Chapter 18 - Vera
The city rises from the plain like a promise I scarcely dare to believe.
Its walls are not grand like Old Vienna’s, no gilded spires, no marble towers, but solid, thick stone weathered by years of storm and siege.
Smoke drifts from chimneys, faint and gray, not the black plumes of ruin we’ve seen so often.
From the ridges, we watch figures move along the ramparts, guards pacing, banners fluttering faintly in the wind.
A place alive, a place still breathing. For the first time since Old Vienna burned, hope stirs in my chest, fragile as a moth’s wing.
Lucian studies the walls with eyes sharp as steel.
He has not spoken in hours, though his silence is not emptiness but calculation.
Rourke mutters curses about gates and guards, his leg dragging with each step.
Abigail presses close to me, her hand wrapped in my cloak, her gaze fixed on the walls as though they might vanish if she blinks.
By dusk, we reach the outer fields. They are poor things, patches of farmland beaten thin by weather, huts scattered like broken teeth, fences sagging.
People move there, bent under burdens of wood and water, their faces pale and wary.
When they see us, they do not wave, do not call.
They watch. Suspicion runs deep in their eyes, sharpened by fear.
Outsiders bring trouble, and trouble is something they already have too much of.
At the gates, the guards bar our path. Their armor is rough, mismatched pieces scavenged from older wars, their spears dented but steady. One steps forward, his eyes narrowing on Lucian’s blades, on the satchel slung across his back. “Travelers?” His voice is flat, unwelcoming.
Lucian does not answer. His silence stretches like a blade unsheathed. I step forward instead, shifting Abigail in my arms, letting them see her small face. “We seek shelter,” I say, my voice steady. “We’ve come far, running from the Crown.”
The guard’s eyes flicker. At the mention of the Crown, a murmur ripples among them. They glance at one another, unease writ clear. Then the leader gestures. “Inside. But keep your blades sheathed. Cause trouble, and you’ll find no mercy here.”
We pass beneath the gate, into streets narrow and crowded.
The city is no jewel of stone, but a patchwork of lives clinging together, wooden houses leaning on one another for support, cobblestones cracked and uneven, stalls of fish and bread lining the square.
The air smells of smoke, sweat, and faintly of salt, carried on the wind from some unseen river or sea.
People move about with care, shoulders hunched, voices low.
Fear lives here, too, though it hides behind routine.
We find an inn near the square, its sign creaking in the wind.
Inside, the common room is dim, lit by firelight and the glow of oil lamps.
The compounder eyes us warily but takes cash for food and a room.
Bread, stew, thin ale. We eat in silence, Abigail’s small hands trembling as she lifts the spoon.
I tell her stories between bites, Marta’s words reshaped into softer tales, of rivers that sing, of wolves who guard truth in the dark.
She listens, her eyes wide, as though clinging to each word like rope.
That night, in the room above the inn, Lucian lays the satchel on the table.
He unrolls the maps, with the parchments scattered across the wood.
Patrol routes, supply lines, gaps in the Crown’s net.
His fingers trace the lines, his jaw tight.
“Here,” he murmurs, pointing to a valley east. “The patrols thin. Supplies run through it, unguarded.”
Rourke leans against the wall, arms crossed, his face shadowed. “And what then? We strike a supply truck or two, steal bread? That won’t break Declan.”
Lucian’s eyes lift, cold as frost. “Every wound weakens him. Bleed the beast enough, and it stumbles.”
I watch them, the firelight flickering across their faces.
Rourke is right, small strikes will not topple Declan.
But Lucian is right, too; bleeding him matters.
Both truths cut. I rest my hand on the satchel, feeling the weight of parchment beneath.
“If the people see the Crown bleed, they will know it can be wounded. That is how fires start.”
Lucian’s gaze lingers on me, sharp, unreadable. At last, he nods. “Then we strike.”
***
Days blur within the city. Abigail finds some measure of peace here, with other children to glimpse in the square, bread warm from the ovens, and nights where she sleeps without waking to screams. For me, rest is fragile.
The streets whisper of Crown eyes, of informants paid in cash or fear.
Every shadow feels longer than it should.
***
I’m crouched on the edge of the abandoned church’s roof, the cracked shingles biting into my knees, the night air sharp with the scent of old stone and rust. The city sprawls below, a jagged mess of lights and shadows, but up here, it’s just me and Lucian, the world reduced to this crumbling perch.
My heart hammers, not from fear but from the electric pulse of being this close to him, knowing what’s coming.
His silhouette looms against the moonless sky, broad shoulders cutting a brutal shape, his jacket creaking as he shifts.
He’s all edges tonight, eyes like flint, jaw tight, the kind of tension that makes me want to push him just to see how far he’ll snap.
“Get over here, Vera,” he growls, voice low, a command wrapped in a threat.
His boots scrape the roof as he steps closer, and I feel the air shift, heavy with his presence.
I don’t move, not yet. I let the defiance curl my lips, let it spark in my eyes as I tilt my head, challenging him.
He hates when I make him wait, and I love the way it makes his control fray.
“Make me,” I say, my voice a blade, sharp and deliberate. I’m baiting him, and we both know it. My pulse races, thighs clenching as I brace for his reaction. The roof feels smaller now, the space between us crackling with heat and unspoken violence.
Lucian’s eyes darken, a storm brewing in their depths.
He crosses the distance in two strides, his hand shooting out to grip my wrist, yanking me to my feet.
The force of it sends a jolt through me, pain and thrill blurring into one.
His fingers are iron, bruising, and I hiss, twisting against his hold, not because I want to break free but because I want him to feel my resistance, to know I’m not some pliant thing he can bend without a fight.
“You think you can play me?” he snarls, his face inches from mine, breath hot against my cheek.
His scent, leather, smoke, and something darker, like blood and earth, floods my senses.
I don’t answer, just bare my teeth in a feral grin, shoving against his chest with my free hand.
He doesn’t budge, his body a wall of muscle and heat, and the futility of it only stokes the fire in my gut.
I wrench my wrist free, the burn of his grip lingering like a brand, and I lunge at him, not to escape but to collide.
My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer as I slam my mouth against his.
It’s not a kiss, it’s a clash, teeth and tongues and raw hunger.
He growls into my mouth, his hands seizing my hips, fingers digging into flesh through my jeans.
The pain makes me gasp, and he takes the opening, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming me with a brutality that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I bite his lip, hard, tasting copper. He jerks back, eyes flashing with something dangerous, and for a second, He laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating through me.
“You little fucking wildcat,” he mutters, and then his hands are on me again, ripping at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders.
The night air hits my skin, cold and sharp, but I barely feel it over the inferno of his touch.
He spins me, slamming my back against the church’s crumbling chimney, the rough stone scraping through my thin shirt.
I arch against it, half in pain, half in defiance, my nails raking down his arms. He doesn’t flinch, just grabs my thighs and hoists me up, pinning me between the chimney and his body.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and I feel him, hard and straining against his jeans, pressing into me through the layers of fabric.
The friction is maddening, a tease that makes me grind against him, chasing the pressure.
“Fuck, Vera,” he rasps, his voice raw, like he’s barely holding on.
His hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my ribs, my breasts.
He doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate, just takes, his fingers pinching my nipples hard enough to make me cry out, the sound swallowed by the night.
I hate how much I love it, how my body betrays me, arching into his roughness, craving more.
I claw at his shirt, yanking it up, needing his skin under my hands.
His chest is a map of scars and muscle, hot and unyielding, and I dig my nails in, leaving red trails that make him hiss.
He retaliates by grabbing my jaw, forcing my head back against the stone, his mouth crashing into mine again.
This time, it’s slower, deeper, but no less vicious, like he’s trying to consume me, to mark me from the inside out.
I let him, but I give as good as I get, biting, sucking, tasting the sweat and blood on his lips.