Chapter 11 - Lucian
The river has narrowed into a slow, winding braid through the countryside, its surface broken by reeds and fallen branches.
At dawn, a pale light spreads across the mist, painting the water silver.
I stand at the prow, one hand on the pole, scanning the banks for any sign of movement.
Behind me, Vera clutches Marta’s satchel in her sleep, her face pale with exhaustion.
Rourke snores softly, his arm draped over the rescued child.
For a fleeting moment, the world feels still, as though war cannot find us here.
But peace is a lie. Even in the quiet, my mind pulls back to Old Vienna, to the flames, the cries, Declan’s voice thundering in the opera house. His mask slipped, but he still stands. That truth gnaws at me like a rat at bone.
The current grows shallow near a sandbar. I guide the barge toward the bank and tie it off to a crooked willow. We need food, fire, and solid ground beneath our feet. Vera stirs awake, her eyes searching the horizon, her hand immediately going to the satchel.
“We stop here,” I tell her. She nods but says nothing, her lips pressed tight. Rourke groans awake and begins cursing about his aching leg. The child just watches me, eyes too old for her small face.
We trek inland through tall grass, the earth damp underfoot.
Birds wheel overhead, their cries sharp in the morning air.
A hamlet lies ahead: a cluster of thatched huts, smoke curling from a few chimneys.
Farmers move quietly among goats and chickens, their eyes darting toward us with suspicion.
I keep my hood low, my hand near my knife.
An old woman offers us bread and ale in exchange for cash. Her hands tremble as she passes the food, her gaze lingering on my face as if she recognizes something she cannot name. Around us, whispers ripple, fragments of rumor carried on the wind.
“Old Vienna burned…assassins in the opera house…traitors of the Crown….”
I listen in silence. Every word confirms what I feared: Declan’s lies have already spread. We are not rebels in their eyes. We are villains.
After eating, I leave Vera and Rourke in the hamlet and walk the treeline alone.
The forest speaks if you know how to listen: snapped twigs, trampled earth, the faint smell of leather and steel.
I crouch near a ridge and find a clear sign, boot prints too deep and disciplined for farmers. The Crown’s scouts have been here.
We are being followed.
When I return, Vera reads my face before I speak. Her hand tightens on the satchel. “How close?”
“Close enough,” I answer.
That night, we camp in a clearing. A fire crackles low, throwing sparks into the dark. Rourke sharpens his blade while grumbling about doomed causes. The child curls against Vera’s side, already asleep. Vera studies me across the flames.
“We can’t fight Declan with blades alone,” she says. “If Marta’s truth is to live, we have to rebuild what she started. Slowly. Carefully.”
My jaw tightens. “Careful will bury us. Strike first, strike hard; that’s the only way he falls.”
“And how many innocents will burn with him if you do?”
Her voice cuts sharp, but it’s her eyes that hold me still, bright, unyielding, fierce.
The firelight dances across her face, painting her in both shadow and flame.
For a moment, I want to tell her that she is the only thing keeping me tethered.
But I don’t. I turn back to the dark, where the forest waits with its whispers of pursuit.
Tomorrow, the hunt will close in.
***
The night passes in fragments of restless sleep.
Every snap of a branch in the forest sets my hand on my knife.
The fire gutters low until only embers glow, and the damp scent of moss thickens in the clearing.
I lie still, watching Vera’s profile outlined by moonlight.
Even asleep, she clutches Marta’s satchel like it is her lifeline.
Rourke snores unevenly, the child curled beside him.
At dawn, I wake them with a gesture. No words are needed. We stamp out the coals and shoulder our packs. The forest is heavy with mist, but the silence feels wrong. Birds should be crying with the sunrise. Instead, only our footsteps crunch on wet leaves.
Half a mile downriver, we come upon signs too clear to ignore. A campfire, recently doused. Horse tracks pressed deep into the mud. A strip of blue cloth snagged on thorns, the same shade as the Crown’s patrol sashes. Rourke curses under his breath.
“They’re closing fast.”
Vera studies the cloth, her mouth tightening. “They’ll twist every village into thinking we’re the monsters.”
“They already have,” I say flatly.
We push onward, moving parallel to the river until the trees thin and a small riverside town appears.
Traders unload crates from boats, their shouts muffled by fog.
Crown banners hang from poles, their fabric damp and heavy.
The villagers’ faces are gaunt, eyes darting nervously toward the guards stationed at the docks.
Vera insists we enter cautiously, disguising ourselves among travelers. I pull my hood low and stretch my hand for the child. She simply looks at me and says, "Abigail."
"What?" I whisper in reply.
"Abigail!" she repeats, quietly but firmly.
"Okay, Abigail!" I conceed, offering my hand again. She takes it without hesitation this time.
We proceed with me guiding Abigail by the hand while Vera mingles near a row of washerwomen. Rourke carries himself like a merchant, his limp hidden by a heavy cloak.
We overhear fragments of talk: Old Vienna aflame, rebels on the run, the government promising safety to the loyal.
A peddler unfurls a sheet of paper, crude likenesses sketched in ink.
My blood runs cold. Vera’s features, Rourke’s, and my own stare back at me under the heading: WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE.
Vera catches my arm, pulling me away before my rage boils over. “Not here,” she whispers. “Not yet.”
We retreat into an alley, the damp stone walls dripping with mildew. Abigail clings to Vera, her face pale with fear. Rourke spits into the dirt. “We’re not ghosts in the shadows anymore. We’re quarry.”
I keep my voice low, steady. “Then we hunt the hunters.”
That night, we camp outside the town, hidden in the reeds by the river. The wanted sheets lie crumpled in the dirt between us. The fire crackles faintly, and Abigail’s soft breathing is the only comfort. Vera breaks the silence.
“If we fight every patrol, we’ll be dragged into his game. He’ll brand us the butchers he says we are.”
“And if we run?” I counter. “Then he paints us as cowards, and the people believe him. Every rumor becomes truth.”
She shakes her head, frustration sharp in her voice. “Marta's work showed she believed in patience, in proof, in giving people something they could cling to. If we abandon that, then her death means nothing.”
Her words strike deeper than she knows. I turn away, staring at the water gleaming under the moon. My reflection looks back, a face hardened into something I no longer recognize.
Abigail’s voice breaks the tension. “Will the bad man find us?”
Vera gathers her close, murmuring a soft denial. But the girl’s question lingers in the air long after she sleeps. I do not answer, because the truth is yes. He will. And when he does, blood will spill until one of us lies cold.
The river carries our barge deeper into the countryside, but the air feels heavier with every mile.
I sit at the stern, blade in hand, sharpening it until the edge glints in the dim light.
Vera watches me from across the deck, her gaze steady, unreadable.
Abigail leans against her shoulder, half asleep.
Rourke sits nearby, muttering calculations of how many patrols the Crown could muster along the river if they truly wanted to choke us.
By midday, we come upon another village, smaller than the last. A crooked pier juts out into the current, fishermen hauling in nets with more bones than flesh.
Hunger lingers in the air like a second shadow.
The moment our barge bumps against the dock, eyes turn toward us.
Suspicion, fear, and something else, something Vera notices first.
She nudges me and gestures discreetly toward the pier.
A boy no older than twelve clutches a folded sheet of parchment.
When I kneel and extend my hand, he hesitates before thrusting it toward me and scurrying off.
The ink is smeared from damp fingers, but the words are unmistakable: “The Crown bleeds its people dry. Truth survives in the ashes of Old Vienna.”
Marta’s words. Reprinted, passed from hand to hand. Even here.
Vera’s face softens. For the first time in days, hope flickers in her eyes. “She still speaks,” she whispers.
We linger only long enough to buy dried fish and refill our waterskins.
Yet even in the bustle of barter, I feel the eyes of strangers crawling across my back.
It’s too easy for word to spread, for a name to pass from tongue to tongue.
As we shove off again, I catch sight of a Crown patrol cresting the ridge in the distance.
Night falls heavy. We beach the barge under a grove of willow trees, cloaking ourselves in shadow.
The fire we light is small, no brighter than a candle.
Vera studies the parchment again, tracing Marta’s words with trembling fingers.
Rourke keeps his rifle close. Abigail hums softly to herself, a tune that stirs something deep in memory, a lullaby from long ago.
When Vera approaches, I know what she will say before her lips part. “Everywhere we go, we find whispers of Marta’s truth. You think only of the blade, but these words, they travel farther than you ever could.”
I stare into the fire until my reflection dances back at me in the coals. “Words won’t stop a sword pressed to your throat.”