Page 102 of The Monster You Made
Later, when the camp sleeps, I sit beside him. His hands tremble where they grip the carved wolf. “He whispers again,” I murmur.
Lucian’s jaw tightens. “Always.”
I press Marta’s satchel into his lap, firm. “Then let these words be louder. If you cannot hear silence break, hear me instead.”
His gaze finds mine, haunted but alive.
***
The morning breaks cold and gray, frost clinging to cloaks and lashes. The rebels rise with groans, their bodies weary, their eyes shadowed. Grain is rationed, bowls passed hand to hand, but the food does little to ease the fear. The word has already spread: Crown columns march. Thousands. An army large enough to swallow us whole.
The freed whisper prayers. Some weep softly, clutching children close. Abigail, with the doll, tries to sing, but her voicefalters when she sees tears. My chest tightens. Fear is a chain, and it rattles louder than steel.
***
The council gathers at the edge of the camp. Elira paces, her breath steaming, her breaching axe gleaming. “We strike before they reach us. Harass their columns. Burn their supply trucks. Show them we will not run.”
Rourke shakes his head, eyes bloodshot. “Harass them? You’ll draw their teeth straight down on us. We don’t have the numbers, Elira. We’ll scatter before their boots touch us.”
The rebels murmur, divided, fear thick as smoke. And then, as always, their eyes turn to Lucian.
He stands silent, his jaw tight, his hands trembling where they clutch the carved wooden wolf. Shadows cling to him like chains. When he speaks, his voice is iron. “The plan is working, so we proceed northwest. We continue to free those we can, take what we can, but we do not go all in. Not yet.”
Elira snarls, but she does not argue. Rourke exhales, muttering curses. The rebels nod, some eager, some reluctant. Regardless, the decision goes uncontested.
***
At dawn, we march again. The snow crunches under boots, the sledges creak, voices murmur Marta’s words. Fear lingers, but hope carries them forward. Our destination is a safehouse on the map.
Lucian sets up a temporary work station at the safe house. We find equipment and weapons, and finally, I feel like we're out of the Stone Age.
And in my chest, fire burns. Small, fragile, but unyielding.
Chapter 51 - Lucian
The night hums with static. The safehouse’s power lines hiss like snakes, the fluorescent tubes flickering above the cracked concrete ceiling. The rebels sleep in patches, some curled on old mattresses, some hunched against walls with rifles across their laps. I don’t join them. Sleep hasn’t belonged to me in ages now. Since Declan’s face stared out of the dark.
The loop plays whenever I close my eyes: the gaunt face, the broken laugh, the last words,Remember the brook. Eight years of mourning turned into a weapon the Crown wields against me. They knew precisely where to strike. And now every silence carries his echo.
I stand at the far end of the safehouse, staring at a wall covered in peeling paint and graffiti. It reads:No chains last forever. Marta’s words, copied from her journals. The others find comfort in them. For me, they are only questions. My brother’s chains still bind him. How do you break a shackle that’s sunk into the soul?
***
The console chirps. Not the usual channels, something harder, deeper. A drop-packet. My pulse jerks. My mouth dries.
Another video.
I want to smash the screen. I want to hurl the entire rig into the wall. Instead, I move closer. My hands are steady, though I feel like they shouldn’t be. I key the decrypt.
The room shrinks to the glow of pixels.
Cassian again. Different this time. His face more wasted, his eyes rimmed with red as though sleepless for weeks. The Crown’s insignia blazes behind him, sharp, deliberate. His voice is flat, without inflection. “Lucian. I serve now. I am their voice. You should not resist. You should never have resisted.”
The screen shakes; someone grips him from behind, forces his chin up. His mouth trembles before the words spill. “You left me. You buried me. You forgot me. Eight years alone in the dark.”
The footage cuts, an edit so sharp I flinch. He’s strapped to a chair now. A hand enters frame, tilts his head. A voice off-screen: “Say the line.”
Cassian whispers, hoarse, “The brook. Remember the brook.”
