Chapter 35 - Lucian
The snow eases as we climb into higher ground, but the cold deepens.
The air tastes sharper here, thinner, as though each breath must be fought for.
The rebels march in silence, their boots crunching hard-packed frost. Their shadows stretch long across the ridges, thin and brittle, like the hope they carry.
I walk ahead, sword strapped across my back, every sense alert. Cassian's shadow does not leave me. It coils in every gust of wind, whispers from every crack of ice. Sometimes I swear I hear his laughter echoing in the cliffs. Sometimes I fear it is only my own.
***
We reach a plateau by midday, the sun weak against the snow. Elira calls for a halt, her breath steaming, her voice harsh. “We rest here. Fires low, no smoke. Scouts out.”
The rebels drop where they stand, too weary to argue. Some collapse against packs, others slump beside the supply trucks. The freed captives cling to one another, faces pale, lips blue. Hunger gnaws at all of us. Rourke mutters curses as he doles out thin rations of dried meat and hard bread.
Vera moves among them, Marta’s satchel clutched against her ribs.
She kneels by the freed, speaking low, her voice steady.
They cling to her words as though they are food.
I watch her, silent, my chest tightening.
Her fire does not falter, but I see the cracks.
I see the way her hands shake when she thinks no one is looking.
She feels me watching. Our eyes meet across the plateau. For a heartbeat, warmth spreads through me, pulling me from the cliff’s edge. Then I look away. I cannot let her see the chains tightening in my chest.
***
Scouts return by dusk. Their faces are pale, their voices hushed. “There’s movement to the east. Crown riders. Not many, but fast.”
Elira bares her teeth. “Scouts. They’ll circle, report back.”
Rourke spits into the snow. “Then we’ll be buried under soldiers before week’s end.”
The council gathers, hunched in a circle around a shield used as a table. The map is spread, weighed by knives. Elira wants to strike the riders before they return. Rourke argues for hiding, scattering into the cliffs. The rebels murmur, restless, afraid.
I listen in silence, my hand clenched tight on the hilt of my sword. Declan’s laughter slithers in my ears. Run, and I’ll chase you. Fight, and I’ll bleed you dry. You always dance to my tune.
Vera looks at me. Her voice is soft but sharp. “Lucian. Say something. Lead them.”
The words are chains around my throat. I want to speak. I want to rise. But fear coils tighter, whispering that every choice I make is one he gave me. My jaw locks. My silence stretches. The rebels’ eyes turn from me to the snow.
At last, I force words free. “We move at dawn. Keep to the cliffs. No fires. No songs.” My voice is rough, hollow. It does not sound like mine.
The rebels nod, defeated. Elira slams her breaching axe into the snow but does not argue. Rourke mutters into his flask. Vera’s gaze lingers on me, heavy with something between anger and sorrow.
***
Night falls heavy. The fires burn low, hidden beneath snow-packed pits. The rebels huddle close, whispering prayers and curses. I walk the perimeter, my breath a white cloud in the dark. The cliffs loom high above, jagged teeth against the stars.
Declan’s presence is stronger here. I feel him in the shadows, hear him in the wind. They follow you into death, Lucian. Every step, every breath, they march because you march. When you break, they will break too.
My hands shake. I press them to the hilt of my sword until the tremor steadies. The steel grounds me, if only barely.
Vera finds me at the edge of the cliffs. She does not speak at first, only stands beside me, her breath mingling with mine in the cold. At last, she whispers, “You can’t keep carrying this alone.”
I close my eyes. “If I let go, he takes me.”
She touches my hand, steady, warm. “Then hold on to me instead.”
For a heartbeat, the chains loosen. For a heartbeat, the whispers fade. I turn to her, my chest aching with everything I cannot say. The wind howls, and still I want to believe her voice is stronger.
***
By morning, the road is gone. Snowdrifts have swallowed the path, leaving only jagged rocks and ice. The supply trucks creak, their wheels cracking. The freed stumble, their strength failing. Every step is a battle, every mile a wound.
Scouts ride ahead, but return with grim faces. “Tracks,” they report. “Fresh. Soldiers. They move faster than we thought.”
Elira snarls, her breaching axe glittering. “Let them come. We’ll break them before they break us.”
Rourke shakes his head. “We’re not ready. We’ve no food, no rest, no ground worth dying on. Fighting now is madness.”
The rebels murmur, fear thickening. Their eyes turn again to me. My silence stretches like ice, threatening to crack. I feel Declan’s laughter rumble deep inside. They beg for your word. Say it, and it will be mine.
I force myself to speak. “We keep moving. North. To the passes. If they follow, we bleed them in the snow.” My voice carries, but inside I am hollow.
The rebels nod, some relieved, some doubtful.
Vera watches me, her eyes burning. She doesn’t speak, but I feel her words pressing against me: Don’t lose yourself. Not now.
***
As the march resumes, the storm breaks again.
Snow lashes our faces, stinging like claws.
The wind howls, tearing banners from hands.
The freed stumble, crying out. The supply trucks slide, wheels splintering.
Chaos spreads. I shout orders, my voice lost in the gale.
Elira drags men from drifts, Rourke curses the skies, and Vera clings to Marta’s satchel, shielding it from the storm.
Through it all, Declan’s laughter roars. You cannot lead them. You cannot save them. You are mine already.
I fight to hold on, to the sword, to the march, to myself. Each step is agony, each breath a battle. And still, somewhere beneath the storm, I hear Vera’s voice calling me back.
***
The storm does not ease through the night.
It pounds us without mercy, a wall of white that blinds and deafens.
We stagger forward like wraiths, half-alive, chained together by ropes to keep from vanishing into the dark.
The freed we drag by sheer will, their legs buckling, their cries muffled by the wind.
The supply trucks are lost, wheels shattered, oxen dead in the snow.
We leave them behind, their carcasses half-buried. Every step feels like surrender.
At dawn, we collapse beneath a cliffside, the storm finally breaking into a gray hush. The rebels huddle in a shallow cave, their bodies shaking, their eyes hollow. Frost clings to their lashes, their lips split and bleeding. No songs, no laughter, not even curses. Only silence, heavy as stone.
***
I stand apart, staring into the storm’s dying breath. My sword hangs useless at my side, its weight dragging me down. Cassian's whispers press harder now, filling the void. Look at them. Broken. Starving. Do you feel proud, Wolf? They follow you into graves, and still you march.
My hands shake. I press them to the stone wall until skin splits, blood dripping into the snow. The pain steadies me, but only barely.
Vera appears at my side. Her cloak is torn, her hair matted with ice, but her eyes burn hotter than any fire. She does not speak at first. She only takes my hand, pries it from the wall, and wraps cloth around the cuts. Her touch is firm, unyielding.
“You’ll bleed yourself dry before you let them see you falter,” she murmurs. “But I see you.”
Her words slice deeper than any blade. I want to turn away, but I cannot. I want to collapse, but I do not. I want to tell her everything, the whispers, the chains, the way Declan coils inside me. Instead, I only whisper, “If I break, they all fall.”
Her gaze is steady. “Then don’t break. Not alone.”
***
The council gathers in the cave, huddled around a fire that barely smolders. Elira’s jaw is clenched, her knuckles white on the haft of her breaching axe. “We cannot march like this. Another storm, and we’ll all be corpses.”
Rourke takes a long swallow from his flask before answering. “Then we find shelter. A stronghold, a village, anything. Keep moving north and pray.”
The rebels murmur agreement, though none sound convinced. Their eyes turn to me. Always to me. My silence stretches until it threatens to choke them.
At last, I say, “North. We keep to the cliffs. There are passes Marta named, hidden valleys, strong places. If we reach them, we can breathe.”
The words do not feel like mine. They feel placed in my mouth, heavy as iron. Declan’s laughter rumbles in my chest. Yes. March north. Deeper into the teeth I set for you.
But the rebels nod, clinging to direction like drowning men to driftwood. Vera watches me, her face unreadable. I cannot tell if she sees the chains.
***
The next days blur into a haze of snow and hunger. We march by day, collapse by night. The freed falter, some falling and never rising. We bury them shallow in the snow, no songs, no prayers. Abigail clings to her doll, eyes too old for her years. She doesn’t cry anymore.
At times, I feel Declan so near I could touch him. His voice threads the wind, his shadow walks beside me. Step slower, wolf. They are already dying. Spare them the long march. End it here. End it with me.
I tighten my grip on the sword, fighting the pull. Each time, Vera’s voice cuts through, reading Marta’s words to the weary, whispering fire into ashes. Without her, I would have yielded already.
***
On the fourth night, we find a village tucked in the cliffs. Smoke curls from chimneys, light glows in windows. Hope stirs, weak but real. The rebels murmur, relief breaking through the silence. Elira grins, raising her breaching axe. “Shelter. Food. At last.”
But as we approach, the doors slam shut. Light flares on the walls. Voices rise in warning. “Keep away! The Wolf brings death! You will not poison us!”
Fear ripples through the rebels. The freed cry out, reaching for shelter that rejects them. Vera steps forward, Marta’s satchel clutched tight. She calls out words of truth, her voice carrying strongly. “We come with no chains. We come with freedom. We come with proof that the Crown bleeds!”
But the villagers only hurl curses, stones clattering against the snow. One strikes Vera’s shoulder, sending her stumbling. I catch her before she falls, rage burning in my chest. My sword is half-drawn before I know it.
Cassian's whisper curls hot in my ear: Yes. Strike them. Show them the Wolf’s truth. Make them kneel in blood.
My grip tightens. My vision blurs. For a heartbeat, I want it, violence, fire, an end to silence.
Vera’s hand covers mine. Her touch steadies me, dragging me back from the brink. Her eyes lock onto mine, fierce. “Not this way. Don’t give him this.”
I drop the blade. My chest heaves, sweat freezing on my skin. The villagers slam their gates. We are left outside, unwelcome, starving.
***
That night, the rebels huddle in the snow beyond the village walls. Hunger gnaws, cold bites. Despair spreads like rot. Elira curses, Rourke drinks, and the freed weep quietly. I sit apart, my sword across my knees, my hands trembling.
Vera joins me, her cloak wrapped tight, her breath white in the dark. She leans against me, silent at first. Then she whispers, “Every time you don’t yield, you win. Remember that.”
Her words sink deep, carving space against the whispers. I don’t answer, but I hold her hand until dawn.