Page 34 of The Monster You Made
The fire has marked us. The fire has marked Declan. And though fear coils in my chest, it is not enough to smother the spark that lives still. Not enough to silence Marta. Not enough to silence me.
Chapter 13 – Lucian
Dawn is a knife of pale light cutting through the forest canopy. Every shadow feels alive, every rustle in the undergrowth a warning. My arm throbs from the gash earned at the tower, but I push the pain down. Weakness is a luxury I cannot afford, not when Declan’s hounds are surely closing the distance.
Vera walks ahead with Abigail, their hands linked. The girl stumbles often, her legs too small for the pace we set, but Vera never lets her fall. Rourke lumbers behind, muttering about his leg and how we’re all doomed to be gutted before midday. His bitterness is a constant drone, but there is truth in it. We are hunted. And the noose tightens.
We reach higher ground by midmorning. From a ridge, I can see smoke trails rising in the distance, too many, too ordered. Crown patrols combing the valleys. They move with precision, spreading like oil across water. Declan’s reach is longer than I guessed.
Rourke spits into the dirt. “He’ll drive us like game. Push us toward the cliffs or the marsh and finish us when we’ve nowhere left to run.”
“Then we don’t run,” I say. My voice comes out harsher than intended. Vera glances back, eyes flashing. She wants me to soften the edges, to hold back the rage that claws inside me. I can’t. Rage is all that has kept me breathing this long.
We descend into the valley, keeping to the treeline. The forest thickens, damp and heavy with moss. A stream cutsthrough the undergrowth, its surface broken by stones slick with algae. I kneel to drink, the cold water burning down my throat. That’s when I see it: a broken arrow shaft lodged in the mud. Fresh. Not ours.
“Scouts,” I mutter. “Close.”
Vera stiffens, pulling Abigail nearer. Rourke swears under his breath and checks his rifle. The air is suddenly too quiet, no bird song, no insect hum. The silence before the strike.
I motion them low and slip ahead, knife drawn. My boots sink silently into damp earth as I weave between trees. A flicker of movement catches my eye, blue sashes through the brush. Three soldiers, creeping downriver, bows in hand. Their focus is fixed on the hollow where Vera waits.
My blood hums. I could strike now, swift and final, end them before they ever reach her. Every muscle coils with the urge.
I grip the knife tighter, but the image of Abigail’s wide eyes cuts through the haze. She’ll see me as a monster if I do this. Maybe she already does.
Instead, I slip behind them, silent as breath. One wrong move and it will be steel and screams. I press the blade to the throat of the last man and drag him back into the shadows. He gurgles, then stills. The others whirl, confusion breaking their stealth. Rourke’s rifle cracks like thunder, dropping one. The third bolts, crashing through the brush.
Before Vera can call out, I’m after him. My legs pump, branches whip my face, and blood roars in my ears. The soldier stumbles on a root, and I’m on him, slamming him tothe ground. My knife hovers at his throat. His eyes are wide, terrified, too young. A boy trained to wear a uniform and die in it.
My hand shakes. I hear Vera’s voice behind me, faint but steady: “Lucian.”
I let the knife fall away. Instead, I slam the hilt against his temple. He collapses into unconsciousness. Not dead. Not tonight.
When I return, Vera’s eyes meet mine. She says nothing, but I see it, the flicker of relief, the faint thread of trust I had nearly severed. Rourke mutters about leaving loose ends, but I ignore him.
We drag the unconscious soldier into the brush and bind his wrists with torn rope. Rourke argues that it’s a mistake, that leaving him alive will only come back to cut us later. Vera doesn’t flinch when she says, “Then let the boy live to question the Crown’s truth for himself.” Her certainty unsettles me. I want to believe mercy carries strength, but all I see is the blade of risk.
Abigail hides her face in the crook of Vera’s arm, though she peeks at me when she thinks I’m not looking. Her gaze lingers, wide and questioning, as if she’s trying to measure whether I am man or monster. The answer is one I cannot give her.
We move quickly from the valley, taking a narrow trail that snakes up into higher ridges. The climb takes its toll on us. Rourke’s limp worsens, Vera’s breathing sharpens, and Abigail tires easily, but the forest thins enough to give us a view of the world beyond. From the ridge top, the land stretches in ripples of field and wood. Smoke pillars rise at intervals, markersof Crown patrols burning their way through farmsteads. Each column stabs the sky, a reminder that Declan wastes no time in tightening his grip.
I feel Vera’s eyes on me as I study the horizon. She is waiting for me to say something, to reveal what I see. But words fail. All I can manage is, “He’s driving the fear faster than we can carry the truth.”
Rourke spits into the dirt. “Fear travels faster than parchment. Always has.”
The trail bends into a ravine where water trickles between jagged rocks. The air is cooler here, the shade heavy. I kneel to drink, and that’s when the soldier stirs. His eyes flick open, darting wildly. He thrashes against the rope until I clamp a hand over his mouth. He quiets, but the fear in him is raw, animal.
I study his face. No beard, no scars, only the softness of youth. Too young for this war. Too young for me to have ended his life. He stares at me as though he expects the knife at his throat. Instead, I ease my hand away.
“What’s your name?” My voice comes out rough, low.
He blinks, confused, then whispers, “Jonas.”
The name hangs in the air. Human, not faceless. Vera watches closely, her expression unreadable. Rourke mutters something about wasted time.
“Jonas,” I say, keeping my tone even, “you’ll live. But hear me: The Crown feeds you lies. What you saw tonight, remember it. Truth is not always the mouth that shouts the loudest.”
He frowns, as though trying to shape meaning from my words. Then Vera steps closer, her voice softer but steadier. “Carry what you saw. And when you doubt, let that doubt grow. It’s the only weapon they cannot chain.”
