Page 106 of The Monster You Made
Rourke drains his flask. “Aye, and we walked right into it. Doesn’t matter. We won’t get that lucky again.”
I glance at Lucian. He says nothing, only watches the map as though it hides his brother’s face beneath the ink. The silence stretches until Elira slams her fist down. “Then we strike before they do. We take the fight to the Crown.”
Lucian finally speaks, voice low but sharp. “No. We don’t march blind. We dig. We find where they keep their masks. Where they keep him.”
The table falls silent. Every eye shifts to me. I nod once. “We find the truth. That’s how we break them.”
***
When the council disperses, I linger. Lucian stands alone by the fire, the flames painting his face in red and gold. He looks older than I remember, tired, frayed, but still standing. I cross the space and rest a hand on his arm. He doesn’t flinch this time.
“They can send you all the videos they want,” I say softly. “They can carve him, dress him, twist him. But they can’t change this: You’re still his brother. That bond isn’t theirs to own.”
He closes his eyes. For the first time that day, the loop seems to loosen its hold. He leans, just slightly, into my touch.
***
That night, I sit awake as the others sleep. The rescued breathe in slow rhythm, Abigail’s small hand curled around her doll. Lucian lies on his cot, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
I know he dreams of Cassian even when he’s awake. I know the Crown will send more footage, each one sharper than the last. And I know, with a certainty that shakes me, that when the final unmasking comes, it won’t just test him. It will test us all.
So I whisper Marta’s words into the dark, more for myself than for them: “Truth endures. Chains break.”
I have to believe it. For Lucian. For Cassian. For all of us.
Chapter 53 - Lucian
The snow muffles sound. Boots crunch in silence as we move through the forest, branches heavy with frost bowing low. Every breath fogs the air, brief ghosts vanishing into the dark. The rebels march in a staggered line, weapons slung, eyes sharp. But my thoughts are elsewhere, locked inside the frame of a video I can’t escape.
Cassian’s face. Cassian’s voice. The edits, the scripts, the scars. The second packet plays behind my eyes even as I lead them forward. I don’t hear the forest. I hear him.You left me. You buried me. Eight years alone in the dark.
I shake the words off like snow, but they cling.
***
We break into a clearing by dawn. The ruins of a Crown outpost smolder here, walls gutted by fire. Smoke rises in thin streams, carrying the smell of plastic and ash. Elira prowls the perimeter, breaching axe in hand, searching for stragglers. Rourke sifts through the wreckage, muttering curses at every empty crate.
“Too clean,” he spits. “They left nothing worth taking.”
“Not nothing,” I say.
My gaze falls on a charred filing cabinet half-buried in debris. The rebels drag it free, coughing at the smoke. The metal is scorched, but the bottom drawer sticks. I wrench it open witha knife. Inside, folders sealed in plastic, edges blackened but legible.
Rourke whistles low. “Looks like Christmas.”
I flip the first file open. Logistics manifests. Transfer orders. Names. My chest tightens. I skim until my eyes lock on one line stamped in red: SUBJECT: C.D., Transferred to Facility Cadmus.
The paper trembles in my grip. C.D. Cassian Dane.
“Cadmus isn’t just a name,” I mutter. “It’s a place. A project.”
Elira peers over my shoulder, scarred brow furrowed. “What is it?”
I don’t answer. Not yet.
Back at the safehouse, I spread the documents across the table. The others crowd around: Elira, Rourke, and Vera. The air crackles with the weight of what we shouldn’t have. The words blur, but the meaning is clear: transfers, experiments, medical authorizations.Cadmusprinted again and again like a brand.
Vera’s hand hovers over one sheet. “Facility Cadmus. Not just a man. A program.”
