Chapter 19 – Whispers in the Rain
The streets of Durelin glistened under a steady drizzle, the rain washing the soot and blood from the cobblestones but not the memories. Lucian pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the hood shadowing his face as he walked the narrow alleys. The city had grown quieter since the Gallows Square, as if fear itself had crept into every home and shuttered every window.
He wasn't alone. The man who had approached him earlier in the tavern—Kairon, he had called himself—trailed at his side. His steps were calm, too calm for someone who had spoken of rebellion with such conviction. Lucian kept his hand close to his sword, though he hadn't yet decided whether Kairon was an ally or a knife in waiting.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Kairon asked, his voice low. "The weight pressing down on this city. The Church's hand grows heavier by the day."
Lucian said nothing. Words were blades, and Kairon had already shown he knew how to wield them.
They stopped beneath the eaves of an abandoned warehouse, its doors warped with rot. Kairon rapped twice, then once more. A slit in the wood opened, revealing a wary pair of eyes. After a tense heartbeat, the door groaned open and they were ushered inside.
The air was thick with damp and smoke. A circle of men and women sat around a dying brazier, their faces gaunt, their clothes patched and worn. These were not soldiers—farmers, masons, seamstresses—but their eyes carried the same fire Lucian had seen in the condemned rebels at the square.
"This," Kairon said, gesturing toward them, "is what remains of those who still resist. The Church calls them heretics. I call them survivors."
A woman with a scar down her cheek leaned forward. "And who's this?" she asked, pointing at Lucian.
Kairon smiled faintly. "A man who stood in the square today and did not look away."
Lucian felt the weight of their stares. He had not come seeking banners or causes. Yet in their gazes, he saw expectation, even hope. It unsettled him more than the gallows had.
"You want me to fight your war," Lucian said flatly.
"Not ours," Kairon corrected. "Yours. Everyone's. But it starts with a blade willing to be drawn."
Silence stretched, broken only by the patter of rain against the roof. Lucian lowered his hood, meeting their eyes one by one. He did not promise allegiance, but he did not turn away.
For the first time, he realized the path he had chosen would not be walked alone.