Page 51 of The Monster You Made
The first shots crack. Smoke bursts, steel clashes. The forest becomes chaos. Rebels scream defiance, soldiers bellow commands, rifles thunder, blades flash. I fight among them, my hatchet heavy in my hand, my arms burning. Blood spatters bark, bodies fall, fire catches. The world narrows to breath, to strike, to survive.
Lucian is everywhere, his blades a storm, his voice cutting commands sharper than steel. Rourke fires from the barricades, curses louder than rifles, each shot dropping another soldier. Elira roars, her great breaching axe cleaving men in two, herpresence a wall none can breach. The rebels fight not with discipline but with fury, and for a time, it is enough.
But the Crown is endless.
They press harder, their rifles spitting fire, their bayonets stabbing. For every soldier who falls, two more push forward. Barricades splinter, trenches fill with blood. Rebels scream, stumble, fall. The forest groans beneath the weight of fire and ash.
I feel despair claw at me. I see Abigail’s face in my mind, her eyes wide with trust. If we fall here, if we burn here, what then? What truth remains?
Then Lucian’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Now!”
A signal flare arcs into the sky, bursting red. From the trees behind, rebels hidden until now surge forward, lights blazing. They hurl fire into the Crown’s ranks, onto barrels of powder dragged from the depot days before. Flame erupts, thunder roars, the forest shakes. Soldiers scream, consumed by fire. Lines break, men scatter. For the first time, I see the Crown falter.
We drive them back, not with strength alone but with fury, with fire, with truth turned to blade. When dawn breaks, the forest is black with ash, the ground strewn with bodies. We stand bloodied, ragged, but alive. Elira’s breaching axe drips red. Rourke leans on his rifle, pale but grinning. Lucian’s blades hang heavy, his chest heaving, his eyes still sharp. I clutch my hatchet, my hands trembling, my breath ragged.
The rebels cheer, not loud, not reckless, but fierce. They have stood. They have bled. And they have not fallen.
***
That night, as the fires smolder and the dead are buried, Elira turns to us. “You brought fire,” she says. “You brought blood. And you brought hope. The Crown will come again, with more. But now, we are not prey. We are wolves.”
Her words ripple through the camp. They look at me, at Lucian, at Rourke. At Abigail sleeping safe among the survivors. They look, and I feel the weight settle heavier than ever. We are sparks no longer. We are flame.
And flame cannot be hidden forever.
Chapter 21 - Lucian
The forest still smolders. Smoke clings to the pines, curling through the branches, carrying the bitter stench of powder and blood. Graves mark the ground in shallow mounds, each one a name whispered into the dark. The rebels move slower now, their voices hoarse, their laughter forced. But they are alive. And they have done what few dared dream: They stood against the Crown and did not break.
I walk the camp in silence, blades sheathed but never far. My body aches with wounds half-healed, my breath still ragged, but my mind does not rest. Each grave is a weight on my shoulders, each cheer a reminder of what comes next. The Crown will not let this stand. They will come again, stronger, hungrier, merciless. And when they do, we must be more than sparks. We must be fire that consumes.
***
Elira meets me by the main fire, her breaching axe laid across her knees. The scar on her face catches the light, her eyes sharp. “You fight like a man who has lived a dozen wars,” she says. “But war eats men like that first.”
I don’t smile. “Then let it choke.”
She studies me for a long moment before nodding. “We cannot fight them head-on, not yet. We need allies. Villages, towns, those who would stand if given a chance. You carry maps. You know where to strike. Guide us.”
Her words are not a request but a command. And yet I feel no resistance. This is what Marta died for. What Vera believes. What Abigail deserves. I lay the satchel open, spreading the maps across the ground. Lines and routes, depots and garrisons. A web of Declan’s control. And within it, threads we can cut.
Rourke crouches beside us, his face pale but eager. “Supply lines here,” he says, stabbing a finger at a road that cuts through the hills. “You take that, their forts starve.”
Elira grunts approval. “And here,” she points to a river port marked in ink, “their powder moves south by barge. Sink a few, and they’ll choke.”
Vera joins us last, her hair loose, her eyes weary but burning. She lays her hand on the map, on the symbols Marta marked. “Truth spreads faster than fire if you feed it. Every strike must be seen, must be known. Or it is only blood in the dark.”
I meet her gaze, steady. “Then we give them light.”
***
Our first strike comes swift. A supply truck winding through the hills, guarded by half a dozen soldiers. We descend like wolves, blades flashing, rifles cracking. It is over in moments. Grain, powder, rifles, all taken, the soldiers left bleeding in the dust. The rebels cheer, their spirits lifted. But I feel only the weight of it. Another wound, yes. But the beast is vast. And wounds alone do not kill.
Still, when the grain is shared, when children eat bread for the first time in weeks, I cannot deny the fire it lights. Perhaps hope is as sharp a weapon as steel.
***
The next strike is bolder. The river port Elira marked, wooden docks, warehouses stacked with powder, barges ready to sail. We wait until midnight, then slip through the reeds. The night is still, the water black. Jannik guides us, his knife glinting as he cuts a sentry’s throat. Rourke plants charges stolen from the supply trucks, his grin wolfish in the moonlight. Vera moves with me, her hatchet steady, her breath quick but sure.
