Night cloaked the city like a shroud, the alleyways empty except for whispers and rats. Lucien walked alone, his steps unhurried, each bootfall echoing off stone and shadow. To most, he looked like a lost apprentice or a courier boy running late—but tonight, Lucien was the one pulling strings.
He stopped in front of a modest tavern tucked behind the butcher's square. The paint on its sign peeled like old scabs, and the lanterns flickered with weak life. It was exactly the kind of place where secrets fermented.
Inside, the tavern buzzed with quiet tension. Men hunched over mugs, speaking in grunts and sideways glances. No one greeted Lucien, but a few nodded as if they'd been expecting him—not because they knew him, but because someone like him always showed up when trouble brewed.
Lucien moved to the corner table where a woman waited. Her eyes were sharp and cold, like winter steel, and her gloved hands rested on a closed ledger.
"Late," she said without looking up.
"I prefer to call it fashionably careful," Lucien replied, pulling out the chair.
Her name was Silna, and she was a fixer—a broker of forbidden things. Money, names, poisons, secrets. Lucien had used her before, cautiously. Tonight was different. Tonight, he needed to risk more.
"I want a list," he said quietly, sliding a sealed parchment across the table.
She didn't touch it. "You already asked for names last month."
"This one's more specific," he said. "Church-aligned bankers. Families. Properties."
Silna's brow lifted. "You planning a heist?"
"No," he said. "I'm planning a lesson."
There was a pause. Then she picked up the parchment, weighed it in her palm, and slid it into her coat. "Triple the usual rate."
"Fine."
"And I want a favor."
Lucien tilted his head. "Dangerous currency."
"More reliable than gold," she said. "One day I'll call on it."
Lucien smiled that same cold, calculating smile. "Then let's hope you never have to."
---
Back in his hideout, Lucien stared at a rough diagram carved into the wooden floor. It was a web now—dozens of names, routes, emblems, codes. And in the center, a sigil of the Church.
He didn't just want revenge. He wanted collapse.
But collapse required weight. And weight meant more people, more pressure, more moving pieces that had to fall in perfect rhythm.
He heard someone clearing their throat and turned. It was the potionmaker—Orren—looking uneasy.
"I've done what you asked," Orren said, handing over a satchel. "Three flasks. Odorless. Triggers heart palpitations in high-stress moments. It'll look natural… if they're older."
Lucien took it, inspecting the cloudy liquid through the glass. "You did well."
Orren hesitated. "You're going to use it soon, aren't you?"
Lucien looked up. "That depends. Are you scared of what you've made?"
The man flinched slightly. "No. Just… wondering if I'll still recognize myself when this is over."
Lucien's voice softened, almost gently. "You were already unrecognizable to the world the day they threw you out. I'm just helping you become visible again."
Orren didn't reply. But he stayed.
---
Later that night, Lucien sat alone with a worn journal. The ink on the first page had long faded, but the title remained:
To live free, we must make gods bleed.
His mother's handwriting. Shaky, hurried, but full of conviction. A manifesto she'd hidden beneath the floorboards. One the Church had called heresy. One they had burned her for.
He traced the letters slowly, like a prayer, then tore the page out and placed it in the center of his growing map.
Soon, they would remember her name. Not because of what she wrote—but because of what her son became.
---
End of chapter 18