Page 30 of The Monster You Made
We retreat into an alley, the damp stone walls dripping with mildew. Abigail clings to Vera, her face pale with fear. Rourke spits into the dirt. “We’re not ghosts in the shadows anymore. We’re quarry.”
I keep my voice low, steady. “Then we hunt the hunters.”
That night, we camp outside the town, hidden in the reeds by the river. The wanted sheets lie crumpled in the dirt between us. The fire crackles faintly, and Abigail’s soft breathing is the only comfort. Vera breaks the silence.
“If we fight every patrol, we’ll be dragged into his game. He’ll brand us the butchers he says we are.”
“And if we run?” I counter. “Then he paints us as cowards, and the people believe him. Every rumor becomes truth.”
She shakes her head, frustration sharp in her voice. “Marta's work showed she believed in patience, in proof, in giving people something they could cling to. If we abandon that, then her death means nothing.”
Her words strike deeper than she knows. I turn away, staring at the water gleaming under the moon. My reflection looks back, a face hardened into something I no longer recognize.
Abigail’s voice breaks the tension. “Will the bad man find us?”
Vera gathers her close, murmuring a soft denial. But the girl’s question lingers in the air long after she sleeps. I do not answer, because the truth is yes. He will. And when he does, blood will spill until one of us lies cold.
The river carries our barge deeper into the countryside, but the air feels heavier with every mile. I sit at the stern, blade in hand, sharpening it until the edge glints in the dim light. Vera watches me from across the deck, her gaze steady, unreadable. Abigail leans against her shoulder, half asleep. Rourke sits nearby, muttering calculations of how many patrols the Crown could muster along the river if they truly wanted to choke us.
By midday, we come upon another village, smaller than the last. A crooked pier juts out into the current, fishermen hauling in nets with more bones than flesh. Hunger lingers in the air like a second shadow. The moment our barge bumps against the dock, eyes turn toward us. Suspicion, fear, and something else, something Vera notices first.
She nudges me and gestures discreetly toward the pier. A boy no older than twelve clutches a folded sheet of parchment. When I kneel and extend my hand, he hesitates before thrusting it toward me and scurrying off. The ink is smeared from damp fingers, but the words are unmistakable: “The Crown bleeds its people dry. Truth survives in the ashes of Old Vienna.”
Marta’s words. Reprinted, passed from hand to hand. Even here.
Vera’s face softens. For the first time in days, hope flickers in her eyes. “She still speaks,” she whispers.
We linger only long enough to buy dried fish and refill our waterskins. Yet even in the bustle of barter, I feel the eyes of strangers crawling across my back. It’s too easy for word to spread, for a name to pass from tongue to tongue. As we shove off again, I catch sight of a Crown patrol cresting the ridge in the distance.
Night falls heavy. We beach the barge under a grove of willow trees, cloaking ourselves in shadow. The fire we light is small, no brighter than a candle. Vera studies the parchment again, tracing Marta’s words with trembling fingers. Rourke keeps his rifle close. Abigail hums softly to herself, a tune that stirs something deep in memory, a lullaby from long ago.
When Vera approaches, I know what she will say before her lips part. “Everywhere we go, we find whispers of Marta’s truth. You think only of the blade, but these words, they travel farther than you ever could.”
I stare into the fire until my reflection dances back at me in the coals. “Words won’t stop a sword pressed to your throat.”
Her jaw tightens. “But they’ll make the man wielding it hesitate. That’s what Declan fears. That’s what Marta understood.”
Rourke cuts in, his voice harsh. “Hate to break this romantic notion, but words won’t keep us alive tonight. We’ve got patrols closing in, and if Lucian hadn’t seen those tracks, we’d already be caught in a noose.”
The argument simmers into silence, but the tension coils tighter than a drawn bow. I sit apart, listening to the forest, every nerve strung taut. An owl cries in the distance, its call sharp and lonely. I do not trust the quiet.
Near midnight, I hear it, the faint snap of a branch too heavy for an animal. I motion for silence, slipping my knife free. Shadows move beyond the trees, lantern light weaving through the undergrowth.
Crown patrol.
We extinguish the fire with dirt and scatter into the dark. Vera pulls Abigail close, shielding her small form with her own body. Rourke lifts his rifle, breath ragged. I melt into the treeline, the blade warm in my grip.
Lanterns draw nearer, voices low, confident. I wait until the first soldier passes within reach. Then I strike. The knife slides under his chin, silencing his shout. He crumples soundlessly into the moss. Blood pools dark in the soil. I drag him deeper into the trees and crouch low, listening.
Two more approach. One carries a lantern, the other a spear. I could kill them both before they cry out. The urge claws at me, strong and undeniable. My body hums with muscle memory of combat training—swift, merciless, final.
But then I see Vera, her hand pressed to Abigail’s head, shielding her eyes from the sight. Abigail trembles, and in her fear, I glimpse my own reflection, what the crown made of me.
I let the patrol pass. My grip trembles as I sheath the knife, every instinct screaming that I am weak, that I am wastingthe chance. But I stay rooted until their lantern light vanishes into the night.
When I return, Vera’s gaze meets mine across the darkness. She doesn’t speak, but the smallest nod passes between us, a silent acknowledgment of the choice I made.
Yet even as I sit beside the cold ashes of our fire, the weight of restraint bears down heavier than any kill. And I know this war is not just against Declan. It is against the shadow of the crown that lingers inside me.
