Chapter 15 - Lucian #2
I go first, blades ready, each step slow, deliberate.
The planks sag under my weight, ropes groaning.
Wind howls through the gorge, carrying spray from the river far below.
When I reach the far side, I motion for Vera and Abigail.
She hesitates only a breath before stepping on, the girl clutched tight to her chest. Her face is pale, but her eyes are fire. She does not falter.
Halfway across, the first arrow whistles past. It strikes the planks, splintering wood. Another follows, then another. Crown soldiers emerge from the trees, bows drawn, faces cold and determined.
“Run!” I bellow.
Vera quickens her pace, boards snapping underfoot. Rourke fires from the near side, his shots thunder in the gorge, dropping two soldiers before they can fire again. But more step from the trees, their arrows raining down.
I rush back onto the bridge, slashing at the ropes that bind it.
The soldiers shout, realizing too late what I intend.
Vera and Abigail stumble onto solid ground as the ropes fray under my blade.
Rourke curses, still firing, then throws himself forward.
The bridge lurches, creaking, threatening to fall.
I slice hard, one final cut, and the bridge collapses, dragging a soldier who had stepped onto it screaming into the abyss.
The gorge roars with the crash of splintering wood. The river devours the bridge in seconds, leaving only frayed ropes whipping in the wind. The soldiers on the far side curse, their arrows falling short. For now, we are safe.
But safety is fragile. Rourke hauls himself upright, panting, his hands raw. “Bloody near killed me,” he spits. “And for what? Buy us a day?”
“Sometimes a day is the difference between living and ash,” I say. My voice comes rough, ragged from the fight.
Vera stands beside me, Abigail pressed close, her face pale but fierce. She meets my eyes, and for a moment, there is no doubt between us. Only fire. “We keep moving,” she says firmly. “We don’t stop until the truth outruns their lies.”
Her words strike deeper than any blade. Because I see it now, she is not merely carrying Marta’s satchel, not merely shielding Abigail.
She carries the weight of people who do not yet know they are waiting to be freed.
And I…I must choose whether to follow her into that fire or drag her back into the shadows.
Night falls as we press on into the pines. The horns fade behind us, swallowed by the gorge, but their echo lives in my bones. I know Declan. He will not rest. Not until every bridge is burned, every forest ash, and every whisper of truth silenced.
And so I sharpen my blades under the cold stars, knowing tomorrow they will drink again.
***
We find shelter beneath a granite overhang, the fire we build no more than embers buried in stone. Smoke curls faintly, barely visible, though my every sense strains for the sound of pursuit. The gorge bought us distance, not safety. Distance is fragile.
Rourke slumps against the rock, rifle across his knees, muttering curses that bleed into prayers. His leg bleeds where a splinter tore through, and though he waves off Vera’s concern, his face is gray in the firelight. The man is stubborn, but even stone erodes under a storm.
Abigail sits close to Vera, her small hands clutching the satchel as though it were a shield.
She has not spoken since the bridge fell, her silence heavy.
Children should know laughter, not the weight of secrets.
Yet in her wide eyes, I see a reflection of what I once was: made older by fear, sharpened by necessity.
Vera tends the girl with quiet patience, smoothing her hair, whispering words I cannot hear. When her eyes lift to me, they catch the firelight, and for a breath I see something that is not fear. Resolve. It is more dangerous than fear, because resolve cannot be broken by terror alone.
I sharpen my blades slowly, the rasp of steel against stone filling the silence. Each stroke steadies me, anchors me. A warrior’s ritual, but also a promise. To fight. To endure. To take from the Crown what they would deny us: the right to choose our own fate.
When Vera finally speaks, her voice is low, carrying only to me. “Those maps…you saw what they mean?”
I nod. “Declan’s net. Every path, every village marked. But no net is perfect.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Then we strike where it frays. Show the people the Crown bleeds like any beast.”
Rourke scoffs without opening his eyes. “Strike? With what? Three half-starved souls and a child? You want martyrdom, not freedom.”
Vera does not flinch. “Every ember begins small. Marta believed truth spreads like fire. If we carry the maps where ears still listen, it will spark.”
Her words twist inside me. Marta’s name is ash and echo, but Vera speaks it as though she still breathes. I want to believe the fire she describes can burn away Declan’s chains. But fire consumes as much as it frees.
I lean forward, meeting her gaze. “Truth alone is not enough. Not against steel. Not against fear driven into men’s bones.”
“Then we give them both,” she replies, fierce. “Truth, and proof the Crown can be defied.”
The firelight dances between us, painting her features in bronze and shadow. For a long breath, I see not the frightened woman who fled Old Vienna, but something more, someone shaped by loss into a weapon sharper than my blades. Dangerous. Necessary.
The night stretches, broken only by the crackle of dying fire.
I keep watch while the others drift into uneasy sleep.
The mist clings to the edges of the camp, restless.
Somewhere beyond, horns may yet sound, though the forest swallows them.
My hand rests on the satchel, its weight heavier than any steel.
Maps, names, routes, knowledge enough to spark rebellion, or to drown it in blood if it falls into Declan’s hands.
The choice gnaws at me. To carry it forward is to invite war. To destroy it is to starve hope before it can draw breath. Shadows coil in the flame’s last glow, and I see the face of every soldier I’ve killed staring back, asking if I will damn more lives to ash.
When dawn comes, I rise before the others, blades strapped to my back, satchel across my shoulder. The forest waits, silent but expectant. Vera wakes with Abigail in her arms, eyes meeting mine. She does not ask if I am ready. She already knows.
We step from the shelter into morning fog. Behind us, the embers die, leaving only smoke. Ahead, the forest stretches endlessly, but in my chest, something has shifted. I no longer carry only blades. I carry the weight of choice, the weight of war.
And for the first time, I do not shoulder it alone.