Page 32 of The Monster You Made
“Patrol ahead,” he says. “They’re waiting.”
Abigail presses against my side, her small fingers gripping mine. My heartbeat thunders, but I lift my chin. If the Crown believes they can choke us in silence, they will learn tonight that Marta’s words are not so easily buried.
The ruined watchtower looms over us like a skeletal sentinel, its stones cracked and blackened by some fire long past. Lucian halts at the treeline, scanning the clearing with the predator’s patience that never leaves him. I can feel his tension bleeding into me, setting my pulse racing. Abigail shifts uneasily against my side, whispering, “It smells like smoke.”
Rourke huffs, adjusting his rifle. “That’s because the bastards lit their campfires too close to the walls. See the glow?” He gestures with a nod, and sure enough, faint flickers of orange dance in the shadow of the tower. Crown soldiers, waiting.
Lucian motions us low. We creep through the underbrush, damp with dew, until we are close enough to hear the voices. They are relaxing, unhurried, their laughter drifting on the wind. A patrol confident of its trap. I clutch the satchel tighter against me, the words inside feeling heavier than steel.
“We can skirt them,” Rourke mutters. “Circle east, cut through the marsh. Cost us half a day, but we won’t risk a fight.”
Lucian shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “No. If they’re here, others are too. If we leave this patrol intact, it will hunt us at dawn.”
His certainty chills me, though I cannot deny his logic. My mind races, weighing options. Marta’s voice whispers from memory: Truth is a fire. It burns brightest when it’s seen.
“What if,” I say carefully, “we turn their watchtower into a signal of our own? A message, not just a fight.”
Lucian’s gaze snaps to me. For a moment, I see the storm in his eyes, fearless, merciless, but then it softens. “Explain.”
I glance at the broken stone and the faint glow of Crown lights within. “If we drive them out, the tower could be more than a ruin. It could be a beacon. Light it not with their fire, but with our words.” I lift the satchel. “Let Marta’s truth fly from its walls.”
Rourke mutters something about suicidal poets, but Lucian studies me a long while, then nods. “Quick, then. Silent if possible. Loud if not.”
We move as one, crossing the clearing under the cloak of night. Lucian strikes first, a shadow tearing through the sentries. His blade finds throats before cries can form. Rourke takes position at the base of the tower, rifle aimed steady. I slip inside, Abigail pressed close to me, heart hammering.
The tower’s interior stinks of unwashed bodies and stale ale. Two soldiers dice at a crate, their laughter harsh. They freeze at the sight of me, but before a shout can form, Lucian is there, knife flashing. One falls instantly. The other staggers, clutching his neck, and collapses.
Silence returns, broken only by the crackle of their fire. I step forward, pulling Marta’s parchment free with shaking hands. I spread the sheets across the stone walls, pressingthem flat with soot-blackened palms. The words gleam faintly in firelight: Truth survives in the ashes of Old Vienna.
Lucian watches me, blood still dripping from his blade. “It won’t last,” he murmurs.
“It doesn’t have to,” I answer. “Someone will see it. Someone will remember.”
Rourke signals from the doorway. “More coming.”
We scramble up the tower’s broken stairs, breath ragged, feet echoing on stone. Abigail clings to me, silent and brave. At the top, the roof yawns open to the night. Smoke drifts skyward, carrying the scent of fire and blood. I unfurl the last sheet, Marta’s final words, scrawled in her hand, and lash it to the broken beam. It flaps in the wind, a fragile banner against the Crown.
Below, shouts rise as soldiers flood the clearing. Lights blaze, their flames clawing at the dark. Rourke fires once, the shot echoing like thunder. Lucian’s jaw tightens. “We hold, then we run.”
I clutch Abigail close, the satchel pressed against us both. Fear claws at me, but beneath it, something steadier burns. Tonight, the Crown will not be the only voice in the dark.
The tower quakes under the storm of boots as more soldiers flood into the clearing. Their shouts rise, guttural and eager. I press Abigail against the stone wall, shielding her with my body as arrows whistle past the broken stairwell. Splinters explode near my feet. The satchel feels like a weight of iron at my side.
Lucian crouches at the tower’s rim, eyes narrowed, his blade glinting whenever firelight reaches it. Rourke reloads, swearing with each breath as he works the mechanism with stiff fingers. Below us, lights flare like a living sea, soldiers forming a ring around the base.
“They mean to trap us inside,” Rourke growls. He fires again, and a light tumbles, its bearer screaming into the dark.
Lucian’s gaze flicks to me. “We don’t hold them. We break through.”
My heart pounds. “With Abigail?”
His silence is answer enough. He intends to carve a path whether she is ready or not. I step forward, blocking his path. “Not like Declan,” I whisper fiercely. “Not through her.”
The words hang between us, sharp as steel. For a moment, I see the fury rise in him, the urge to strike down everything in his way. Then his jaw clenches, and he turns aside. “Then give me another way.”
The answer comes in a rush, born of fear and memory. Marta wrote that walls can be a prison or a stage, depending on who commands the fire. I grab the nearest light, its flame spitting sparks. “We light it.”
Rourke stares as if I’ve lost my mind. “Burn the tower? With us in it?”
