Page 15 of The Monster You Made
I walk, slow at first, then quicker. The satchel digs into my shoulder. Another pair of footsteps joins the first. Two. They mirror my pace. I veer into a side street, narrow and slick, heart pounding. The men follow, their boots striking wet stone. I count my breaths. One, two, three, then bolt.
The chase winds through the labyrinth of Old Vienna’s old quarter. Past shuttered shops, under laundry lines that slap my face, through courtyards where startled cats scatter. The men are close. Too close. My lungs burn, but I don’t slow. Ahead, I see a gate half open. I slip through, slam it shut behind me, and dive into a stairwell leading down to the river’s edge.
There, I crouch in the dark, the smell of damp stone thick in my nostrils. The satchel thumps against my knees as I clutch it. Footsteps thunder past overhead. One of the men curses, the sound echoing down into my hiding place. I hold my breath until silence swallows the alley.
Minutes pass before I dare climb back up. The street is empty now, slick with rain, the gate swinging gently on its hinges. I press on, shaken but alive.
By the time I reach the boarding house, the sky has turned black. The landlady barely glances at me as I climb the stairs. In my room, I lock the door twice, then collapse on the bed with the satchel beside me. My hands shake as I undo the buckles. I flip through the pages, ledgers, letters, and codes. Proof enough to turn the summit into an inferno if placed in the right hands.
One page catches my eye: a ledger entry under Belgrave’s name, linked to shipments labeled only with numbers. The figures are staggering. Enough to finance armies. Enough to topple nations. My throat tightens. This is more than corruption. It’s scaffolding for an empire.
I shove the documents back inside and press the satchel to my chest. Exhaustion drags at me, but sleep is impossible. I lie in the dark, listening to the city pulse beyond the window. Somewhere, Lucian moves through these same streets. Somewhere, Declan sharpens his mask for tomorrow’s performance. And I…I am the hinge. The satchel is the weight. When it tips, the whole stage falls.
Sleep never comes. Instead, I spend the hours listening, first to the creak of the floorboards as the boarding house settles, then to the shuffle of footsteps in the hall. Each sound is a needle, pricking me awake. I rise before dawn, slipping into the gray streets with the satchel strapped tight across my shoulder. The river fog clings to my skin, heavy and damp, as though Old Vienna itself means to smother me.
The opera house dominates the district like a monarch on a throne. Even from blocks away, I can hear the bustle of workers and guards, their voices clipped, their movements rehearsed. Supply trucks clatter across cobblestones, laden with crates that disappear into the belly of the building. Somewhere inside those walls, Declan is orchestrating his performance. The thought chills me as much as it steels me.
I circle the perimeter slowly, feigning the distracted curiosity of a passerby. Guards check manifests at the side entrance, their rifles slung casually but their eyes sharp. I notice patterns, the way one smokes his cigarette down to the nub before every shift change, the way another taps the butt of his rifle against the stone when he grows restless. These are the details Lucian would commit to memory. I commit them, too.
At the south corner, I find a cluster of servants waiting with trays and linen bundles. They gossip in hurried whispers, laughter breaking through their nerves. I drift closer, head down, scarf tight. No one questions another servant carrying a parcel. It would be the simplest disguise, the easiest mask. But the satchel ruins me. I can’t abandon it, not even for a moment. And so I keep walking.
Later, I rest in the shadow of a café across from the opera house. My hands tremble around the cup of bitter coffee, though I barely sip it. From here, I see diplomats and dignitaries sweep inside, their vehicles shining, their attendants rigid. I catch flashes of uniforms beneath tailored coats, the Crown’s insignia stitched subtly but clearly, Cadmus men drifting near like wolves in tailored suits. The two predators move with practiced civility, but I can feel the tension humming between them.
And then, him. Declan St. Croix. He steps from his vehicle like a man descending onto a stage that already belongs to him. His suit gleams, his smile practiced, his handshakes linger just long enough to suggest intimacy without offering it. Cameras flash. He drinks the moment like wine. I shrink back into my chair, bile rising in my throat. Even from across the street, I can feel the pull of his presence, the confidence that bends crowds to his will.
I force myself to look away before his gaze can sweep the café. My pulse hammers. He cannot see me. Not yet. Not like this.
When he disappears inside, the air seems to lighten, but only slightly. I know better than to believe the danger has lessened. Declan doesn’t enter a room; he infects it.
I linger too long. A man in a gray coat takes the seat two tables away, his newspaper angled unnaturally. I recognize the tilt, the false casualness. My fingers curl around the satchel strap. Without finishing the coffee, I rise and slip into the crowd. The man waits a beat, then follows.
I spend the afternoon shaking him. Through alleys, through markets, across bridges. Each turn is a test. Each pause, a gamble. By the time I finally lose him in the labyrinth of the old quarter, my legs ache and my lungs feel raw. But I’m free. For now.
At dusk, I return to the boarding house. I sit by the window, the satchel on my lap, and watch the city cloak itself in lamplight. The opera house glows like a jewel, its windows blazing gold. The summit has begun. The world believes this is the birth of prosperity. I know it is the sharpening of knives.
I whisper to myself, to the satchel, to the ghosts that follow me: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we show them what they’ve built.”
The night stretches long, taut with unease. Old Vienna glitters outside my window, a city draped in jewels, but beneath the shimmer lies something poisonous. I can almost hear it breathing, the Crown’s arrogance, Cadmus’s hunger, Declan’s ambition. All of it coiling together in the opera house, lit by chandeliers and guarded by rifles polished to mirrors.
I sit on the floor, back against the wall, the satchel beside me. I’ve opened it a dozen times tonight, each time running my fingers across the ledgers as though touch alone can anchor me. My notes bleed between their margins, evidence layered over evidence until it becomes a palimpsest of betrayal. Each page is a knife. The question is where, and when, to cut.
Restlessness drives me into the streets again. I move like a shadow through alleys and arcades, keeping to the edges. Near the Hofburg Palace, vehicles stand lined in neat rows, guards stiff at attention. I linger just long enough to hear fragments of conversation, plans for a gala, whispers of new alliances, and laughter too polished to be honest. It sickens me. These men sip wine while the world starves, while blood spills unseen. And tomorrow, they’ll clasp hands with Declan as if clasping hands with virtue itself.
I slip away before eyes can linger too long. The satchel thuds against my hip as I climb a narrow stair that opens onto a rooftop. From here, the city spreads beneath me, spires and domes, bridges glimmering over the dark river. The opera house stands at the center, blazing with light. It looks untouchablefrom here, but I know better. Even the brightest jewels can be stolen.
For a moment, I let myself imagine Lucian somewhere in this city, walking these same streets, watching the same building. The thought tightens my chest. I don’t know if I wish for it or fear it. He is fire, destructive and unstoppable. And yet, part of me aches for the heat.
Footsteps on the roof snap me back. I drop low, pressing into the shadows. Across the way, on another rooftop, a figure kneels with a rifle, silhouetted against the lamplight. My breath catches. The distance is too far to see his face, but the shape, the stillness, feels familiar. My heart hammers. Lucian? Or another hunter? I blink, and when my eyes focus again, the rooftop is empty. Gone, like a ghost.
Shaken, I retreat. By the time I reach my room, exhaustion drags at me. I secure the door, wedge a chair beneath the handle, and finally collapse on the bed. My last thought before sleep takes me is of the satchel, how it feels less like evidence now and more like destiny. Tomorrow, it will tip the balance, one way or another.
At dawn, bells shatter my sleep. The city stirs, vibrant and expectant, banners snapping in the wind. I rise, splash cold water on my face, and sling the satchel over my shoulder. My hands shake, but my spine is straight. Today, masks will fall. Today, Old Vienna becomes a crucible.
I whisper a single word to steady myself, “Endure,” and step into the tide of the crowd heading toward the opera house.
Chapter 7 - Lucian
Dawn cuts Old Vienna in half, gold on the rooftops, gray in the alleys. From the window of our room, I watch the city rise in layers: workers first, hauling crates and sweeping streets; then merchants, tugging open shutters; and finally, the delegates, their vehicles gleaming, their guards restless with polished rifles. The summit has begun, and the city wears anticipation like perfume. Sweet, cloying, suffocating.
