Chapter 37 - Lucian
The mountains strip men down to bone and will.
Every step north feels heavier, as though the peaks themselves want us buried beneath their weight.
Snow blinds, wind claws, and still the rebels march.
They do not sing anymore. They do not even curse.
They only endure, because I endure. That truth chains me harder than any iron.
***
By midday, the scouts return. Their faces are pale, their eyes wide. “Crown soldiers,” one rasps. “Less than a day behind. And more ahead, blocking the pass.”
The council gathers in the shadow of the cliffs. Elira slams her breaching axe into the snow. “Then we fight. Better to bleed on our feet than starve on our knees.”
Rourke spits, shaking his flask. Empty. “Fight two armies? In these cliffs? You’ll be painting the snow red with our guts before the first horn sounds.”
The freed weep, clutching one another. The rebels look to me. Always to me. Their silence presses, suffocates. My throat tightens. The chains coil.
Every choice is mine for I am the crown, Declan whispers. Every mistake is mine. March where I want, fight when I want, bleed when I want. And when you break, Lucian, they’ll thank you for it.
I clench my fists until blood beads. “We hold here,” I say, voice like stone. “Not in the open. Not on their ground. We turn the cliffs into our teeth.”
Elira bares her teeth in a grin. Rourke mutters curses, but he does not argue. The rebels nod, some relieved, some afraid. Vera watches me, her eyes burning through the shadow I carry. She does not speak, but I feel her words press against me: Don’t let him win.
***
We dig into the cliffs. Rocks are pried loose to tumble on soldiers’ heads. Fires are snuffed, smoke hidden. Arrows are strung, blades sharpened. The rebels work with grim resolve, their fear buried beneath duty. Even the freed lift stones, carry water, clutch sticks like weapons.
I patrol the ridges, sword on my back, cloak whipping in the wind. The storm has passed, but the cold is sharper, biting deep. My breath fogs. My steps echo. In the silence between, I hear him.
They’ll die for you. Do you feel proud? Or does it hollow you out, knowing each grave is dug with your hands? Declan’s laugh rolls like thunder. Fight, Wolf. Bleed. Feed me with their screams.
My grip tightens on the sword. The urge to howl rises in my throat. I choke it down, forcing silence instead. If I unleash it, I fear it will not be mine.
***
By nightfall, the first horns sound. Echoes bounce off cliffs, sharp and cruel. The rebels stiffen, clutching weapons. The freed cry out, hushed by Elira’s bark. Light flares in the distance, winding like a serpent through the snow. The Crown comes.
We wait. Hearts pound. Breath fogs. Every sound is too loud: the scrape of boots, the creak of bows, the rattle of chains inside my chest. I feel Vera’s eyes on me, steady, anchoring. I hold her gaze across the shadows. Her lips move in silent words: You are not his.
The horns sound again, closer now. The soldiers march into the gorge. Their banners whip in the wind, their armor glints like teeth. Declan is not among them, but his presence coils in their steps. He does not need to be here. His shadow is enough.
***
The first stones fall. Elira roars, her breaching axe flashing as she hews down the lead riders. Arrows hiss, striking from the cliffs. Rebels surge from hiding, blades flashing, cries echoing against rock. The Crown soldiers falter, shields raised, horns blaring. Blood spatters the snow.
I leap into the fray, sword a storm in my hands. I carve through shields, bones, flesh. Each strike is heavy, desperate, mine, and yet not mine. Declan whispers with every swing. Yes. Kill. Spill. Break them until you are only what we made you.
My rage builds. My vision blurs red. For a heartbeat, I lose myself. My blade rises to strike down a soldier already broken, kneeling, begging. My hand does not falter until Vera’s voice cuts through the storm.
“Lucian!”
Her cry sears me. My hand trembles. The blade halts, inches from the man’s throat. His eyes widen, terror raw. I slam the hilt into his skull instead. He crumples, blood pooling in the snow. My breath heaves. My chest burns. I cling to her voice like a lifeline.
***
The battle rages long into the night. The rebels fight like wolves, teeth bared, claws sharp. The Crown soldiers falter beneath stone and steel, their horns blaring retreat. Bodies litter the gorge, blood soaking into snow. When silence falls at last, it is heavy and jagged.
The rebels cheer weakly, voices hoarse. Elira raises her breaching axe, her grin feral. Rourke slumps against a rock, flask in hand, blood on his sleeve. The freed sob, some in relief, some in grief.
I stand apart, my sword dripping, my body trembling. Declan’s laughter still echoes, even in victory. You fought well, Wolf. But every swing was mine. And every cheer they give you is mine too.
I close my eyes, fighting the pull. Vera’s hand finds mine, steady, grounding. I open my eyes, meeting hers. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is louder than his whispers.
***
The gorge is silent when the horns fade.
Only the crackle of dying lights and the low moans of the wounded remain.
The snow is red beneath us, steaming in the night air.
The rebels move slowly among the fallen, dragging their own to fires, leaving the enemy where they fell.
Death weighs heavy, but survival weighs heavier.
I stand in the shadows of the cliffs, sword heavy in my grip. The blood on it feels endless. It drips onto the snow, each drop an accusation. My chest heaves. My hands shake. Cassian's whispers coil in the quiet. How many were mine, Lucian? How many blows struck for me instead of you?
Vera approaches, her cloak torn, blood on her cheek that isn’t hers. Her eyes lock on me, fierce, unyielding. “You didn’t yield.”
I want to believe her. But inside, I feel the chains tightening. I hear his laughter louder than the rebels’ cheer. I sheath my sword without answering. If I speak, I fear my voice will not be my own.
***
The council gathers near the fires, faces gaunt in the glow. Elira’s jaw is set, her breaching axe still dripping. “We held. We can hold again.”
Rourke spits blood, clutching a flask in one hand, pressing cloth to a wound with the other. “Held? Barely. That was a taste, not the feast. They’ll be back with more, and we’ll be buried.”
Murmurs ripple through the rebels, fear rising with the smoke. Their eyes turn to me. Always to me. My silence stretches like the gorge itself, deep, endless. I see their hope flicker, waiting for my word to stoke or snuff it.
At last, I say, voice low, “We move before dawn. We can’t hold forever. We bleed them and run. The mountains will cover us.”
The words sound hollow, even to me. Still, the rebels nod. They want direction, not truth. Vera’s gaze burns into me. She knows how close the chains are.
***
When dawn breaks, we march again. The snow is heavier, the cold sharper.
The wounded stumble, carried by comrades too tired to carry themselves.
The freed cling to scraps of hope, their eyes wide and hollow.
Abigail still clutches her doll, but she does not smile anymore. Each step feels like surrender.
The Crown follows. Horns echo in the distance, steady, relentless. They do not need to chase us. They only need to remind us they are there. Declan’s presence coils tighter with every note. Run, wolf. Run until you break. You are mine in every step.
***
By midday, the scouts return with grim faces. “The pass ahead is blocked. Soldiers wait. If we push forward, we march into their teeth.”
The council erupts. Elira demands they strike. Rourke curses, insisting they turn back. The rebels murmur, restless, afraid. All eyes turn to me again.
I close my eyes, hearing Declan’s laugh. No path leads away from me. Only through.
When I open them, I say, “We fight. Tonight. In the dark. Before they can close the jaws.”
The rebels nod, some with grim resolve, some with despair. Elira grins, her bloodlust unbroken. Rourke swears but does not argue. Vera’s face is pale, her eyes fixed on me. She doesn’t speak, but I see the question burning in her gaze: Is this you, or him?
***
We prepare as the sun sets. Fires are doused.
Blades sharpened. Arrows strung. The rebels move with weary purpose, their hands trembling but steady.
I walk among them, my presence a silent command.
They look at me with hope I don’t feel. Every nod, every cheer, feels like a chain tightening around my throat.
Vera comes to me as the last light fades. She lays a hand on my chest, over my heart. Her eyes search mine, fierce, desperate. “When you fight tonight, fight for us. Not him. Remember that.”
I take her hand, pressing it hard against me, as if her touch alone can anchor me. “If I fall—”
“You won’t,” she cuts in, sharp. “Because I’ll pull you back. I always will.”
Her words burn hotter than the fires. For a heartbeat, the whispers fade. For a heartbeat, I believe her.
***
Night falls. The rebels creep through the snow, shadows among shadows. The Crown soldiers camp in the gorge ahead, their fires bright, their horns silent. They do not expect us to strike first.
Elira signals. Stones fall, arrows fly, rebels roar. Chaos erupts. Soldiers stumble awake, scrambling for weapons. Steel clashes, blood spills, screams echo. The night is shattered by violence.
I am in the center of it, my sword a storm. I cut through men like shadows, each strike heavy, each breath ragged. My rage builds, my vision blurs red. Cassian's whispers roar: Yes. More. Spill them all. Let the Wolf loose. Let me loose.
I lose myself. For a heartbeat, I am not Lucian. I am only chains and blood, only hunger and shadow. My blade rises, ready to strike down friend as easily as foe.
Then Vera’s voice cuts through, sharp as steel. “Lucian!”
Her cry cuts through me. My blade stops. My breath shudders. I see the soldier before me, eyes wide, sword raised in fear. I drive the hilt into his temple instead. He collapses. My chest burns. My hands tremble. But I am myself again. For now.
***
The battle rages until the fires gutter, until the soldiers break. The rebels push them back, scattering them into the dark. When silence falls, it is heavy, jagged. The rebels cheer weakly, voices hoarse. Elira roars, her breaching axe raised high. Rourke collapses into the snow, flask forgotten.
I stand apart, blood dripping from my blade, my body trembling. Declan’s laughter echoes louder than the cheers. Every swing, mine. Every life, mine. You are nothing but my shadow.
Vera comes to me, her hand finding mine. Her touch steadies me, drags me back. I meet her gaze, fierce and unyielding. For a heartbeat, her fire burns brighter than his shadow.
But only for a heartbeat.