Page 31 of The Monster You Made
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The forest does not release us easily. By morning, the mist has thickened into a choking shroud, curling between the trees like smoke. I lead us along the ridge, eyes scanning the undergrowth for more signs of pursuit. Every snapped branch, every displaced stone, whispers of hunters drawing closer. My muscles ache with the strain of silence, the weight of waiting.
Rourke lags, his limp worsening. Vera steadies him with one hand, Abigail clutching her other. They look to me for direction, but I feel only the burden of choices, none of them clean. If I press harder, Rourke may collapse. If we slow, the Crown will overtake us. The balance is a blade’s edge.
We reach a ravine where a wooden bridge stretches across a torrent swollen by spring melt. The planks are slick with moss, the ropes frayed. I test the boards with my boot. They groan but hold. Behind us, hounds bark, distant, but not distant enough.
“Go,” I snap. Vera ushers Abigail first, then follows, the satchel pressed tight against her side. Rourke lumbers after, each step shaking the bridge. I cross last, knife drawn, eyes fixed on the treeline.
Shadows emerge, Crown scouts, bows raised. An arrow hisses past, splintering the wood by my feet. I rush forward, slashing the ropes. The bridge collapses in a violent lurch, crashing into the ravine. Water swallows the timbers, and the shouts of soldiers echo uselessly across the gap.
For now, we are spared. But the cost is clear. The bridge was the only crossing for miles. We are stranded on this side, deeper in hostile territory.
That night, we huddle in a ruined barn on the outskirts of a burned farmstead. Ash clings to the beams, the smell of charred grain still sharp. I sit apart, whetstone in hand, dragging it across the edge of my blade until sparks flare. The rhythm keeps my hands steady even as my mind churns.
Vera joins me, her face pale in the firelight. She does not scold me for cutting the bridge, though I know the risk it carries. Instead, she rests Marta’s satchel between us, the leather worn smooth by her grip.
“You chose restraint last night,” she says softly. “That means something.”
I keep my eyes on the blade. “It means the Crown still breathes.”
Her hand brushes mine, tentative, grounding. “It means you’re not him. And that matters more than you realize.”
Her words linger in the quiet. I want to believe her, but every reflection I glimpse in blood or steel tells me otherwise. Still, I allow her touch to remain, a fragile anchor in the storm.
Abigail stirs awake, padding toward us with wide eyes. “Will the bad man still come?” she whispers.
I sheath my knife. For once, I do not answer with silence. “Yes,” I tell her. “But when he does, we’ll be ready.”
She nods solemnly, as though my promise is enough. Vera pulls her close, and the three of us sit together in the ruin, firelight flickering against broken walls. Outside, the night carries the Crown’s distant horns, a reminder that war hunts us still.
But within this circle of light, for the briefest moment, we are not prey. We are something more, something Declan never intended us to become. And that fragile defiance is enough to carry us into tomorrow.
Chapter 12 - Vera
The barn is cold when I wake, dawn bleeding through cracks in the roof like threads of fire. Ash coats the floor, and every breath stings with the memory of what was burned here. Lucian sits at the doorway, knife balanced across his knees, already awake as always. His eyes are sharp, fixed on the treeline beyond the ravine. He does not turn when I stir, but I can feel the coil of tension running through him. He has not slept.
Rourke curses as he tries to stand, his limp worse than yesterday. I help him, ignoring his growled protests. Abigail, quiet, watchful, gathers her few belongings and clutches Marta’s satchel when I hand it to her. She hugs it as though it holds more than paper, as though it carries the breath of the woman she will never know.
We eat cold fish, the meal tasteless but necessary. Lucian speaks little, though I catch him studying me when he thinks my gaze is elsewhere. Something in him shifted last night. He chose not to kill. For the first time, I believe he can break from the darkness left in him. That belief frightens me almost as much as it steadies me.
We set out north, following deer trails that wind between ridges and meadows. The ground is wet with dew, our boots sinking into soft earth. Villages lie scattered across the hills, smoke curling faintly from their chimneys. Yet as we draw near, shutters slam, doors bolt, and faces vanish from windows. The Crown’s reach is faster than rumor; our names run ahead of us like fire through dry fields.
By midday, we find a village braver, or more desperate, than the others. Its people are gaunt, their livestock thin, but they do not chase us away. Instead, they watch in silence as I stand in the square and open the satchel. My hands tremble as I pull free Marta’s papers, the words smudged from water, smoke, and my own grasp. I read aloud, my voice catching at first, then rising stronger:
“The Crown is not salvation. It is hunger made law. It is fire dressed as light. But truth does not bow, and truth does not burn. It survives wherever there are hands to carry it.”
Faces soften in the crowd. A woman weeps silently. A farmer clenches his jaw as if swallowing years of bitterness. When I finish, silence lingers, but no one turns away. An old man steps forward, pressing a loaf of bread into my hands. “For Marta,” he whispers.
Hope sparks. Small, fragile, but alive.
We leave before soldiers can arrive, taking the bread and the memory of their faces. As we cross the meadow beyond, Lucian walks close to me. “You risked too much,” he mutters, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness.
“Every word carried is a blade in its own right,” I answer. “You saw it, their eyes. Marta’s fight is not lost.”
His silence is long, but when he finally speaks, it is softer than I expect. “Then I’ll make sure you live long enough to speak it again.”
The sun dips low as we reach the edge of another forest. A ruined watchtower rises above the trees, its stones crumbling, itsbanners long gone. Smoke smudges the sky beyond. Lucian halts us with a raised hand, his eyes narrowing.
