Chapter 3: Brace yourself
The lantern on the home workbench flickered, its flame barely holding against the draft seeping through the warped shutters. Lucius stood tall over his latest attempt at the brace, his fingers blackened with oil and grime. Tools lay scattered around him: a hammer, pliers, a set of small files dulled from overuse. The brace itself was a mix of leather straps and iron supports, its framework crudely pieced together like the remnants of a shattered dream.
He worked slowly, methodically, adjusting a rivet here, bending a metal strip there. Each movement was precise but deliberate, his hands steadied by years of trial and error. This wasn't his first brace. Nor his tenth. He had lost count long ago.
Lucius reached for a strip of padding, rough leather lined with wool, and fastened it to the inner frame. The last brace had dug into his skin until it bled, leaving angry red lines that still ached when he touched them. This time, he told himself, it would be different. This one would fit.
The hammering echoed through the small room, filling the silence with sharp, deliberate strikes. Each blow sent a faint vibration up his arm, reminding him of the strength he had left. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, smudging oil across his pale skin. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths as he stepped back to inspect his work.
The brace stood upright on the table, glinting in the dim light. It looked almost noble in its design, a crude facsimile of something a craftsman might take pride in. But Lucius knew better. It wasn't perfection. It never would be. It was just enough. Enough to try.
He swallowed hard and sat down, his cane clattering to the floor beside him. Reaching for the brace, he hesitated. The weight of it in his hands was familiar, yet every time he put it on, he felt the same dread. It was a reminder of his failure, his weakness—but also his defiance.
With trembling fingers, he began strapping it to his leg. The iron frame clung awkwardly to the twisted limb, the straps tightening around muscle and bone that had never known strength. His jaw clenched as he adjusted the buckles, pulling them taut until the brace felt secure. The padding helped, but the cold bite of metal still pressed uncomfortably against his skin.
When it was done, Lucius took a deep breath. The hardest part was next.
He pushed himself upright, using the table for balance, and shifted his weight onto the brace. The sensation was unnatural, the iron groaning faintly as it took him. Pain flared immediately, sharp and unyielding, but he forced himself to stand. His good leg bore most of the strain, but for the first time in years, his crippled leg supported some of his weight.
The brace felt alien, like an exoskeleton grafted onto his body. Every slight movement sent shudders through him, the iron creaking with protest. His foot wobbled, the twisted muscles refusing to obey the commands he had long stopped giving.
Lucius instinctively reached for his cane, no… not this time. Clenching his fist in an act of defiance to his former state of life, he shifted his weight awkwardly to his good leg, the brace trailing like a reluctant companion. He moved forward again, the motion uneven and lurching. His good foot struck the ground with a sharp tap, followed by the heavy thud of his braced foot.
Tap. Thud. Tap. Thud.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. What he saw made him pause.
Lucius was an attractive man with a full head of dark hair and sleep deprived black eyes. He was a man of tall stature, yet his posture was hunched easily making him appear shorter by a couple inches, his movements jerky and improper. His good leg bore more weight than it should, and the brace caused his gait to twist unnaturally.
But he was standing. He was walking.
Lucius turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight for long. Instead, he focused on the floor beneath his feet, forcing himself to take another step. The pain was excruciating, every shift of the brace a reminder of how broken his body was. But with each step, he felt something stir inside him—a flicker of stubborn pride.
The journey across the room was becoming less of a challenge with every second. On his seventh time reaching the far wall, his chest was only slightly heaving, no sweat dripped from his temples, he felt… refreshed. He leaned against the wall, letting the brace bear his weight. The ache in his leg was ever present , but he knew he wouldn't collapse. Not yet.
Lucius looked down at the brace, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. It wasn't perfect, it was far from perfect. But it worked.
And for now, that was enough.
He let his head fall back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The gods may have cursed him with the Mark, may have left him to endure a life of pain and humiliation. But they had not broken him. Not completely.
One day, he thought. One day, this brace won't feel like a prison. One day…
But for tonight, he would rest. And tomorrow, he would try again.