Chapter 47 - Lucian
The snow does not stop. It falls heavy, endless, erasing every track we leave behind, burying the world in silence. Only the sound of boots, the creak of sledges, and the ragged breaths of the weary mark our passage. Crown riders stalk our shadow, but the storm blinds them as much as us.
Still, I feel him. Declan. His presence coils in the storm, a laugh beneath the wind, a chain tightening in every drift. You run, Wolf, but snow covers faster than my leash can pull. You drag them north only to freeze together.
I grind my teeth, force the whispers back, but they cling.
***
By dusk, the rebels stagger into a clearing ringed with firs.
Fires are struck despite the risk; cold has gnawed too deep.
Smoke curls up, a fragile defiance against winter.
The freed huddle near the flames, eyes hollow, hands trembling as they hold bowls of thin stew scraped from dwindling stores.
Abigail sleeps with her doll clutched tight.
The council gathers again. Elira’s face is carved from stone, her voice sharp. “We cannot keep running. Riders press us. Villages close their doors. We need a strike, food, weapons, something. Or the storm will finish what he started.”
Rourke shakes his head, flask empty, hands shaking. “Strike where? Everything north is theirs. We raid again, we draw the army down on our necks. Then we’re finished.”
The rebels mutter, the firelight throwing fear across their faces. Once again, their eyes fall to me.
I feel the weight settle, heavy as chains. Always me. Always their belief, sharp enough to cut.
***
I study the maps spread on a cloak, edges curling with frost. Villages marked with banners. Roads patrolled. And there, a depot, Crown supply trucks stockpiled, guarded but not walled. Close enough to strike before dawn. Enough food to last weeks, perhaps more.
Cassian's whisper slides close. Yes. Take it. Feed them. Bind them tighter to you. Until the feast turns to famine again, and they tear you apart.
I clench my fists until nails bite into flesh. My voice, when it emerges, is rough. “There’s a depot northeast. Supply trucks, supplies. We strike before dawn. Take what we can. Vanish before they close the jaws.”
Elira bares her teeth in a fierce grin. Rourke curses, but nods. The rebels murmur, some fearful, some eager, but the decision holds.
***
That night, I can’t rest. The storm hammers the camp, wind howling through the firs. I walk among the fires, watching rebels mend weapons, watching the freed cling to each other for warmth. Belief burns in their faces, fragile but alive.
Vera finds me. Her cloak is rimmed with frost, her eyes steady despite exhaustion. She lays a hand on my arm. “You lead them to more than food. Every strike spreads truth. Every freed chain makes his grip weaker.”
I shake my head, the weight pressing harder. “Every strike also feeds his game. He waits. He laughs. And I….” My throat tightens. “I hear him even now.”
She doesn’t flinch. Her hand tightens, grounding me. “Then let me drown him out.”
Her voice is soft, but fierce enough to cut through the storm. And for a moment, the chains loosen.
***
At dawn, we march. Snow crunches under boots, breath fogs the air. The depot waits beyond the ridges, smoke rising faintly in the distance. The rebels ready their blades. Hunger steels them. Fear sharpens them.
And as I lead them into the storm, Declan’s laugh follows. Yes, Wolf. Lead them. Lead them deeper into my jaws.
***
The depot smolders in the distance, its fires dim against the storm. Supply trucks line the yard, canvas flapping in the wind, shadows of guards pacing between them. The scent of grain and smoke drifts faintly on the gale. Hunger gnaws at the rebels like a second heartbeat.
We wait in the shelter of pines, breath fogging, blades tight in hand. Snow muffles every sound. Elira crouches at my side, her breaching axe resting across her knees, her grin sharp despite the cold.
“We go now,” she whispers, eager.
Rourke mutters a curse, checking the powder in his rifle.
The freed huddle behind us, too weary to fight, but watching with eyes that burn with desperate hope.
Declan’s voice coils in my skull. Look at them. Hungry, weak, desperate. You lead them to slaughter, Wolf. Their deaths will be yours to carry.
My jaw clenches. I raise my hand. The rebels surge.
***
The first guards fall before they can cry out.
Steel meets flesh, snow drinking the sound.
Elira cleaves through a pair, her roar swallowed by the storm.
Rourke fires once, twice, then swings his rifle like a club when the powder fails in the wet.
Rebels swarm the supply trucks, slashing canvas, seizing sacks of grain.
I drive my blade through a soldier’s chest, his blood steaming in the snow. Hunger roars louder than fear. We are wolves tearing at prey, desperate and wild.
Then the horns sound. A blast splits the storm, deep and thunderous. The gates of the depot grind open, soldiers pouring out in ranks. Rifles crack, bullets whining past. Rebels scream, bodies dropping into the snow.
Elira roars defiance, hacking through three at once. Rourke curses, dragging a wounded rebel behind a supply truck. I carve a path toward the gates, rage and desperation blurring every strike.
Vera’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Chains! Cut the chains!”
I turn, and see them. Prisoners, shackled to the supply trucks, eyes hollow, hands raw. Their chains rattle as they stumble in the snow, caught between freedom and death. My chest tightens.
Declan’s laugh echoes. Yes. Break their chains. Add them to your leash.
I slash through the bonds, steel biting rust and flesh. Prisoners cry out, some falling to their knees, others seizing weapons from the fallen. The rebels rally around them, hope sparking in the blood-soaked snow.
But the horn sounds again. More soldiers flood the yard. Too many. The storm hides us, but not enough.
***
“Fall back!” I roar, my voice breaking through steel and storm. “Take the supply trucks we can. Leave the rest!”
Chaos erupts. Rebels drag sacks of grain onto sledges, prisoners staggering beside them. Elira fights like a storm, carving a path through the crush. Rourke fires blind, bellowing curses. Vera pulls captives toward the treeline, Marta’s satchel clutched against her chest.
I fight last, blade tearing through armor and flesh, until the snow runs red around me. Then I break away, lungs burning, the storm swallowing the military compound behind us.
***
By dawn, we collapse in a hollow far from the depot. The rebels slump in the snow, clutching sacks of grain like treasure. Prisoners lie trembling, free but broken. The freed eat with shaking hands, tears streaking their faces.
We live. We have food. We have hope.