Chapter 9 - Lucian
Morning in Old Vienna breaks like a blade: sharp, cold, unyielding.
From the narrow slit of the tunnel grate, I watch the city stir.
Vehicles clatter over cobblestones slick with frost, banners ripple in the wind, and the square outside the opera house swells with bodies.
Delegates in tailored suits, soldiers in polished boots, street vendors hawking bread to the restless crowds, every piece of the stage set for Declan’s grand performance.
I haven’t slept. None of us have. Vera sits against the wall opposite, the satchel across her lap like a shield. Rourke mutters curses under his breath, rolling dice that aren’t there between his fingers. We are three ghosts haunting the belly of the beast, waiting for the moment the world tilts.
The sound above shifts as bells toll the hour. Stagehands shout to one another, moving sets, testing ropes. The summit’s second day is upon us. Today, Declan speaks.
I run a whetstone along my knife, the rasp steady, a rhythm to anchor me.
My thoughts are sharp, honed to a single point.
For years, I’ve imagined ending him in silence, in shadow.
A blade in the dark, a whisper in his throat.
But now the plan is different. Vera’s evidence demands spectacle.
His lies must die under the same lights that gave them life.
She watches me, her eyes unblinking, as if measuring how much of the man she knew still lives beneath the scars. The silence between us is heavier than the stone walls. I feel her questions even when she doesn’t ask them. I do not give answers. Not yet.
Rourke finally breaks the stillness. “If this goes wrong, and it will, you’ve doomed us all. You realize that?”
“No,” I say calmly. “Declan doomed us when he chose to wear the Crown’s colors while drinking Cadmus wine. We’re only here to show the world what that looks like in the light.”
Vera’s voice cuts in, quiet but edged. “And if the world doesn’t care?”
“Then we burn it until it learns to.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either. I wonder if she hears the conviction in my voice or only the hunger. Maybe both.
By midmorning, the underchamber hums with activity.
Guards check the ropes, technicians test the machinery.
From our hiding place, we glimpse fragments of the stage above: red velvet curtains drawn back, a podium set at the center, gilded chairs for dignitaries.
A golden microphone gleams in the lights, polished for Declan’s lies.
Rourke leans close. “Once he’s speaking, we’ll never get close without a bullet in the skull.”
“That’s why we don’t aim for closeness,” I murmur. “We aim for exposure. Vera’s satchel, planted where the world can see. The rest follows.”
She tightens her grip on the strap. Her knuckles are pale, but her eyes are steady. I know what it costs her to carry it. Evidence weighs more than steel.
Noon approaches. The chandeliers blaze to life, casting molten light through the cracks in the stage. The murmur of thousands grows into a steady roar. Then, applause, thunderous, rolling. Declan has arrived.
I climb the stairs, just far enough to peer through the tapestry slit.
There he is: tall, immaculate, every inch the savior he pretends to be.
His smile radiates charm, his hands outstretched in blessing.
The crowd drinks him in, blind to the rot beneath.
My chest tightens with a fury so sharp I could choke on it.
Beside me, Vera rises, her breath quickening. I sense the war inside her, fear, resolve, something deeper. Our eyes meet in the half-light. No words pass, but the truth is clear. Today, we tear the mask from Declan’s face. Or we die with the attempt.
The crowd above grows restless, their voices colliding into a tide of anticipation. I can hear the scrape of chairs, the rustle of silk, the coughs of dignitaries trying to compose themselves before history. My pulse thrums in rhythm with it, steady and merciless.
Rourke paces the narrow space, muttering calculations under his breath, how many guards, how many rifles, how few chances. His pessimism gnaws at the edges, but I don’t stop him. Fear sharpens a man’s senses, and we’ll need every sense alive.
Vera crouches beside me, her fingers running absently over the worn strap of the satchel. Her lips move soundlessly, perhaps reciting the names of the dead she carries within those pages. Marta among them. I don’t interrupt. The weight she bears is more than evidence; it’s a ledger of ghosts.
Above, the orchestra swells, strings slicing sharp through the hall. Then, silence. The kind of silence that grips a crowd before a king speaks. Declan steps to the podium.
His voice rolls down through the beams, clear, commanding, poisoned honey. “Ladies and gentlemen, sovereigns and envoys, honored guests of the Crown….”
The applause that follows shakes dust loose from the rafters. Even beneath the stage, I feel the pull of his charisma. No wonder they call him the savior of Old Vienna. They don’t see the claws beneath the silk.
I grit my teeth, knuckles white around the knife in my hand. Every instinct screams to strike now, to cut his voice short forever. But Vera’s hand catches my wrist, grounding me. Her whisper cuts the rage in half: “Not yet.”
Not yet. Two words more binding than chains.
Declan speaks of unity, of strength forged from suffering, of peace brokered by the Crown.
Lies dressed as promises. Every cheer above is another nail hammered into the coffin of truth.
Rourke mutters curses, but his hands shake too badly to reach for his weapon.
He wants to believe in Vera’s plan, in exposure, but like me, he trusts steel more than paper.
I force myself to listen, not to his words but to the rhythm of the hall. The applause, the timing of guard rotations, the way the orchestra swells to mask noise. These are the patterns that matter. These are the threads we can pull.
Vera shifts closer. “When he lifts the treaty, when the crowd’s eyes are on the paper, that’s when we move. I’ll plant the ledgers in full view. Proof against his lies.”
Rourke hisses, “And how do you plan to walk across a stage ringed with rifles?”
Her eyes flash. “Because the world will already be looking. If they shoot me there, the truth carries anyway.”
My chest tightens at her calm, at the steel under her words. She speaks like one ready to bleed without hesitation. I hate it. And I know I cannot stop her. All I can do is carve a path wide enough to make her sacrifice mean more than another forgotten name.
The speech builds toward a crescendo. Declan’s voice grows louder, arms sweeping wide.
The audience roars back, a tide of obedience.
I press closer to the grate, studying every shadow, every guard’s posture, every blind corner.
The underchamber hums with heat and tension. The storm is about to break.
My law: patience until the blade finds flesh. Then, relentless.
Vera grips the satchel. Rourke grips his fear. And I grip the moment that will either unmask a king or bury us beneath his crown.
Declan’s voice climbs, smooth as polished marble.
He paints pictures of peace, of alliances forged across centuries, of Old Vienna as the beacon of a new age.
The audience drinks every word, blind to the poison in the cup.
From our hidden vantage, I can see him lift a sheaf of parchment, the treaty itself.
Golden seals gleam under the chandeliers.
The crowd gasps as though beholding scripture.
Vera’s fingers dig into the satchel. Her breath hitches, sharp and urgent. I feel her will like a storm pressing against me. “Now,” she whispers. Her eyes burn with conviction, a fire that could sear the world. “When he holds it high.”
Rourke curses under his breath. “This is suicide.”
But I already know we’ve crossed that threshold. I signal her forward. My blood surges with the motion, my body alive in a way it hasn’t been in years. The waiting ends here.
We move. The underchamber narrows to a stair, leading up behind the stage.
The boards creak under our boots, the sound masked by the orchestra’s triumphant swell.
I push the tapestry aside, just enough to glimpse the hall.
Declan stands at the podium, the treaty raised, the crowd on its feet in roaring applause.
Guards ring the perimeter, their eyes fixed outward, not inward. A flaw in their vigilance.
Vera squeezes past me, every step deliberate. Her satchel knocks lightly against the wall, a sound lost beneath the thunder above. Her hand brushes mine briefly as she passes, intentional or not, it roots me. I follow.
We slip into the wings, shadows among ropes and curtains. Stagehands scurry, none daring to look twice at figures moving with purpose. My uniform, stolen from the warehouse, buys me their ignorance. To them, I am Crown. To me, I am death.
Declan lowers the treaty to the podium, spreading it open like an offering. The audience leans forward, hushed now, the kind of silence that devours sound. Vera’s breath stutters beside me. I see her lips form Marta’s name, then she steps.
Into the light.
The hall inhales as one. A woman on stage where none should be, her stride steady, her satchel in hand. For a heartbeat, even Declan falters, his smile flickering. I see the recognition in his eyes, shock, then calculation. His mask nearly cracks.
Guards move, rifles rising. I’m already in motion. Steel flashes as I seize the nearest by the throat, wrenching his weapon aside. The orchestra falters in dissonant chords. Shouts echo, confusion spreading faster than order.