Chapter 16 - Vera
The mist clings to us as we leave the granite overhang, pale tendrils curling around my boots like hands unwilling to release their grip.
Abigail leans heavy in my arms, her breath warm against my neck, and I feel every tremor of her small body as she clings to me.
She has not spoken since the bridge fell. I wonder if she ever will again.
Lucian leads, shoulders squared, satchel strapped across his back like a second spine.
He moves with the steadiness of stone, unflinching even when the forest groans under the weight of the wind.
Behind me, Rourke limps, his curses quieter than usual, his breaths shallow.
We are three fragments stitched together by survival, carrying one child who holds more weight than she should.
Morning presses gray against the pines. Birds do not sing.
The silence is so thick it swallows thought itself, leaving only the rhythm of footfalls, the rasp of cloth against bark, the ache in my wounded arm.
I hold Marta’s words inside me like a fragile flame.
Every step feels as though the forest wants to snuff it out.
By midday, we stumble onto a trail, narrow, half-swallowed by moss, but unmistakably cut by human hands. Lucian kneels, his fingers tracing grooves in the earth, the sharp print of boots hardened by weight. His voice is low, almost to himself. “Crown passed here. Days ago, maybe less.”
Rourke spits into the dirt. “Everywhere we turn, Declan’s dogs are waiting.”
I glance at the trees, unease churning in my chest. “Then we don’t walk where they expect.”
Lucian’s gaze lifts to me, sharp and unreadable. Then he nods once, decisive, and veers from the path into denser wood. Branches claw at us, pine needles sticking to my cloak, but at least here the ground bears no prints but ours.
Hours blur into aching steps. The forest deepens, old pines rising like pillars of some forgotten temple.
Shafts of light pierce the canopy in fractured gold, painting the air with dust and pollen.
I whisper stories into Abigail’s hair, parables Marta once told me of rivers that swallowed lies, of mountains that remembered truth even when men forgot.
She doesn’t answer, but her breathing steadies, and I keep speaking because silence is heavier than any wound.
By late afternoon, the ground begins to climb. We reach a slope strewn with boulders, the remains of an ancient landslide. The climb is brutal, every stone slick with moss, every gap ready to twist an ankle.
Lucian goes first, carving a path, his hands gripping rock as though the mountain itself resists him. I follow, dragging Abigail against me, her weight growing heavier with each step. My wound burns, blood seeping fresh where the bandage loosens. Still, I climb. To stop is to be buried.
Halfway up, a hawk screams overhead. My heart lurches. For a moment, I think it is a signal, a Crown scout’s cry, but no figures move among the trees below. Only the endless forest, restless and watching.
We crest the slope at last, breath ragged, and find ourselves on a ridge overlooking the valley.
From here, the land unfolds: dark forest, broken hills, a ribbon of river glinting faintly in the fading light.
But beyond it, smoke coils against the horizon.
Not the smoke of a single fire, but of many. A village burned.
Abigail stirs in my arms, her small voice finally breaking the silence. “Home,” she whispers hoarsely.
My chest knots. “Which village?” I ask softly.
She points with trembling fingers, her eyes wet and wide. “There.”
Lucian’s jaw hardens. Rourke mutters a curse so low it is swallowed by the wind. None of us speaks the truth aloud: There will be nothing left for her. No home. No family. Only ash.
Night closes as we descend into the valley.
The air stinks of char before we even reach the edge of the village.
The ground is blackened, houses collapsed into smoldering heaps.
The well has been filled with rubble, the square littered with broken tools and bones.
Abigail does not cry. She only presses her face into my cloak, silent as stone.
Lucian stalks through the ruins, every step deliberate, his eyes scanning for tracks. “Crown passed through recently,” he murmurs. “Not patrol, detachment. Twenty, maybe more.”
Rourke kicks at a burned cartwheel, his face twisted with fury. “This is what they leave. This is what Declan calls order.”
I kneel among the ashes of what was once a doorway. Charred wood crumbles beneath my fingers, and beneath it, I find a scrap of cloth, child’s clothing, singed but still whole. My throat closes.
Lucian crouches beside me, his shadow stretching long in the firelight. “We cannot stay here. The Crown may return.”
I clutch the scrap of cloth, pressing it into Abigail’s small hands. She holds it tight, her eyes hollow. She understands what it means without words.
We make camp at the edge of the ruins, though none of us truly rest. The night is restless, filled with the distant crackle of unseen flames, the hiss of wind through hollow timbers.
I hold Abigail close, whispering Marta’s stories until her breathing steadies.
But my own thoughts churn dark. If every village falls, where will truth root itself? Where will rebellion spark?
Near dawn, Lucian kneels by the embers of our fire, his blade in hand. He speaks without looking at me. “You see now what Declan leaves in his wake.”
I don’t answer at first. The ruins speak loud enough. At last, I whisper, “Then we burn him in return.”
His eyes lift to me, sharp as steel. For a moment, the silence between us holds something unspoken, something dangerous, inevitable. Then he turns away, strapping his blade to his back.
***
The day begins in smoke.
The smoke clings to us long after we leave the ruins.
It seeps into my cloak, into Abigail’s hair, into the air I breathe until I can taste ash on my tongue.
Each step away feels like betrayal, though I know there is nothing left to save.
Still, my eyes ache from looking back, as if through sheer willpower I could force the village to rise again from the charred bones of itself.
Lucian does not look back. He never does.
His stride is relentless, cutting through the gray morning with the weight of a decision already made.
Rourke mutters curses with every step, his limp worsening, though he refuses to slow.
Abigail clings to my hand in silence, her small fingers cold even through my gloves.
We travel along the river that winds through the valley.
Once, it must have been a source of life for the village, its waters bright with fish, its banks lined with gatherings and laughter.
Now it runs dark, carrying ashes downstream like whispers of the dead.
I crouch at its edge to drink, and for a moment my reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, soot-streaked, a stranger I barely recognize.
Lucian notices my pause. He kneels beside me, filling his waterskin, his movements sharp, controlled. “Don’t linger,” he says softly. “The Crown doesn’t waste time on mourning.”
His words sting, but they are not cruel. They are survival. I rise, swallowing bitterness, and take Abigail’s hand again. We press on.
By midday, the valley narrows into a canyon, its walls steep and jagged.
The air cools as shadows stretch long. We move cautiously, our steps echoing against stone, every sound magnified until it feels as though the cliffs themselves are listening.
Rourke mutters that it’s a trap, that the Crown herds us like cattle, but there is no other path forward.
The forest here yields only stone and cliff, and to turn back is to walk willingly into Declan’s jaws.
At the canyon’s heart, we find signs of camp, ashes still warm, footprints pressed deep into the dust. Lucian crouches, his hand brushing the marks. “Two days,” he murmurs. “A scouting party, maybe more.”
Abigail tenses, clutching the satchel to her chest. I feel the fear ripple through her, the memory of fire too fresh to silence. I kneel, smoothing her hair. “Quiet now. Just shadows.”
But the shadows are not empty. As we round the next bend, voices echo against stone. Crown soldiers, their gray cloaks stark against the canyon walls. Four, perhaps five, clustered near a firepit, weapons resting within easy reach.
Lucian signals us down behind a boulder. His eyes meet mine, steady, sharp. Decide.
I glance at Abigail, at Rourke’s weary face, at the parchments hidden in the satchel. Retreat is impossible; the canyon offers no cover, no escape but forward. My voice is a whisper. “We strike, fast and silent.”
Lucian nods once. The decision is sealed.
We move like shadows. Lucian slips ahead first, blades glinting.
He falls upon the nearest soldier before a cry can leave his throat, steel sliding across flesh.
Rourke fires from cover, the crack shattering the canyon’s silence, dropping another.
I rush forward, hatchet raised, striking clumsy but hard, the weight of rage behind my swing.
The soldier staggers, eyes wide with shock, then falls.
The remaining two cry out, scrambling for their weapons. Lucian is faster. His blade arcs, cutting them down before their steel can rise. Then the canyon is silent again, save for the echo of my ragged breathing.
Abigail does not scream. She stands frozen, clutching the satchel, her eyes locked on the bodies. I want to shield her, to tell her not to look, but she has already seen too much to unsee. Instead, I kneel before her. “We fight because we must,” I whisper. “So you will live.”
She nods, slowly, as though committing the truth to memory. It chills me more than the blood at my feet.
We strip the soldiers quickly—water, dried meat, and a map inked with rough lines marking patrols. Lucian studies it, his jaw tight. “They close the ring. Another day, maybe less.”
Rourke snorts. “Then we’re already ghosts.”
But Lucian shakes his head, folding the map into Marta’s satchel. “Not yet. We move east, toward the hills. The Crown thins there.”
So we move east. The canyon narrows, then widens into rolling ground where scrub and rock replace the forest. The air grows colder, the sky heavy with cloud. Dusk falls hard, shadows stretching long across the land. We make camp in a hollow between stones, the fire small, shielded from the wind.
That night, as Abigail sleeps against me, Lucian keeps his watch with blades across his knees. His eyes are fixed on the dark horizon, but his voice finds me. “You struck without hesitation.”
I meet his gaze across the fire. “There was no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he counters. His tone is not accusation, but weight, stone laid atop stone. “Some kill because they must. Some because they burn. Which are you becoming?”
The question sears. I think of Marta, of her words about truth and fire, of Abigail’s hollow eyes. I do not know the answer. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. I look into the flames and whisper, “I fight so she will not burn as her home did.”
Lucian studies me, then nods, as though the answer, however incomplete, is enough for now.
The wind howls through the stones. I hold Abigail closer, Marta’s satchel pressed between us, and pray that the truth it carries is worth the blood already spilled.
When dawn comes, it brings no peace. The clouds hang low, heavy with storm.
We march east, our shadows long upon the barren ground.
In the distance, the hills rise, jagged and gray, like teeth waiting to close.
The Crown’s horns have not sounded since the gorge, but I feel them still, echoing in my bones.