Page 44 of The Monster You Made
The question sears. I think of Marta, of her words about truth and fire, of Abigail’s hollow eyes. I do not know the answer. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. I look into the flames and whisper, “I fight so she will not burn as her home did.”
Lucian studies me, then nods, as though the answer, however incomplete, is enough for now.
The wind howls through the stones. I hold Abigail closer, Marta’s satchel pressed between us, and pray that the truth it carries is worth the blood already spilled.
When dawn comes, it brings no peace. The clouds hang low, heavy with storm. We march east, our shadows long upon the barren ground. In the distance, the hills rise, jagged and gray, like teeth waiting to close. The Crown’s horns have not sounded since the gorge, but I feel them still, echoing in my bones.
Chapter 17 - Lucian
The horns chase us into the dawn. At first faint, carried by the shifting wind, but as the day stretches on, they grow louder, closer, like wolves circling the wounded. Abigail stiffens every time the sound cuts through the hills, her hand tightening in Vera’s cloak. Rourke mutters that the bastards never horse, and I do not disagree.
We push hard along the ridges, keeping to high ground where the stones break the horizon into jagged cover. The land here is cruel, no trees, no streams, only thorn scrub and rock. Our water runs low, our steps slower. Yet we cannot stop. To stop is to let the horns catch us.
By midday, we reach a gully carved by centuries of rain. Its walls are steep, its bed strewn with rubble. We descend, our boots sliding on loose stone, the air heavy with dust. For a moment, the horns fade, swallowed by the land. Relief flickers, fragile. But the gully is a snare as much as it is shelter. Sound carries strange here. Shadows deepen quick.
Halfway along, I find fresh prints in the dust, boots, many, pressed deep. Crown. I raise a hand, halting the others. Vera steadies Abigail, her eyes wide, searching the ridges. Rourke’s mouth hardens around a curse. We are not alone.
Figures crest the gully ahead, gray cloaks snapping in the wind. Half a dozen at least, rifles slung across their shoulders. Their eyes catch us instantly. Shouts echo. Steel flashes.
“Down!” I roar, pulling Vera and Abigail against the wall as shots crack. Stone shatters, dust exploding around us. Rourkedrops to a knee, firing back, his rifle’s thunder rolling through the gully. One soldier crumples, another staggers, but more pour down the slope, relentless.
I surge forward, blades flashing. The gully becomes chaos, shouts, gunfire, the scream of steel on steel. I move through them like shadow, each strike precise, fueled by fury older than the hills. Blood spatters stone. A rifle butt cracks against my ribs, but I twist, driving steel deep, tearing life from another throat. They fall, but not fast enough. More always come.
Vera shields Abigail behind a boulder, her hatchet in hand. Her face is pale, her eyes fire. She swings once, twice, driving back a soldier who presses too close. Her voice is a cry that cuts sharper than steel. Rourke fights like a man with nothing left to lose, reloading between curses, each shot dropping another shadow.
But the gully betrays us. The walls funnel sound and men alike. For every soldier that falls, another scrambles down the ridge, rifles flashing, boots pounding. I cut, slash, drive them back, but my arms burn, my breath ragged. There are too many.
“Back!” I shout, voice raw. “Fall back to the ridge!”
We scramble, clambering over stone, dragging Abigail between us. Rourke fires cover shots, his curses louder than the guns. A bullet grazes my arm, heat searing, but I do not stop. Pain is nothing. Only forward.
At last, we crest the ridge, the land beyond a sweep of broken hills and scrub. No cover, no shelter, only open ground. Behind, the gully seethes with soldiers, their horns calling, their rifles gleaming.
We run.
The land stretches mercilessly, every step a battle against stone and breath. Abigail sobs, her voice breaking at last, but Vera does not slow, her grip iron. Rourke stumbles, blood soaking his leg, but his jaw clenches, his rifle still clutched tight. I drag him when he falters, forcing him onward. We cannot fall here.
By dusk, the horns fade again, swallowed by distance. We collapse among boulders, lungs heaving, blood and sweat thick on our skin. Abigail curls against Vera, her tears drying into silence once more. Rourke sprawls against stone, his leg trembling, his breath ragged. I press a hand to his wound, rough but steady. He grunts, curses, but does not push me away.
Night comes cold, the sky a black vault pricked with stars. We light no fire. The hills are alive with echoes, and smoke would be a beacon. Instead, we huddle close, sharing warmth where we can. Vera leans against me, Abigail between us, her head heavy on my shoulder. For a moment, I let the weight of her rest there, anchoring me against the endless dark.
Sleep is shallow, broken by dreams of chains and fire. When dawn comes, it bleeds pale gold over the hills, fragile but unbroken. We rise stiff, hollow, but breathing.
By midday, the city we glimpsed before grows clearer. Stone walls rise from the plain, towers glinting in the light. Not grand like Old Vienna, but alive, smoke curling from chimneys, figures moving on the ramparts. A place that breathes.
Vera’s eyes fix on it, her hand tightening on Abigail’s shoulder. Hope flickers, fragile but fierce. Rourke mutters, “If we can reach it, we might breathe a day without running.”
I do not answer. Cities hold as much danger as safety. Crown eyes watch everywhere. But the satchel at my side is heavy, and the maps within demand a destination. Perhaps this city is where the fire begins.
Behind us, faint on the wind, horns sound once more. Not near. Not yet. But coming.
We descend the last ridge toward the city, shadows long before us, the weight of war heavy on our backs. The gates wait, uncertain as the dawn, and I know: Whatever choice we make within those walls will set the course not only for us, but for all who still dare to defy the Crown.
Chapter 18 - Vera
The city rises from the plain like a promise I scarcely dare to believe. Its walls are not grand like Old Vienna’s, no gilded spires, no marble towers, but solid, thick stone weathered by years of storm and siege. Smoke drifts from chimneys, faint and gray, not the black plumes of ruin we’ve seen so often. From the ridges, we watch figures move along the ramparts, guards pacing, banners fluttering faintly in the wind. A place alive, a place still breathing. For the first time since Old Vienna burned, hope stirs in my chest, fragile as a moth’s wing.
Lucian studies the walls with eyes sharp as steel. He has not spoken in hours, though his silence is not emptiness but calculation. Rourke mutters curses about gates and guards, his leg dragging with each step. Abigail presses close to me, her hand wrapped in my cloak, her gaze fixed on the walls as though they might vanish if she blinks.
