Chapter 21 – Clash in the Rain
The storm had not broken by morning. Sheets of rain smothered Durelin, turning alleys to rivers and cobblestones to slick glass. Lucian moved through the downpour with his hood drawn low, each step deliberate. He had not intended to act so soon, but fate, as always, cared little for intention.
It happened in the South Market, where the poor huddled beneath rotting awnings. A column of Whitecloaks thundered in, firebrands cutting through the mist, their voices booming psalms as they pulled a boy from the crowd. His crime was simple: he carried a book not stamped with the Church's seal.
Lucian froze as he watched. The leader, a towering priest wrapped in the sun-emblazoned cloak of their order, held the boy high for all to see.
"Heresy breeds rot," he bellowed. "And rot must be burned!"
The mob cowered. Some wept. None dared intervene.
Lucian's hand fell to his sword. His mind told him to turn away, to walk back into the fog, but that flame from last night still gnawed at him, hissing against reason. When the priest raised his hand to call down fire, Lucian moved.
He slipped through the crowd like a blade through cloth, eyes locked on the boy. When the Whitecloak swung his arm, Lucian's sword intercepted the motion, steel flashing with rain. Sparks flared as steel clanged against the priest's ceremonial mace.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The Whitecloak sneered. "You dare?"
Lucian did not answer. His blade cut in a clean arc, driving the priest back a step. The other Whitecloaks surged forward, torches flaring with fire-magic, their cloaks snapping like banners of war.
The clash exploded.
Lucian fought with precision, not frenzy. His sword carved rain into ribbons, every movement honed from years of discipline. He parried a blazing strike, pivoted, and his riposte sliced through a torchbearer's arm. The man screamed, cloak igniting as he fell.
Another Whitecloak lunged. Lucian sidestepped, twisting the blade upward into the man's chest. The scream died in his throat as he crumpled.
But they kept coming. Fire roared, torches arced, and soon the marketplace was ablaze in both flame and panic. The people scattered, their shrieks echoing against stone, while Lucian stood alone in the eye of the storm, his cloak burning at the edges.
Then, silence fell.
The leader raised his hand, fire gathering at his palm, brighter and hotter than the others. His eyes gleamed with fanatic certainty.
"In the Radiant's name," he thundered, "I will burn you to ash."
Lucian lifted his blade, rain sliding down its edge, his stance unshaken. For the first time, he allowed himself a smile—thin, sharp, dangerous.
"Try."
The fire descended.