Chapter 19 – The Weight of Crimson
The marsh was quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn't come from peace, but from blood.
Steam rose from the ground where crimson fire had burned itself into the mud, and the stench of charred flesh hung so heavy in the air that it clung to Lucien's throat with every breath. Bodies sprawled in the muck around him—broken masks, cracked charms, blackened armor. Once, these had been living men. Hunters. Warriors sworn to a cause. Now, they were nothing more than corpses feeding the swamp.
Lucien knelt in the middle of it all, his hands trembling around Requiem's hilt. The blade still glowed faintly, like an ember refusing to die. Every faint pulse of red ran through his body like a shiver, echoing with the voice that had nearly swallowed him whole.
You felt it, the hymn whispered, softer now but no less insidious. The truth of your power. You think you can walk away from it? You tasted freedom. You can't crawl back into chains.
Lucien's jaw clenched. He wanted to throw the sword into the muck, to let it sink into the filth where it belonged. But his fingers refused to release it, no matter how hard he willed them to. It wasn't just the sword that clung to him. He clung to it too.
"Lucien."
Liora's voice broke through the haze. She was kneeling beside him, her sword discarded, her hands pressed firm against his arm as if she could steady him by touch alone. Mud streaked her face, her braid had half come undone, and blood—his or hers, he couldn't tell—ran down her sleeve. But her eyes were steady, even as fear swirled behind them.
"You came back," she said softly. Not as praise. Not as comfort. As fact, and nothing more.
Lucien swallowed hard. His throat was raw, his lungs burned, and his chest ached with every breath. "Did I?"
Her grip on his arm tightened. "Yes. You stopped before it was too late."
He wanted to believe her. He really did. But when he closed his eyes, he didn't see restraint. He saw flashes of crimson. He saw the way his blade had carved through bone, the way the leader's scream had filled him with a savage, hungry joy. He remembered the laughter that hadn't been his own spilling from his throat.
And deep down, beneath all of it, he remembered the truth: he hadn't wanted to stop. He'd wanted more.
Lucien forced himself to look at her, his vision still trembling at the edges from the aftershocks of Requiem's power. "If you hadn't been here… I don't think I would have stopped at all."
Liora shook her head. "That's why I am here."
The words struck him harder than any blade. She said it without hesitation, without fear, but Lucien saw it in her eyes anyway—the flicker of doubt. She wanted to believe in him, but she had seen what he had become in that moment, what Requiem had made of him.
And so had he.
---
They didn't move for a long time. The swamp's fog began to curl back in, swallowing the battlefield bit by bit, until only the closest corpses were still visible. Crows circled overhead, drawn by the smell, their harsh cries cutting through the silence.
Lucien finally pushed himself to his feet, his muscles screaming in protest. Every step felt heavy, as if the crimson light still dragged at his veins. Requiem trembled faintly in his grip, reluctant to be sheathed.
Liora rose with him, watching carefully, her hand hovering close to her own weapon though she didn't draw it. Not out of threat, but out of readiness—readiness for whatever came next, whether it was more hunters or Lucien himself losing control again.
"We can't stay here," she said at last. "If these hunters came after us, more will follow. They'll track the fight. The Choir doesn't stop."
Lucien gave a short, bitter laugh. "After this?" He gestured to the bodies. "Maybe they'll think twice."
Liora's gaze didn't waver. "Or maybe they'll send more. Stronger ones. You know what we're dealing with, Lucien. They won't leave this unfinished."
He knew she was right. He hated that she was right. But his body felt like stone, weighed down not by exhaustion alone but by something heavier. Every drop of blood on the ground seemed to cling to him, pressing against his skin, whispering reminders of what he'd done.
Requiem pulsed faintly in his hand. You saved yourself. You saved her. Do not mourn the tools of your enemies. They were nothing but kindling for the hymn.
Lucien wanted to shout at it, to scream until his voice broke, but the words lodged in his throat. Instead, he sheathed the blade with a trembling motion and turned away.
"Then let's move," he said, his voice hoarse.
---
They walked in silence. The marsh stretched on endlessly, each patch of ground shifting beneath their boots, each step sinking into mud that tried to drag them down. Mist curled low, thick and damp, and the air buzzed faintly with insects drawn to blood.
Liora led the way now, her sword back in hand, her eyes scanning the fog for signs of movement. Lucien followed behind, one hand on Requiem's hilt, not because he wanted to fight but because he couldn't let go.
Every few steps, he glanced at her back. At the straight line of her shoulders, at the way her grip on her sword never faltered. She had fought like fire earlier, had cut through enemies twice her size with precision and fury. Yet now, in the silence, she seemed smaller. Not weaker. Just weighed down by something invisible.
The weight of crimson wasn't his alone.
Finally, Lucien broke the silence. "Back there… you looked at me like—" He stopped, searching for the right word. "Like I wasn't me."
Liora didn't turn. "Because for a moment, you weren't."
The words cut deeper than he expected. But she wasn't cruel. Her tone wasn't sharp. It was careful. Honest.
"You were something else," she continued. "Something dangerous. If you hadn't stopped, I don't know if I could have reached you again."
Lucien's fists clenched. "So what then? If this keeps happening… do you kill me?"
She stopped walking. Turned to face him. Her eyes, sharp even in the mist, locked onto his. "If it comes to that, I'll do whatever I have to."
The air between them felt like a blade's edge. For a moment, Lucien almost believed she would strike him down right then. But then her shoulders softened, and she stepped closer.
"But I don't believe it will come to that," she said quietly. "Not if you keep fighting it. Not if you keep fighting for yourself."
Lucien let out a shaky breath. He wanted to believe her. Gods, he wanted to believe her more than anything. But the hymn's echo still throbbed faintly in his veins, and he knew the truth she couldn't say aloud: every time he called on Requiem, the fight got harder.
---
Hours passed. The swamp gave way to firmer ground, the mist thinning into patches that drifted like torn cloth through the trees. They finally stopped near the edge of a ruined stone outpost, its walls half-collapsed and swallowed by roots.
Liora checked the perimeter before lowering herself against a crumbling wall. "We'll rest here for the night. Moving without sleep will only get us killed faster."
Lucien sank down across from her, his body grateful even if his mind refused to quiet. He leaned Requiem against the wall beside him, but the sword seemed to hum in protest, as if displeased at being set aside.
Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the distant croak of frogs and the drip of water through stone. Finally, Lucien spoke.
"Back there… the leader said I was just a host. That the sword owns me." He looked at Liora, searching her face. "Do you believe that?"
Her expression flickered. For once, she didn't answer immediately. Instead, she leaned her head back against the stone, eyes closing.
"I believe you're stronger than it," she said at last. "But I also believe it's not a fight you can win alone."
Lucien studied her in the dim light, the shadows softening her features. She looked exhausted, worn to the bone, but there was no fear in her voice. No hesitation.
The weight in his chest eased, just a fraction.
"Then don't leave," he murmured, barely louder than a whisper.
Her eyes opened, and for a moment, the fog of exhaustion lifted. She held his gaze, and the faintest ghost of a smile touched her lips.
"I wasn't planning to."
---
But as Lucien closed his eyes, exhaustion finally dragging him under, the hymn whispered again.
She can't save you forever. The crimson is already yours. And one day, when she looks at you, she won't see Lucien at all.
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✨ End of Chapter 19✨