Page 40 of The Monster You Made
Then I hear it. A whistle. High, sharp, answered by another. The trap is already sprung.
Figures burst from the rocks, Crown soldiers in gray cloaks, bows drawn, blades gleaming. Half a dozen at least. Rourke fires first, his shot cracking through the gorge. One soldier falls, but the others press forward with ruthless precision. Arrows hiss past, clattering against stone. Vera shields Abigail with her body, her face set, eyes blazing.
I lunge into them before they can close. My blade carves an arc, steel flashing. One drops, throat torn open. Another staggers back, clutching his arm. The rest surge around me, their blades ringing against mine. Rage fuels me, steady and sharp, but even rage has limits. They are trained, disciplined, and I am only one.
Rourke reloads, swearing, but he is too slow. A soldier breaks past me, rushing toward Vera and Abigail. My bloodturns to ice. I strike hard, shoving two men aside, but I will not reach her in time.
Then Vera moves. She swings the rusted hatchet with both hands, burying it in the attacker’s side. He crumples, gasping, blood black against his cloak. She wrenches the blade free with a cry that shakes the air. Abigail screams, but she does not look away. None of us do.
The fight rages on. My arms burn, my breath ragged. Blood spatters the stone. Rourke drops another with a well-aimed shot, and together we drive the last two soldiers back. They retreat into the rocks, vanishing as quickly as they came. But they will not stop. Not now. Not after this.
I lean against the stone, knife slick in my hand. Vera stands over the fallen soldier she struck, chest heaving, face pale. Abigail clings to her leg, sobbing, but Vera does not falter. Her eyes meet mine across the gorge, and for the first time, I see it: not only survival in her, but fire. The same fire that has kept me alive all these years.
“We move,” I rasp, forcing air into my lungs. “Before more come.”
Rourke spits into the dirt, wiping blood from his brow. “More always come.”
He is right. The hunt tightens. And every step we take drags us deeper into the Crown’s teeth.
We don’t stop moving. The gorge stretches behind us, littered with blood and stone, and ahead the forest thickens again, swallowing the trail of our flight. My body aches with every step, muscles screaming, wounds throbbing, but I pushforward. Pain is only weakness clawing for breath. I will not give it air.
Vera keeps close, Abigail pressed against her side. Her face is pale but unflinching, her hands steady despite the blood that still stains them. I’ve seen warriors crumble after their first kill, haunted by what they’ve done. She doesn’t crumble. Not Vera. She hardens.
Rourke limps behind, muttering curses, his rifle clutched tight. Each breath rattles in his chest, yet he does not falter. For all his bitterness, he’s as stubborn as the stones we walk over. Stubbornness has its uses.
By midafternoon, we find a narrow defile between ridges, a hidden pass half-choked with fallen rock. I scout ahead, blade in hand, while the others wait. The ground is treacherous, strewn with loose shale that shifts underfoot. The walls of the defile rise steep, jagged, casting long shadows even in daylight. Perfect ground for another ambush. My skin prickles with unease.
But there are no soldiers waiting. Not yet. Only silence, heavy and watchful.
We take the pass, each step deliberate. Abigail stumbles often, but Vera steadies her, murmuring quiet words. I catch fragments: comfort, courage, promises. They anchor the girl more than I ever could. I wonder what promises Vera makes herself when the words leave her lips.
Halfway through, the walls narrow to little more than a fissure. We squeeze through one at a time, scraping against stone. My shoulders brush cold rock, and for a moment, I feelcaged. The memory of shackles burns hot, rage rising unbidden. I push forward until the fissure widens again, lungs dragging air like fire.
On the far side, the pass opens into a basin ringed by cliffs. Pines cluster at its edges, and at its center stands the remnants of a watch post, wooden beams sagging, roof half-collapsed, and now abandoned. The sight tightens my chest. Outposts mean records. Maps. Supplies.
Rourke whistles low when he sees it. “Luck at last. Or bait.”
“Both,” I mutter. My eyes scan the ridges. No smoke. No tracks. Empty, for now.
We enter the post cautiously. The door hangs crooked on rusted hinges, the inside thick with dust and cobwebs. Broken crates lie scattered, gnawed by rats. In the corner, a rack of rusted pikes leans against the wall, their tips dull with age. But on a table near the back, I find it: a chest, small and iron-bound. Locked.
I force it open with my blade. Inside are parchments, curled with damp but still legible. Patrol routes. Names. Marks of supply lines feeding the Crown’s pursuit. My pulse hammers. This is more than survival; it’s a weapon.
Vera joins me, her eyes scanning the documents. Her face pales as she reads. “They’ve mapped the valleys. Every village, every stream. They know where to tighten the noose.”
Rourke leans over her shoulder, muttering. “So we’re already dead. Good to have it in writing.”
But I see something else: gaps. Places where the patrols thin, where the land itself resists control. Shadows in Declan’s net. “Not dead yet,” I say. “Not if we move where he cannot see.”
Vera’s eyes meet mine, sharp and steady. She nods once, understanding. Abigail clings to her cloak, watching us with wide eyes. I wonder if she can sense the shift, that for the first time in days, we have something more than fear to guide us.
We gather what we can. Dried rations, a half-full waterskin, and the parchments rolled tight into Marta’s satchel. Before we leave, I strike the remaining crates, scattering their contents. Better ash than gift to the Crown.
As we step into the basin, a sound cuts the air: the distant echo of horns. Deep, resonant, carried by the wind. My blood runs cold. They know we are here.
Rourke spits. “Bait, then. Told you.”
“Move,” I snarl. We flee the basin, slipping back into the forest’s embrace. Behind us, the horns sound again, closer now. The hunt is not hours away; it is minutes.
