Chapter 11 - Lucian #2
Her jaw tightens. “But they’ll make the man wielding it hesitate. That’s what Declan fears. That’s what Marta understood.”
Rourke cuts in, his voice harsh. “Hate to break this romantic notion, but words won’t keep us alive tonight. We’ve got patrols closing in, and if Lucian hadn’t seen those tracks, we’d already be caught in a noose.”
The argument simmers into silence, but the tension coils tighter than a drawn bow. I sit apart, listening to the forest, every nerve strung taut. An owl cries in the distance, its call sharp and lonely. I do not trust the quiet.
Near midnight, I hear it, the faint snap of a branch too heavy for an animal. I motion for silence, slipping my knife free. Shadows move beyond the trees, lantern light weaving through the undergrowth.
Crown patrol.
We extinguish the fire with dirt and scatter into the dark. Vera pulls Abigail close, shielding her small form with her own body. Rourke lifts his rifle, breath ragged. I melt into the treeline, the blade warm in my grip.
Lanterns draw nearer, voices low, confident. I wait until the first soldier passes within reach. Then I strike. The knife slides under his chin, silencing his shout. He crumples soundlessly into the moss. Blood pools dark in the soil. I drag him deeper into the trees and crouch low, listening.
Two more approach. One carries a lantern, the other a spear. I could kill them both before they cry out. The urge claws at me, strong and undeniable. My body hums with muscle memory of combat training—swift, merciless, final.
But then I see Vera, her hand pressed to Abigail’s head, shielding her eyes from the sight. Abigail trembles, and in her fear, I glimpse my own reflection, what the crown made of me.
I let the patrol pass. My grip trembles as I sheath the knife, every instinct screaming that I am weak, that I am wasting the chance. But I stay rooted until their lantern light vanishes into the night.
When I return, Vera’s gaze meets mine across the darkness. She doesn’t speak, but the smallest nod passes between us, a silent acknowledgment of the choice I made.
Yet even as I sit beside the cold ashes of our fire, the weight of restraint bears down heavier than any kill. And I know this war is not just against Declan. It is against the shadow of the crown that lingers inside me.
***
The forest does not release us easily. By morning, the mist has thickened into a choking shroud, curling between the trees like smoke.
I lead us along the ridge, eyes scanning the undergrowth for more signs of pursuit.
Every snapped branch, every displaced stone, whispers of hunters drawing closer.
My muscles ache with the strain of silence, the weight of waiting.
Rourke lags, his limp worsening. Vera steadies him with one hand, Abigail clutching her other. They look to me for direction, but I feel only the burden of choices, none of them clean. If I press harder, Rourke may collapse. If we slow, the Crown will overtake us. The balance is a blade’s edge.
We reach a ravine where a wooden bridge stretches across a torrent swollen by spring melt. The planks are slick with moss, the ropes frayed. I test the boards with my boot. They groan but hold. Behind us, hounds bark, distant, but not distant enough.
“Go,” I snap. Vera ushers Abigail first, then follows, the satchel pressed tight against her side. Rourke lumbers after, each step shaking the bridge. I cross last, knife drawn, eyes fixed on the treeline.
Shadows emerge, Crown scouts, bows raised. An arrow hisses past, splintering the wood by my feet. I rush forward, slashing the ropes. The bridge collapses in a violent lurch, crashing into the ravine. Water swallows the timbers, and the shouts of soldiers echo uselessly across the gap.
For now, we are spared. But the cost is clear. The bridge was the only crossing for miles. We are stranded on this side, deeper in hostile territory.
That night, we huddle in a ruined barn on the outskirts of a burned farmstead. Ash clings to the beams, the smell of charred grain still sharp. I sit apart, whetstone in hand, dragging it across the edge of my blade until sparks flare. The rhythm keeps my hands steady even as my mind churns.
Vera joins me, her face pale in the firelight. She does not scold me for cutting the bridge, though I know the risk it carries. Instead, she rests Marta’s satchel between us, the leather worn smooth by her grip.
“You chose restraint last night,” she says softly. “That means something.”
I keep my eyes on the blade. “It means the Crown still breathes.”
Her hand brushes mine, tentative, grounding. “It means you’re not him. And that matters more than you realize.”
Her words linger in the quiet. I want to believe her, but every reflection I glimpse in blood or steel tells me otherwise. Still, I allow her touch to remain, a fragile anchor in the storm.
Abigail stirs awake, padding toward us with wide eyes. “Will the bad man still come?” she whispers.
I sheath my knife. For once, I do not answer with silence. “Yes,” I tell her. “But when he does, we’ll be ready.”
She nods solemnly, as though my promise is enough. Vera pulls her close, and the three of us sit together in the ruin, firelight flickering against broken walls. Outside, the night carries the Crown’s distant horns, a reminder that war hunts us still.
But within this circle of light, for the briefest moment, we are not prey. We are something more, something Declan never intended us to become. And that fragile defiance is enough to carry us into tomorrow.