Chapter Seventeen: The Weight of Flight
The hot springs breathed steam into the frigid air, their waters churning with a restless energy that matched the pounding in Luciana's skull. Two days. Two days without sleep, without food, without the simple mercy of a moment's pause—and still the hounds of Wahrheit snapped at their heels.
"Shall we make a brief stop, Your Highness?"
Octavius's voice carried an edge she rarely heard from him. Worry. Not for himself—never for himself—but for her. For the dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. For the way her hands trembled as she clutched Nemesis to her chest.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
The demonic steed Nightmare lowered its massive head to the spring's edge, drinking in greedy gulps. Steam curled around its obsidian flanks, and for a moment, Luciana allowed herself to believe they had escaped. Just for a moment.
Foolish, she thought bitterly. Hope is a luxury for women who aren't hunted.
She had left everything behind in the wreckage of the carriage. Her clothes. Her medicines. Nemesis's bag with its precious herbs and potions. All of it sacrificed to the singular, desperate need to protect the child in her arms—and the one growing heavy in her womb.
"Don't use the spell, Your Highness," Octavius had warned her, his golden eyes sharp with concern. "Divine sleep will drain you faster than any wound."
But what choice did she have? Nemesis needed to sleep. Needed to stay silent, stay still, stay alive. So she had woven the spell anyway, threading her own life-force into the threads of his slumber, and now she felt the cost in every aching bone.
She blessed the spring before touching it—a whispered prayer to whatever gods still listened in this corrupted land. The water remained pure. Unpoisoned. A small mercy.
As she bathed Nemesis, washing away the grime of their flight, her thoughts drifted to Erebus. To the way his eyes had looked when they dragged him away. To Cornelius, bleeding out on stones that had witnessed a thousand years of cruelty.
Her hand pressed flat against her swollen belly.
"My children are my priority."
She said it aloud this time, the words hardening into armor around her heart. Erebus would understand. Cornelius would forgive her. They had to.
Because if she allowed herself to believe otherwise—if she let the guilt consume her—she would shatter completely.
---
"I've seen enough war to know when a chase is turning into a slaughter," Octavius muttered, his gaze fixed on the horizon behind them.
Luciana finished fastening her cloak and took Nemesis from him, cradling the sleeping toddler against her chest. "What's wrong?"
His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered beneath his cheek. "They've found us."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "Already? How—"
"Does it matter?" He swung onto Nightmare and reached down for her. "Hold tight. And I mean it this time, Your Highness. Do not let go."
She barely had time to comply before the demonic steed launched forward, its hooves carving furrows in the frozen earth.
---
The barrenland gave way to small pastures, which gave way to nothing but rocks and thorned brush and the endless gray sky pressing down like a judgment. The road grew rough—treacherous, even—each jolt sending spikes of pain through Luciana's exhausted body.
Then the river appeared.
It roared between them and freedom, a churning monster of white water and moss-slicked stones. One misstep meant death. One wrong breath meant the current swallowing them whole.
"There's no way around," Octavius said, scanning left and right with a soldier's practiced eye.
Luciana stared at the water. At the way it smashed against the rocks, hungry and patient. "We'll have to cross it. Somehow."
Even as she said it, she heard how useless the words sounded. What could she do? Her divine power flickered like a candle in a storm. Her body ached. Her mind swam with exhaustion and fear.
You are not prey, she reminded herself. You are a princess of Amanecer. Act like it.
But the reminder felt hollow.
---
He dismounted first, boots splashing into the shallows. Then he reached up and pulled her down before she could protest.
"Excuse me, Your Highness."
"What are you—ah!"
He lifted her as though she weighed nothing—as though Nemesis weighed nothing—and then his wings unfolded from his back.
She remembered those wings. Had admired them once, in another life, when the world still made sense. They were larger now. Stronger. The feathers gleamed like polished silver despite the stale air of Wahrheit pressing down on them.
But something was wrong.
He couldn't extend them fully. Couldn't catch the air properly. The corruption here—the heavy, poisoned atmosphere that choked divine power and smothered demonic strength alike—had clipped him.
Still, he managed. Just barely.
They crossed the river in a single, lurching flight. He set her down behind a cluster of ancient oaks, Nemesis still sleeping peacefully in her arms.
"Stay hidden," Octavius ordered. "No matter what you hear. No matter what you see. Stay hidden."
Then he flew back to force he steed to cross the river. Nightmare refused.
The demonic steed bucked and snarled, flames licking from its nostrils as Octavius grabbed its reins. Its hooves struck him once—twice—and on the third blow, he lost his grip and went tumbling into the current.
"Octavius!"
Luciana's scream tore from her throat before she could stop it. She emerged from behind the trees, clutching Nemesis, watching in horror as the man who had served her family for a decade fought against the raging water.
He caught a branch wedged between two stones. Held on. Hauled himself up inch by agonizing inch, the reins still wrapped around his fist.
He didn't let go, she realized. Even now. Even drowning. He didn't let go.
The soldiers arrived on the opposite bank just as Octavius guided Nightmare onto the river stones. Their garrons—lesser demonic mounts, all teeth and terror—reared back at the sight of the churning water.
"You there!" one soldier shouted, raising his musket. "Halt in the name of General Draco!"
A second soldier grabbed his arm. "The general's orders—we can't harm the woman."
"I know what the general ordered," the first man snapped, shoving him off. "But he didn't say anything about the bastard helping her."
He fired.
The shot struck Octavius's thigh.
Luciana saw the blood before she heard him grunt—a dark bloom spreading through his trousers, pooling around his boot. He sank to one knee but didn't fall. Didn't drop the reins.
"Octavius!" She was moving before she could think, running toward him, pulling him down just as the second shot whistled past her ear.
"Damnit!" the soldier who had fired cursed. "I told you not to shoot! What happens if we hit the woman?"
"Then we collect the bounty on the brat and leave her corpse for the crows," the first soldier replied, already reloading. "Draco won't care as long as the boy's dead."
The others exchanged glances.
"This one is insane. If Draco finds out we're raven meat by dawn." The others cursed and tried to restrain him.
While they bickered and pulled their steeds forcefully to cross the river, Luciana took her time to heal Octavius.
"Let me heal you."
Luciana pressed her hands to Octavius's leg, channeling her divine energy into the wound. The golden light flickered—dimmed—flickered again.
Nothing.
The flesh refused to knit. The blood refused to stop flowing.
"Why?" She looked up at him, desperate. "Why won't it heal?"
"The gunpowder." His voice came through gritted teeth, each word costing him. "Crafted to kill Amanecerians. Drains life-force on contact. Lethal for humans and demons alike."
"You're bleeding out!"
"I've had worse." He gave her a weary smile that didn't reach his eyes. "One bullet won't send me to my grave. Save your energy, Your Highness."
Why am I so powerless?
The question burned in her throat, but she swallowed it. There was no time for self-pity. No time for guilt.
The soldiers were forcing their mounts across the river.
" Now is our chance. We can shake them off our tails." He pulled the reins and made the beast in full gallop.
They rode through the remainder of the day, putting distance between themselves and their pursuers. The forest swallowed them whole—dark trees pressing close, branches clawing at their faces, the sounds of the soldiers growing fainter with every desperate stride.
But Octavius's breathing grew heavier.
Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold. His hands trembled on the reins. Blood soaked through his makeshift bandages and dripped onto Nightmare's flank.
"You need proper treatment," Luciana insisted. "Let me—"
"Save it." His voice was sharper now. Weaker. "You're carrying two lives besides your own, Your Highness. I won't be the reason you drain yourself dry."
"I am not that weak—"
Nightmare lurched over a root, and her words died in a gasp as she nearly lost her grip on Nemesis.
"You're not weak," Octavius said quietly. "You're pregnant, exhausted, and half-starved. There's a difference."
She had no answer to that.
The woods cleared as evening fell.
They emerged onto a hillside overlooking a small settlement—a cluster of rundown huts and desperate-looking cottages that clung to the edge of Embercrow territory like shipwreck survivors clinging to driftwood.
"The ship departs in two days," Octavius murmured. His eyes were glazing now, focus slipping in and out like a failing signal. "If we miss it..."
"We won't." Luciana pulled her cloak tighter around her face, grateful for Calypso's gift. "We shouldn't miss it."
But even as she said it, she didn't believe it.
The villagers watched them enter.
Faces appeared in doorways. Hands tightened on farming tools that could become weapons in an instant. Children were pulled inside, doors barred, curtains drawn.
They're afraid, Luciana realized. Not of us. Of what follows us.
She understood that fear. Had felt it gnawing at her own heart for two days straight.
"Be careful, Your Highness." Octavius's voice was barely a whisper now. "You're no longer in disguise. If they recognize you—"
"I know."
She pressed closer to him, holding Nemesis tighter, keeping her face hidden. The cloak's hood shadowed her features, but one wrong glance. One moment of recognition. That was all it would take.
The poverty here was suffocating. Buildings that should have been sturdy had been patched with scrap wood and desperation. Gardens lay fallow. Wells had run dry.
Wahrheit doesn't just conquer, she thought bitterly. It consumes.
She glanced at Octavius for confirmation, for comfort, for anything—but his eyes had gone distant. Unfocused.
"Octavius?"
He didn't answer.
Then he slid sideways from the saddle and hit the ground like a sack of stones.
"Octavius!"
Nightmare reared, whinnying in fury and alarm. The sudden movement nearly threw Luciana—she clutched Nemesis with one arm and the saddle with the other, her heart slamming against her ribs as the demonic steed bucked and spun.
"Someone help!" she screamed. "Please! He's injured!"
The villagers stared. Frozen. Terrified. None of them moved closer.
They see Nightmare, she realized. They see a demon and think we're the enemy.
"Please—" Her voice cracked. "I'm begging you—"
A man stepped forward from the crowd.
She couldn't see his face—it was wrapped in cloth against the cold—but something about his posture made Nightmare pause. The steed's ears flicked toward him. Its nostrils flared, scenting something familiar.
"Nightmare," the man said, his voice muffled but calm. "Halt."
The beast charged.
Luciana screamed.
But at the last possible moment, Nightmare stopped. Lowered its head. Sniffed at the stranger's outstretched hands like a dog greeting an old friend.
She stared, breathless and shaking.
The man reached up and removed the cloth from his face.
"Sir Jafar?" she whispered.
No doubt that appearance. The one that looked closer to Erebus. It was him.
"My lady." His voice broke on the words. "By the gods. My lady."
"Please." She was crying now—she hadn't even realized it—tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "Octavius is hurt. He needs help. Please, Sir Jafar. I'll repay you however I can. I'll—"
"Shh." He moved toward her, reaching up to help her down from the shuddering steed. "You're safe now. Both of you. You are precious to our lord. He would be disappointed in me if I didn't protect you in his stead."
"But the soldiers—they're coming—"
"Let them come." Sir Jafar's eyes hardened. "They'll find more than they bargained for in Embercrow."
Behind him, the villagers began to move. Doors opened. Men emerged with weapons in hand—not farming tools this time, but real steel, well-maintained and sharp.
Luciana looked at their faces and saw hope.
"Your Highness," Sir Jafar said, offering his arm.
"For now let us hide in this village."