Page 112 of The Monster You Made
Declan’s voice is steady, rehearsed, the same voice from the videos. “Lucian Dane. You are no brother of mine. You are a traitor to the Crown. And tonight, you die.”
The words cut deeper than any blade. Lucian staggers, just once, before his grip hardens again.
“Then come take me,” he growls.
And the brothers collide.
***
Steel crashes against steel. The force of it shakes the yard, rebels scattering back. Lucian fights with fury sharpened by grief. Declan meets every blow with precision, his body a weapon sculpted for this purpose. Sparks fly, blood spatters, snow churns into red mud beneath their feet.
I want to move, to intervene, but Vera the fighter cannot step between brothers. Vera the witness must see. Because this is not just battle. This is truth made flesh.
“Lucian!” I scream once, hoping he hears me through the clash. “He’s still in there!”
For a heartbeat, Declan falters. His blade wavers, his eyes flicker, not glass, not steel, but something human. Lucian seizes it, striking hard, pressing forward. But then the mask slams back into place, and the fight rages anew.
***
All around us, the rebels hold the line. Elira roars, splitting soldiers in two. Rourke fires until his rifle smokes. The prisoners, freed and furious, turn chains against their captors. The military compound shakes with battle. But my eyes never leave the brothers.
Lucian bleeds. Declan bleeds. But neither falls.
The night stretches long. And Cadmus stands at its heart, waiting to decide which brother survives.
***
The clash of brothers consumes the yard. Every strike rings like thunder, echoing off the burning walls of Cadmus. Sparks leap with each blow, steel screaming against steel. Rebels hold their ground in a circle, unwilling to break the fight, unable to look away. Even the Crown soldiers pause, fear gripping them at the sight of two titans tearing each other apart.
Lucian’s blade whirls with fury, driven by memory and grief. Declan moves like a machine, each strike measured, perfect, drilled into his flesh by years of Crown butchery. Blood streaks both men, but neither falters. They are mirrors in rage, shadows of what was and what could have been.
***
“Cassian!” Lucian shouts, voice ragged. “It’s me! It’s your brother!”
The mask flickers. For an instant, Declan’s eyes soften, his strike falters. The name reaches him. But then his jaw clenches, scars pulling tight. His voice, sharp as the videos, cuts back: “Brother is dead. Only Cadmus remains.”
Lucian roars and presses harder, his blade hammering against Declan’s defenses. Every strike is desperate, pleading, as if steel itself could drag his brother back from the abyss.
***
I move along the edge of the circle, shouting above the clash. “Declan! Remember the brook! Remember who you were before them!”
For a heartbeat, he freezes. His blade lowers a fraction. I see it, the boy who once laughed with Lucian, the boy from Lucian’s stories. But the Crown’s training crushes it fast. Declan surges back, swinging with brutal force, driving Lucian to his knees.
The rebels cry out. Elira steps forward, breaching axe raised, but I throw out a hand. “No! This is theirs!”
Lucian pushes back to his feet, face bloodied, eyes blazing. “If Cadmus is all you are,” he growls, “then I’ll tear Cadmus apart to find my brother underneath.”
***
The duel rages on, neither giving ground. Around us, the battle thins. The Crown forces falter as prisoners overwhelm them, as rebels fight with the fury of the freed. Fire spreads along the walls, turning the night red. Cadmus, the military compound, begins to collapse. But Cadmus, the man, still stands unbroken.
Declan slams Lucian back against the gate, blade poised for the killing strike. His voice is ice. “Yield, traitor.”
Lucian spits blood, defiant. “Never.”
Their swords crash again, sparks flying between their faces. And then, I see it. Declan’s hand trembles. His strike hesitates. The loop in his head falters. His lips shape a word too soft for soldiers, too fragile for Cadmus.
