
Inside, dust lies thick on crates stamped with foreign sigils.
I pry one open, rifle parts, ammunition, enough to arm a small squad.
Another crate holds forged documents, seals so finely crafted they could pass any checkpoint.
Marta planned well. Too well. My throat burns with the knowledge she’ll never see the fruit of it.
Rourke whistles low. “This is enough to start a war.”
“That’s the point,” I mutter. “Wars don’t start with armies. They start with ledgers and shadows.”
We inventory quickly, then secure what we can carry. I tuck a forged Crown pass into my coat, its wax seal gleaming faintly. With it, I can walk closer to Declan’s stage than most men would dare.
By afternoon, we’re back in the streets.
The opera house gleams like ivory under the sun, its banners snapping proud.
Delegates pour inside, their laughter loud, their arrogance louder.
Through the scope of my mind’s eye, I mark every guard, every vehicle, every blind angle.
The noose tightens around this city, but not only for us, for Declan too. He just doesn’t feel it yet.
At dusk, I climb to the roof of a crumbling brewery across from the opera district.
From here, the view is perfect: the opera house in all its gaudy splendor, the square below crawling with soldiers, the gas lamps throwing long shadows.
Rourke lingers behind, restless, his hands shaking slightly as he rolls a cigarette he doesn’t smoke.
“Tell me something,” he says suddenly. “When this is done, when Declan falls, what then? You burn it all down? Or do you just disappear again?”
I don’t answer at first. My eyes trace the golden glow spilling from the opera house windows. Music drifts faintly across the square, violins and cellos threading through the night. Finally, I say, “When Declan falls, the world shifts. Where I stand when it does, that’s a question for later.”
Rourke exhales smoke he didn’t inhale. “You talk like a man already halfway to the grave.”
“Maybe I am,” I say. But my grip on the rifle is steady. My heartbeat is not.
Because somewhere in this city, Vera is moving too. I felt her last night, the ghost of her presence, sharp as a blade. And tonight, the threads between us feel closer still, tugging us both toward the same stage.
The bells toll midnight. Old Vienna’s lights shimmer against the dark river. Tomorrow, the summit begins in truth. Tomorrow, the masks will fall. And tomorrow,
Declan learns that even kings bleed.
***
Morning comes with a hard light, brittle as glass.
The boarding house feels smaller today, the walls closing in, as though Old Vienna itself is tightening around us.
I eat little, stale bread dipped in bitter coffee, and then we’re moving again.
The city is awake in full, its streets crawling with banners and brass buttons.
The summit is no longer a matter of anticipation; it’s here.
We keep to back streets, where the smells of horse dung and coal cling heavy in the air.
Market stalls buzz with vendors shouting prices in three languages, ribbons in Crown colors fluttering from every corner.
Above it all, the opera house towers like a cathedral.
Its white stone glitters in the pale sun, banners snapping, windows glowing.
Already, the square before it is filling with vehicles and crowds eager for spectacle.
I don’t walk like a spectator. My stride is purposeful, my eyes cutting over details: the rhythm of guard rotations, the angle of the mounted rifles, the nervous flicks of plainclothes men who try too hard to look ordinary.
Rourke shadows me, his cap low, his jaw tight. His nerves hum like exposed wires.
By midday, we approach the warehouse again.
Inside, the air smells of dust and machine oil.
We open more crates, my hands searching for something I don’t know until I find it: uniforms. Crown issue, pressed and wrapped in oilskin.
Rank badges included. I hold one up to the light. “They planned for infiltration.”
Rourke whistles. “Goddamn, Marta. You really thought of everything.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I strip down, tugging the uniform on piece by piece.
It fits close enough. The fabric itches, the insignia burns against my chest, but the disguise is sound.
I stand before a cracked mirror propped against the wall.
For a moment, it feels like stepping back into another life, the soldier who marched for the Crown, obeyed its lies, wore its colors with pride. The memory is acid in my throat.
Rourke studies me, a strange look in his eyes. “You look like them. Almost too much.”
“Good,” I say flatly. “That’s the point.”
He shifts uneasily. “And if someone remembers your face?”
I adjust the cap, shadowing my eyes. “Then I kill them before they can speak.”
We take only what we can carry: uniforms, forged passes, small arms tucked into false-bottomed crates. The rest we hide, covering the cache with tarps and dust. This city devours secrets, but some are worth keeping hidden for later.
Back in the streets, the crowds swell. Brass bands blare patriotic hymns, children wave flags stitched with crowns, women toss flowers before the vehicles of arriving dignitaries.
It’s theater, carefully orchestrated. Every smile is painted, every cheer rehearsed.
The whole city is an audience to its own deception.
I spot Declan’s men slipping through the crowd, sharp suits, sharper eyes, moving in pairs.
They don’t wear uniforms; they don’t need them.
Their arrogance is uniform enough. One brushes past me, and for a second, I feel his gaze linger, too calculating.
I keep my stride even, my cap low, my forged pass heavy in my pocket like a talisman.
We duck into a tavern on a side street. Rourke orders a beer he doesn’t touch.
I keep my back to the wall, watching the door.
Conversations flow around us, snatches of gossip about the summit, rumors of trade deals, whispers of men vanishing near the docks.
Every voice adds to the picture: Old Vienna is a city under siege, but the chains are made of velvet.
Rourke breaks the silence between us. “If Vera really is here, she’s walking the same streets. You’ve thought about what happens when you find her?”
I don’t answer immediately. I picture her face, the defiance in her eyes, the way she clutches that satchel like it’s her lifeline. My chest tightens. “She has what we need. What I need. When I find her, we end this together, or we don’t end it at all.”
Rourke studies me, wary. “And if she doesn’t want to stand with you?”
My jaw tightens. “Then she’ll have to decide if she wants to stand at all.”
Evening settles, and with it, the first gala of the summit. Carriages line the opera square, their lanterns glowing, their horses tossing manes of silver under lamplight. Inside those marble walls, men toast to futures built on bones. I feel the pull of it, the gravity of tomorrow pressing close.
On the rooftop of a nearby brewery, I set the rifle across my knees.
Through the scope, I watch the opera house doors.
Dignitaries sweep in, jewels glittering, silk rustling.
I mark them, each face, each stride. And then I see him: Declan, descending from his vehicle as though descending from heaven itself.
His smile is liquid charm, his wave effortless. The crowd drinks him in, intoxicated.
Rourke mutters behind me, “You’re shaking.”
I steady my hands, but he’s right. Not from fear. From rage. Declan shines under those lights, but all I see is the architect of graves.