Page 33 of The Monster You Made
“Not us,” I say. “The words. Let the fire carry them farther than paper can.”
Lucian studies me, the fire reflected in his eyes. He nods once, sharp. “Do it. I’ll clear us a path.”
The next minutes blur into heat and noise. Lucian descends the stairs like a shadow unchained, steel flashing in arcs that leave soldiers writhing in the dirt. Rourke covers him, each shot thunder in the night. I tear Marta’s sheets from the walls and hurl them into the light’s flame. They flare bright, words consumed but carried skyward in sparks. Smoke pours out of the tower’s roof, a signal no villager for miles could ignore.
Abigail coughs against the smoke, eyes watering. I drag her to the stairs, clutching the satchel. Flames lick the timbers as we descend, the stone walls groaning. Soldiers surge toward us, but Lucian’s blade is a storm that drives them back. Rourke shoulders me forward, his rifle butt cracking skulls.
We burst into the clearing, the night alive with chaos. Horses scream, soldiers shout, lights scatter. Lucian’s knife finds its mark again and again, his face a mask of fury. For every body that falls, more close in, but fear ripples among them as the tower belches flame into the sky.
“Run!” Lucian roars.
We break through the weakest line, crashing into the treeline. Branches claw at my arms, roots catch my boots, but I do not falter. Behind us, the tower is a pyre, Marta’s words gone to ash but not silence. Smoke rises high, black against the stars, a beacon for all who dare to look.
We run until my lungs burn, until Abigail stumbles and Rourke hoists her onto his back. Lucian cuts the path ahead, merciless, relentless. Only when the shouts fade into the distance do we collapse into the hollow of an ancient oak, breath ragged.
Abigail presses her face into my shoulder, trembling. “Will the words be gone now?” she asks.
I brush her hair back, forcing steadiness into my voice. “No, little one. Fire doesn’t destroy truth. It carries it. Tonight, the whole sky spoke for Marta.”
Lucian leans against the trunk, blood streaking his arm. His eyes meet mine across the dark. There is no softness in them, but there is something else, acknowledgment. Perhaps even respect.
Rourke spits into the dirt, coughing smoke. “Madness,” he mutters. “But madness with teeth. The whole valley will be talking by morning.”
The night settles heavily around us, broken by the distant roar of flames. I clutch the satchel close, though it is lighter now, its contents halved by fire. Yet I do not grieve. For once, the burden feels less mine alone. The words have been given back to the people.
And Declan, no matter how he twists his lies, will not be able to silence the sky they saw burn.
The forest swallows us whole, branches clawing like skeletal hands as we push deeper into the night. My lungs burn with every breath, smoke still clinging to my throat. Behind us, the glow of the burning watchtower dyes the sky red, a wound carved against the stars. I glance back once and see it rising like a second dawn. Marta’s words are ash now, but their echo blazes across the valley.
We stagger into a clearing, the grass wet with dew, the air sharp and cold. Rourke lowers Abigail from his back, groaningwith the effort. She curls against me, shivering, her small body trembling from more than the chill. I wrap my cloak around her, whispering, “You’re safe.” The lie tastes bitter. None of us are safe, but she needs the comfort more than I need the truth.
Lucian circles the perimeter, every step silent despite his exhaustion. His arm bleeds freely, but he does not slow, his eyes fixed on the treeline. A wolf caged in a world of men, always searching for another snare. When he finally halts, it is beside me. His voice is low, rasping with smoke. “They’ll hunt harder now. Every village that saw the fire will carry tales by morning. Declan will not ignore it.”
“He already hunts us,” I answer. “Better they see him for what he is while he does.”
Lucian studies me for a long moment, and I see the storm behind his eyes. Not agreement, not dissent, something darker. A man wrestling with the shadow that made him. He turns away before I can speak.
Rourke collapses against a fallen log, pulling his coat tight. “Bloody fools, the both of you,” he mutters. “You’ve just painted targets on every back from here to the mountains. When they come, they won’t bring a patrol. They’ll bring an army.”
His words sink heavy, but I refuse to let them root. “An army cannot silence what the people have seen.”
He laughs without humor. “You think fire changes hearts? Fire only frightens them.”
“Fright can become anger,” I reply. “And anger can become courage.”
Abigail stirs, eyes wide, her voice small but steady. “It was beautiful,” she whispers. “The sky was beautiful.”
The clearing stills. Even Rourke falls quiet. I press my forehead to hers, holding her close. In her words, I hear what Marta always believed, that beauty can live even in fire, that truth can survive even in ashes.
Hours crawl until the first gray light of dawn touches the horizon. Lucian has not slept. He stands at the edge of the clearing, cloak drawn tight, eyes fixed east where the watchtower smolders. When Abigail wakes and takes my hand, we join him there.
“They’ll come today,” he says. “Faster than before.”
“Then we keep moving,” I answer. My voice no longer shakes. The satchel is lighter, but it feels heavier with purpose.
Lucian turns his gaze on me, searching, measuring. At last, he nods. “Then we move.”
The forest waits ahead, vast and unyielding. Behind us, smoke stains the sky, a marker none can mistake. We leave the clearing, Abigail’s small hand gripping mine, and step into the trees once more.
