Page 104 of The Monster You Made
“They send them because you scare them.”
I bark a hollow laugh. “That’s not strength. That’s bait. Every frame they cut into him is a hook they bury in me. I feel it catch every time I breathe.”
Vera turns, catches my face in her hands. Her palms are rough, scarred, and warm against my skin. “Then breathe anyway. Let them bury their hooks. You’re still here. He’s still in there somewhere. Don’t give the Crown what they want.”
Her words pull me to the edge of something dangerous. Not collapse, but confession. I want to tell her about the dreams, how the video plays even when I sleep, how I wake choking on Declan’s laugh. But the words knot in my throat. I press my forehead against hers instead. Her eyes close, her breath steady. In that moment, the loop goes quiet.
***
Night deepens. I lie awake on my cot while the others sleep. Every creak of the safehouse sounds like footsteps. Every flicker of shadow could be a hand pressing Declan’s chin up to speak. The silence is a chamber, and the loop plays in it.
At some hour too late to measure, I rise and dress. The night guard nods as I pass, but I barely see him. My boots crunch on frost until I reach the perimeter fence. Beyond it lies the empty road, the black stretch of forest, the unknown.
For a moment, I think of walking. Leaving the rebels, the military compound, Vera. Walking until the road takes me to the place where they keep Declan. Alone. Silent. It would be easier. I could end this torment without dragging the rest of them down.
But then I hear Marta’s words again, carved into the walls and whispered by Abigail at night:No chains last forever.And Iknow leaving is just another kind of chain. The Crown would win without firing a shot.
I grip the fence until the metal bites my palms, and I stay there until the urge passes.
***
By dawn, orders are expected. The convoy Elira pressed for must be addressed. Rourke leans back in his chair, flask in hand, waiting for me to speak. Vera watches, unreadable. Elira drums her fingers, impatient.
I clear my throat. The words come heavy. “We move. We strike the convoy. If there are prisoners, we free them. If it’s a trap, we spring it on our terms.”
Elira grins, fierce. Rourke mutters something about suicide. Vera just nods once, as though she sees through me but accepts the decision anyway.
Inside, the loop still runs. Cassian’s face and voice, but the Crown’s script. But I push it down, bury it under orders and maps and movement. If I can’t silence the echo, I’ll drown it in action.
***
That evening, as the rebels ready for the march, I retreat to the console again. The screen is blank now, the last packet burned from memory. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, unshaven, older than I remember being. For a heartbeat, I almost expect Cassian’s face to replace mine.
“I’ll find you,” I whisper to the dark glass. “Not as their weapon. Not as their mask. I’ll find the boy at the brook. And I’ll tear you free, even if it kills me.”
The glass holds my oath in silence. Outside, the rebels chant my name, but it feels far away.
Chapter 52 - Vera
The convoy cuts across frostbitten plains, headlights stabbing the dark. From my perch in the ridge’s shadows, I can see the crates stacked high, Crown insignia stamped in black. The trucks move slow, armored but not cautious. Too sure of themselves. Too certain no one dares strike them here.
Lucian crouches beside me, silent as the stones. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the line of vehicles. I know what else he sees, his brother’s face looping in his mind, the videos carved into him like knives. He hasn’t spoken of it since the last drop, but his silence weighs on us heavier than the rifles in our hands.
“On your mark,” Elira whispers behind us. Her breaching axe gleams in the pale light.
Lucian raises a hand. The signal. Shadows spill from the ridge as rebels surge forward.
Gunfire cracks the night. Horses burst, metal shrieks, flames lick the frost. The convoy stumbles under the weight of its own arrogance. I sprint low, breath white in the cold, and slam into the side of a truck. My blade finds the lock, teeth gnashing as steel bites steel. It gives, chains rattling to the ground.
Inside, faces. Hollow eyes, wrists bound in cuffs. Prisoners. One gasps when he sees me. “You’re real,” he croaks, voice raw. I cut his restraints before I can think. His hands tremble as if remembering how to move.
“Go,” I urge. “Run.”
Chaos blooms. Rebels tear through chains, drag prisoners into the night. Elira roars as she cleaves a guard’s rifle in two. Rourke fires until smoke swallows him whole. Lucian carves a path like a blade turned human, his sword an arc of fury. But even in the storm, his face is somewhere else, eyes burning with a grief that doesn’t belong only to this field.
***
By dawn, the convoy is ash and ruin. Prisoners stumble free, clutching blankets, crying into the hands of rebels who half-believe they’ve seen a miracle. The frost is stained with fire’s memory.
