Chapter 45 - Lucian
The forest smells of grain and blood. The stolen sacks creak on sledges, their weight both salvation and burden.
Rebels drag them through the snow, shoulders bowed but spirits lifted.
The freed clutch crusts of bread, bowls of grain, scraps of meat, eating with tears streaking their hollow faces. Hunger eases, if only for a night.
But I cannot eat. Every mouthful feels stolen. Every cheer echoes like a chain.
They feed on your victories, Declan whispers in the dark corners of my mind. And when the food is gone, they will feed on your failures. Either way, they feast because of you.
I clench my jaw, forcing the voice back, but it lingers like smoke.
***
By midday, we stop at a frozen stream to rest. The rebels build fires, their laughter ragged but real.
Elira boasts of the fight, her bandaged shoulder ignored as she tells the tale of splitting a soldier in two.
The younger rebels hang on every word, eyes bright with belief.
Rourke drinks, shaking his head, muttering that belief won’t stop bullets.
Still, even he eats, and for once, he smiles.
The freed gather close, whispering Marta’s words as though grace before a meal. Abigail breaks her bread in half and presses it into another’s hand. That small act carries more weight than all our victories.
Yet even here, I feel the jaws closing. Scouts return with word of soldiers shadowing us, columns to the south and east. The Crown is not scattered. They are gathering. Every raid we strike only sharpens their blade.
***
That night, the council meets. Firelight flickers over their faces, tired but fierce.
Elira slams her fist against her knee. “We strike again before they strike us. Another prison, another raid. We bleed them faster than they can gather.”
Rourke snorts, his voice thick. “Bleed them? Look at us. We’re held together by bandages and hope. One wrong step and they’ll gut us all.”
The rebels mutter, divided, but their eyes turn to me. Always me. Their belief cuts sharper than any blade. My chest feels heavy beneath it.
I stare into the fire, listening to the crack of wood, the whisper of chains in the flames. Declan’s voice curls around me. Speak, Wolf. Lead them into their graves. You know you will.
My throat tightens. For a long moment, I say nothing. Then Vera speaks.
Her voice is low but strong. “We do not win by fire alone. We win by truth. Every freed soul, every stolen word, is another crack in their silence. We keep moving. We take what we can, when we must, but we do not burn ourselves out for his traps.”
Her fire steadies me. I add, “We move north. If a prison falls in our path, we break it. If supplies lie before us, we take them. But we do not bleed more than we must. Not for him.”
The rebels nod. Some eager, some reluctant, but they nod. The decision holds.
***
Later, when the camp quiets, Vera finds me again. She sits beside me, her cloak brushing mine, Marta’s satchel heavy in her lap. “You keep giving them direction, even when you believe none exists.”
I shake my head, staring into the flames. “Every choice I give feels like his.”
She grips my hand, fierce. “Then let them be ours. Every choice, ours.”
Her words burn brighter than fire. For a moment, the whispers falter. For a moment, I am still myself.
***
At dawn, scouts bring grim news: a Crown military compound rises on the northern road, its walls bristling with guns, its shadow stretching long. We cannot pass unseen. We cannot circle wide without starving.
The rebels mutter, fear sharp in their voices. The freed cling to one another, their hope trembling.
Elira bares her teeth. “Then we break their military compound.”
Rourke swears, his flask shaking. “Break ourselves, you mean.”
The rebels turn to me. The weight of their belief crushes. The chains pull tighter.
And in the silence that follows, I feel Declan’s laughter coil like smoke. Choose, Wolf. Whatever you say, the leash is mine.
***
The military compound looms on the horizon by dusk.
Its black walls rise from the snow like a scar, towers bristling with rifles, banners snapping in the wind.
Fires burn along its ramparts, a warning to all who dare near.
Even from miles away, the sight steals breath.
The freed whisper prayers. The rebels fall silent.
We camp in the shadow of pines, the military compound visible through every gap in the branches. The council gathers close, voices hushed as though the walls might hear us.
Elira’s jaw tightens, her scarred hand gripping the breaching axe at her side. “We strike before dawn. If we wait, they will march out and crush us. Better to bleed on their walls than starve circling them.”
Rourke shakes his head, flask dangling useless in his grip. “Strike? Against stone? Against guns? We’ll break our skulls before we crack a gate.”
The rebels mutter, fear thick. Some nod at Elira’s fury, others at Rourke’s caution. The freed sit huddled, eyes darting between us like prey caught in the open.
I stare at the military compound, its shadow burning in my vision. This is his, Declan whispers. Every stone laid with chains. Every gate forged for your leash. Enter, and I close it around your throat.
My breath hitches, my chest tight. The firelight flickers, shadows crawling like hands. For a heartbeat, I see myself kneeling inside those walls, chains biting deep. The rebels watching. Belief turning to horror.
Then Vera speaks. Her voice cuts through the silence, clear, fierce. “We do not throw ourselves against stone. We cut around it. We strike what it hides. There will be supplies, there will be prisoners beyond those walls. We move fast, we take them, and we vanish before its gates can open.”
Elira bares her teeth, ready to snarl, but Vera’s fire holds. Rourke exhales, muttering curses, but relief softens his shoulders. The rebels shift, uneasy but listening.
I seize the moment. “The military compound stands. Let it stand. It is not our victory. Not yet. We break what chains we can, where we can, until its walls fall from within.”
The decision holds. Thin, fragile, but it holds.
***
That night, I cannot sleep. The military compound glows in the distance, a wound in the snow, its lights burning like eyes.
I walk the perimeter, my hand tight on my sword.
His voice coils in the silence. Run, fight, choose; it makes no difference.
You move, I bind. You speak, I own. You are mine, Wolf.
I dig my blade into the frozen ground, my breath ragged. For a moment, I want to scream just to drown him out.
Then Vera comes, her cloak brushing frost, her eyes steady. She stands beside me, silent at first. Then she whispers, “You are not his. You never were. Not while I breathe.”
Her hand finds mine, firm, unyielding. Her fire burns through the dark.
***
At dawn, we march again, skirting wide around the black walls. The freed stumble, the rebels mutter, but they follow. The military compound looms behind us, silent, watching, waiting.
The jaws close tighter. But we still move.