Chapter 20 – Fire in the Veins
The brazier's embers hissed as rain leaked through the rafters, dripping into the circle of rebels. Lucian stood among them, silent as Kairon spoke of plans, safe houses, and names whispered like curses—the Whitecloaks, the Inquisition, the Sun Wardens. Each enemy carried the Church's seal, each name a shadow over the city.
Lucian's mind, however, was not on their words. It was on the noose. He could still hear the crack of rope, the suffocated gasps. He had not cared for causes before, but the image clung to him like smoke.
"You fight for scraps," one of the men growled suddenly, slamming his fist into the dirt. "How long can we hide? How long before they find us all?"
The scarred woman from before—her name was Selara, he now learned—spoke sharply. "We fight because to yield is to die. I would rather burn."
Her eyes flicked to Lucian. "What about you, stranger? Do you burn, or do you bow?"
The room quieted. Kairon's gaze lingered on him too, searching.
Lucian's jaw clenched. "I bow to no one." His voice was quiet, but the words landed like iron.
Kairon smiled faintly. "Then perhaps you have more in common with us than you think."
The brazier's flame sputtered, casting jagged shadows on the walls. Lucian looked into the fire and, for a moment, thought he saw shapes moving within it—serpents of smoke, a whisper curling in his ear. A memory, or a promise? He shook it off, but unease lingered.
The meeting broke with hushed words and clasped hands. Some left into the storm, others retreated to hidden corners of the warehouse. Kairon lingered, drawing Lucian aside.
"There's more than anger in you," he said, his tone low, almost reverent. "There's hunger. The kind the Church cannot tame."
Lucian met his gaze coldly. "And if you're wrong?"
"Then you'll leave us," Kairon shrugged. "But if I'm right, Lucian, you'll change everything."
The words followed him as he left the warehouse. The rain struck harder, each drop stinging his face. He walked through Durelin's veins of stone, past shuttered shops and guarded temples, until he reached the river that split the city.
There, in the water's rippling reflection, he saw himself—cloak drawn, blade at his side, eyes that no longer belonged to a man content to drift. He had taken his first step into something vast, though whether it was rebellion or ruin, he could not yet tell.
But deep in his chest, something burned.
Not hope.
Not faith.
Something older.
Something sharper.
The first spark of dominion.