Lucian walked north because there was nothing left to wait for.
The capital fell behind him in quiet stages. First the outer walls, then the scattered farms, then the open plains where the wind carried the faint metallic scent of unstable magic. He didn't run. He didn't need to. The ground seemed to shorten itself beneath his feet, carrying him forward at the exact pace his body remembered from years of long marches and longer regrets. His hands stayed loose at his sides. His breathing stayed even. The night air felt cool against his skin, carrying the distant smell of rain that would never quite reach the rift.
