Chapter 7 - Lucian #2
“Tomorrow,” I whisper, the word like iron in my mouth. “Tomorrow, I carve through his mask.”
The gala stretches into the night. Music swells from the opera house, violins and cellos weaving through the city streets like threads of silk.
I watch from the rooftop, my rifle balanced across my knees, every sense sharpened.
Each vehicle that arrives is another pawn in Declan’s game.
Each laugh, each toast inside those marble walls is another stone on the pyre.
Rourke shifts restlessly behind me. “You can’t sit like this forever. Eyes on the glass, finger on the trigger. You’ll drive yourself mad.”
“I’ve lived mad,” I murmur. “It’s not so different from living sane. Just louder.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of his boots against the roof tiles as he paces. He’s not built for waiting. Neither am I, but patience is a weapon, and tonight I sharpen it.
Below, the square hums with energy. Patrols crisscross, their rifles gleaming in the lamplight.
Vendors still hawk roasted chestnuts to the crowd lingering outside, gossip flowing faster than wine.
Somewhere in that mass of faces, I wonder if Vera watches too.
The thought gnaws at me. If she’s here, she’s already in the snare.
And if Declan knows it, then the jaws are closing faster than I can pry them open.
Near midnight, a vehicle different from the others arrives.
No banners, no heralds, just a black lacquered shell drawn by gray horses.
It stops at the side entrance. From it emerges a man I don’t recognize, broad-shouldered, pale, his coat collar pulled high.
But his posture is wrong for a delegate. Too stiff, too predatory.
Cadmus. I know the scent of them, even from a distance. He vanishes into the opera house with no fanfare, yet the guards stiffen subtly, as though the air itself grew colder. My teeth grind. Declan is stitching Crown and Cadmus together in plain sight, and no one blinks.
I lower the scope, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Rourke crouches beside me. “You’re thinking about storming in.”
“I’m thinking about how easy it would be to take him now. One shot, two hundred meters. End it before it begins.”
“And then what?” Rourke’s voice is sharp. “You think Cadmus doesn’t have a second mask waiting? You kill Declan here and now, they’ll call him martyr, saint, visionary struck down by extremists. You’ll feed their story.”
I hate that he’s right. Rage is simple; strategy is harder. I sling the rifle back across my shoulder. “Then we bleed him slowly. Cut him where no one sees, until the mask cracks.”
We leave the rooftop before dawn, moving through alleys where drunkards stagger and cats fight in the gutters. Back at the safe house, I strip off the Crown uniform, folding it carefully and setting it aside. It feels like shedding a skin I never asked to wear again.
Sleep comes fitfully. Dreams of fire and collapsing walls, of Marta’s last scream echoing down stone corridors. I wake with sweat slicking my chest, the city bells tolling in the morning. Today is the summit proper, the day when words are sharpened into weapons, when signatures become chains.
We eat quickly and return to the warehouse.
I open another crate, pulling free maps marked with red ink.
Marta’s hand again, routes through Old Vienna, safe passages, warning signs of Crown surveillance.
Each mark is a lifeline, even now. I trace a path leading beneath the opera house, through old service tunnels long abandoned.
Dust chokes them, but they exist. And they may yet be our way inside.
Rourke leans over my shoulder. “You’re thinking infiltration.”
“I’m thinking opportunity.”
“Opportunity to die.”
I fold the map. “All roads lead to that. At least this one offers a door.”
We spend the rest of the morning preparing, checking weapons, memorizing routes, disguises packed tight.
The tension between us grows thick, words left unsaid piling higher than the crates around us.
At last, Rourke breaks the silence. “If Vera’s alive, she’ll head for those tunnels too. She’s smart enough to find the cracks.”
His words ignite something I don’t let show. Instead, I say flatly, “Then we’ll meet her in the dark.”
The city sharpens as the summit begins. Every street feels narrower, every step watched.
The opera house looms like a crown jewel, banners streaming, its windows blazing gold even in daylight.
From our vantage in the brewery attic, I watch the square below churn with movement, delegates, guards, agents, civilians pressed shoulder to shoulder.
Old Vienna is no longer a city; it’s a stage set for fire.
Rourke sits across from me, his knee bouncing restlessly. “You keep staring like you’re already inside,” he mutters.
“I am inside,” I reply. “Every guard rotation, every blind corner, every shadow, I’ve walked them in my head a hundred times.”
He scowls. “In your head doesn’t count when bullets start flying.”
“Then we make sure the first bullet isn’t theirs.”
We move before noon, slipping through alleys toward the opera district.
The forged passes in my coat weigh heavy, the Crown insignia on my uniform itching like a rash.
Every checkpoint we pass is a test, rifles leveled, eyes suspicious.
Each time, I flash the pass, let arrogance drip from my posture, and they wave us through. It sickens me how easily the mask fits.
At the third checkpoint, a moment of danger: the guard’s eyes narrow on me, recognition sparking.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll name me. My hand hovers near the knife at my belt.
But then he grunts, stamps the pass, and lets us through.
Rourke exhales sharply once we’re clear. “That was too close.”
“Close is enough,” I say, though my pulse still pounds in my throat.
By midafternoon, we slip into the underbelly of the opera house.
Marta’s maps lead us to a service tunnel half-hidden beneath a collapsed archway near the river.
Dust thickens the air, cobwebs brush my skin, and the stones sweat with damp.
We light a single lantern and move through the dark.
Rats scatter ahead of us, their squeaks echoing like warnings.
The air smells of rust and rot, but the tunnels are real. Marta was right.
We follow them until we find a rusted grate that opens into a chamber beneath the opera house.
Through cracks in the ceiling, we hear the thunder of footsteps, the distant roar of music and applause.
The summit is alive above us. Every note of the orchestra feels like a drumbeat counting down to violence.
Rourke crouches beside me, voice low. “If she’s here, this is where she’ll come.”
I grip the lantern tighter. Vera. The thought of her walking these same tunnels slices through me, sharp hope, sharper fear. If Declan has men down here, she’s already in danger. If she doesn’t, she soon will be. Either way, the dark will bring us together.
We settle into the shadows, waiting. I check my rifle again, every movement deliberate. Patience. Control. But beneath it all, my blood runs hot. Declan breathes above me, smug in his theater, and Vera moves somewhere in this city, satchel in hand, hunted. The convergence is inevitable.
Rourke breaks the silence with a grim chuckle. “You’re grinning. That’s worse than when you’re angry.”
“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” I admit. “About what breaks when the curtain falls.”
Outside, bells toll six. The summit’s first day wanes, but the fire hasn’t yet begun. It will. I feel it in my bones, in the rhythm of the city’s pulse, in the way every shadow seems to lean closer. Old Vienna is a crucible, and tonight we step into the forge.
I whisper to the stone ceiling above me, to the weight of the opera house pressing down: “Declan, your stage is mine now.”