Page 43 of The Monster You Made
I clutch the scrap of cloth, pressing it into Abigail’s small hands. She holds it tight, her eyes hollow. She understands what it means without words.
We make camp at the edge of the ruins, though none of us truly rest. The night is restless, filled with the distant crackle of unseen flames, the hiss of wind through hollow timbers. I hold Abigail close, whispering Marta’s stories until her breathing steadies. But my own thoughts churn dark. If every village falls, where will truth root itself? Where will rebellion spark?
Near dawn, Lucian kneels by the embers of our fire, his blade in hand. He speaks without looking at me. “You see now what Declan leaves in his wake.”
I don’t answer at first. The ruins speak loud enough. At last, I whisper, “Then we burn him in return.”
His eyes lift to me, sharp as steel. For a moment, the silence between us holds something unspoken, something dangerous, inevitable. Then he turns away, strapping his blade to his back.
***
The day begins in smoke.
The smoke clings to us long after we leave the ruins. It seeps into my cloak, into Abigail’s hair, into the air I breatheuntil I can taste ash on my tongue. Each step away feels like betrayal, though I know there is nothing left to save. Still, my eyes ache from looking back, as if through sheer willpower I could force the village to rise again from the charred bones of itself.
Lucian does not look back. He never does. His stride is relentless, cutting through the gray morning with the weight of a decision already made. Rourke mutters curses with every step, his limp worsening, though he refuses to slow. Abigail clings to my hand in silence, her small fingers cold even through my gloves.
We travel along the river that winds through the valley. Once, it must have been a source of life for the village, its waters bright with fish, its banks lined with gatherings and laughter. Now it runs dark, carrying ashes downstream like whispers of the dead. I crouch at its edge to drink, and for a moment my reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, soot-streaked, a stranger I barely recognize.
Lucian notices my pause. He kneels beside me, filling his waterskin, his movements sharp, controlled. “Don’t linger,” he says softly. “The Crown doesn’t waste time on mourning.”
His words sting, but they are not cruel. They are survival. I rise, swallowing bitterness, and take Abigail’s hand again. We press on.
By midday, the valley narrows into a canyon, its walls steep and jagged. The air cools as shadows stretch long. We move cautiously, our steps echoing against stone, every sound magnified until it feels as though the cliffs themselves are listening. Rourke mutters that it’s a trap, that the Crown herds us like cattle, but there is no other path forward. The forest hereyields only stone and cliff, and to turn back is to walk willingly into Declan’s jaws.
At the canyon’s heart, we find signs of camp, ashes still warm, footprints pressed deep into the dust. Lucian crouches, his hand brushing the marks. “Two days,” he murmurs. “A scouting party, maybe more.”
Abigail tenses, clutching the satchel to her chest. I feel the fear ripple through her, the memory of fire too fresh to silence. I kneel, smoothing her hair. “Quiet now. Just shadows.”
But the shadows are not empty. As we round the next bend, voices echo against stone. Crown soldiers, their gray cloaks stark against the canyon walls. Four, perhaps five, clustered near a firepit, weapons resting within easy reach.
Lucian signals us down behind a boulder. His eyes meet mine, steady, sharp. Decide.
I glance at Abigail, at Rourke’s weary face, at the parchments hidden in the satchel. Retreat is impossible; the canyon offers no cover, no escape but forward. My voice is a whisper. “We strike, fast and silent.”
Lucian nods once. The decision is sealed.
We move like shadows. Lucian slips ahead first, blades glinting. He falls upon the nearest soldier before a cry can leave his throat, steel sliding across flesh. Rourke fires from cover, the crack shattering the canyon’s silence, dropping another. I rush forward, hatchet raised, striking clumsy but hard, the weight of rage behind my swing. The soldier staggers, eyes wide with shock, then falls.
The remaining two cry out, scrambling for their weapons. Lucian is faster. His blade arcs, cutting them down before their steel can rise. Then the canyon is silent again, save for the echo of my ragged breathing.
Abigail does not scream. She stands frozen, clutching the satchel, her eyes locked on the bodies. I want to shield her, to tell her not to look, but she has already seen too much to unsee. Instead, I kneel before her. “We fight because we must,” I whisper. “So you will live.”
She nods, slowly, as though committing the truth to memory. It chills me more than the blood at my feet.
We strip the soldiers quickly—water, dried meat, and a map inked with rough lines marking patrols. Lucian studies it, his jaw tight. “They close the ring. Another day, maybe less.”
Rourke snorts. “Then we’re already ghosts.”
But Lucian shakes his head, folding the map into Marta’s satchel. “Not yet. We move east, toward the hills. The Crown thins there.”
So we move east. The canyon narrows, then widens into rolling ground where scrub and rock replace the forest. The air grows colder, the sky heavy with cloud. Dusk falls hard, shadows stretching long across the land. We make camp in a hollow between stones, the fire small, shielded from the wind.
That night, as Abigail sleeps against me, Lucian keeps his watch with blades across his knees. His eyes are fixed on the dark horizon, but his voice finds me. “You struck without hesitation.”
I meet his gaze across the fire. “There was no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he counters. His tone is not accusation, but weight, stone laid atop stone. “Some kill because they must. Some because they burn. Which are you becoming?”
