Page 42 of The Monster You Made
I lean forward, meeting her gaze. “Truth alone is not enough. Not against steel. Not against fear driven into men’s bones.”
“Then we give them both,” she replies, fierce. “Truth, and proof the Crown can be defied.”
The firelight dances between us, painting her features in bronze and shadow. For a long breath, I see not the frightened woman who fled Old Vienna, but something more, someone shaped by loss into a weapon sharper than my blades. Dangerous. Necessary.
The night stretches, broken only by the crackle of dying fire. I keep watch while the others drift into uneasy sleep. The mist clings to the edges of the camp, restless. Somewhere beyond, horns may yet sound, though the forest swallows them. My hand rests on the satchel, its weight heavier than any steel. Maps, names, routes, knowledge enough to spark rebellion, or to drown it in blood if it falls into Declan’s hands.
The choice gnaws at me. To carry it forward is to invite war. To destroy it is to starve hope before it can draw breath. Shadows coil in the flame’s last glow, and I see the face of every soldier I’ve killed staring back, asking if I will damn more lives to ash.
When dawn comes, I rise before the others, blades strapped to my back, satchel across my shoulder. The forest waits, silent but expectant. Vera wakes with Abigail in her arms, eyes meeting mine. She does not ask if I am ready. She already knows.
We step from the shelter into morning fog. Behind us, the embers die, leaving only smoke. Ahead, the forest stretches endlessly, but in my chest, something has shifted. I no longer carry only blades. I carry the weight of choice, the weight of war.
And for the first time, I do not shoulder it alone.
Chapter 16 - Vera
The mist clings to us as we leave the granite overhang, pale tendrils curling around my boots like hands unwilling to release their grip. Abigail leans heavy in my arms, her breath warm against my neck, and I feel every tremor of her small body as she clings to me. She has not spoken since the bridge fell. I wonder if she ever will again.
Lucian leads, shoulders squared, satchel strapped across his back like a second spine. He moves with the steadiness of stone, unflinching even when the forest groans under the weight of the wind. Behind me, Rourke limps, his curses quieter than usual, his breaths shallow. We are three fragments stitched together by survival, carrying one child who holds more weight than she should.
Morning presses gray against the pines. Birds do not sing. The silence is so thick it swallows thought itself, leaving only the rhythm of footfalls, the rasp of cloth against bark, the ache in my wounded arm. I hold Marta’s words inside me like a fragile flame. Every step feels as though the forest wants to snuff it out.
By midday, we stumble onto a trail, narrow, half-swallowed by moss, but unmistakably cut by human hands. Lucian kneels, his fingers tracing grooves in the earth, the sharp print of boots hardened by weight. His voice is low, almost to himself. “Crown passed here. Days ago, maybe less.”
Rourke spits into the dirt. “Everywhere we turn, Declan’s dogs are waiting.”
I glance at the trees, unease churning in my chest. “Then we don’t walk where they expect.”
Lucian’s gaze lifts to me, sharp and unreadable. Then he nods once, decisive, and veers from the path into denser wood. Branches claw at us, pine needles sticking to my cloak, but at least here the ground bears no prints but ours.
Hours blur into aching steps. The forest deepens, old pines rising like pillars of some forgotten temple. Shafts of light pierce the canopy in fractured gold, painting the air with dust and pollen. I whisper stories into Abigail’s hair, parables Marta once told me of rivers that swallowed lies, of mountains that remembered truth even when men forgot. She doesn’t answer, but her breathing steadies, and I keep speaking because silence is heavier than any wound.
By late afternoon, the ground begins to climb. We reach a slope strewn with boulders, the remains of an ancient landslide. The climb is brutal, every stone slick with moss, every gap ready to twist an ankle.
Lucian goes first, carving a path, his hands gripping rock as though the mountain itself resists him. I follow, dragging Abigail against me, her weight growing heavier with each step. My wound burns, blood seeping fresh where the bandage loosens. Still, I climb. To stop is to be buried.
Halfway up, a hawk screams overhead. My heart lurches. For a moment, I think it is a signal, a Crown scout’s cry, but no figures move among the trees below. Only the endless forest, restless and watching.
We crest the slope at last, breath ragged, and find ourselves on a ridge overlooking the valley. From here, the land unfolds: dark forest, broken hills, a ribbon of river glinting faintly in the fading light. But beyond it, smoke coils against the horizon. Not the smoke of a single fire, but of many. A village burned.
Abigail stirs in my arms, her small voice finally breaking the silence. “Home,” she whispers hoarsely.
My chest knots. “Which village?” I ask softly.
She points with trembling fingers, her eyes wet and wide. “There.”
Lucian’s jaw hardens. Rourke mutters a curse so low it is swallowed by the wind. None of us speaks the truth aloud: There will be nothing left for her. No home. No family. Only ash.
Night closes as we descend into the valley. The air stinks of char before we even reach the edge of the village. The ground is blackened, houses collapsed into smoldering heaps. The well has been filled with rubble, the square littered with broken tools and bones. Abigail does not cry. She only presses her face into my cloak, silent as stone.
Lucian stalks through the ruins, every step deliberate, his eyes scanning for tracks. “Crown passed through recently,” he murmurs. “Not patrol, detachment. Twenty, maybe more.”
Rourke kicks at a burned cartwheel, his face twisted with fury. “This is what they leave. This is what Declan calls order.”
I kneel among the ashes of what was once a doorway. Charred wood crumbles beneath my fingers, and beneath it, Ifind a scrap of cloth, child’s clothing, singed but still whole. My throat closes.
Lucian crouches beside me, his shadow stretching long in the firelight. “We cannot stay here. The Crown may return.”
