Page 56 of The Monster You Made
***
Lucian walks through the camp with shoulders like iron. The rebels look to him now as they once looked to Elira. They nod when he passes, straighten their spines, sharpen their blades. He does not ask for it, does not seek it, but it clings to him anyway. I see the burden it carves into his jaw, the silence it sharpens in his eyes. He speaks little, but when he does, men move as if bound by steel. And I fear what that weight will make of him.
Elira herself does not resist it. She stands beside him, her scarred face proud, her breaching axe always close. In him, she sees not rival but proof that Declan can be fought, that shadows can bleed. Her voice echoes his when she drills the rebels, whenshe names the dead, when she promises vengeance. Together, they forge belief into something harder than stone. An army.
Rourke thrives in it, though drink is never far from his hand. He laughs loud, slaps backs, spins tales until men cheer. But his eyes, when he thinks no one sees, are dark. He has seen too many wars, and this one has only just begun.
And Abigail? She plays, she runs, she laughs louder than I thought possible after all we have seen. She believes the stories the rebels whisper, that Lucian is the wolf who bites chains, that I am the flame that lights truth, that together we will burn the Crown to ash. I do not have the heart to tell her how fragile fire truly is.
***
Whispers reach the camp within days. Villages south of the river rise in quiet defiance, tearing down the Crown’s banners, sheltering fugitives. A town to the east refuses its tithe, driving the taxmen out with stones. It is small, desperate, scattered. But it is happening. The fire spreads.
Elira gathers us. “Declan bleeds, and the world smells it,” she says. “Now we feed it. We strike not just for blood but for sight. Every village must see, every town must hear. Let them know the Crown falters.”
Lucian unrolls the maps, his fingers steady on the parchment. “Here,” he points to a crossroads where three supply routes converge. “Strike it, and half their reach stumbles. Here,” his blade taps a river bridge, “we cut the spine of their march. And here, ” his voice lowers, his eyes sharp, “we strike their prisons. Free those who still have fire.”
The rebels murmur, hungry. I feel it too. Not just vengeance, but purpose.
***
Our first march after Declan’s retreat is to the prison.
It squats like a scar in the hills, stone walls blackened by age, iron bars glinting cold in the sun. Rumor says none leave it but in chains or coffins. To approach it is madness. To break it open, suicide. Yet the rebels follow, fifty strong, faces set, blades ready.
We strike at dusk. Arrows ignite the watchtowers, smoke choking the sky. Rourke’s rifle cracks, dropping guards before they can sound horns. Lucian leads the charge through the gates, his blades a storm, his voice raw as he roars for freedom. Elira’s breaching axe cleaves through locks, through chains, through men. I move among the prisoners, breaking bonds, whispering truth: “You are free. You are not alone. Rise.”
And they do. Hollow-eyed men and women stumble into the light, blinking, bleeding, but alive. They seize blades from fallen guards, their cries growing louder with every step. When the last gate falls, nearly a hundred new voices join ours. The rebels cheer, the freed weep, and I feel the ground itself tremble. The Crown built this prison as proof of its power. Tonight, it stands as proof of its weakness.
***
But victory never comes without a price.
The Crown retaliates within days, lighting a village that sheltered us, hanging its elders as a warning. I see the bodiesswinging when we arrive too late, the smell of smoke still clinging to the air. The villagers’ children kneel in the ash, silent, uncomprehending. My stomach twists, bile rising, grief turning sharp in my throat. Lucian kneels among them, his voice steady as stone. “Your parents stood for truth,” he tells them. “And truth does not die. It burns brighter.”
I believe him. I must. Yet that night, I cry where no one sees, Marta’s satchel clutched against my chest. For every fire we kindle, the Crown kindles another. And I fear how many flames the world can bear before it breaks.
***
Weeks pass in blood and smoke. Crossroads fall, bridges burn, prisoners rise to fight. Whispers turn to shouts, shouts to songs. I hear them in villages when we pass through: the wolf who broke his chains, the flame who lights the dark, the rebels who bleed but do not break. Songs. Of us. And I do not know if it is hope or a curse.
Lucian listens but does not smile. “Songs do not win wars,” he says. Yet his grip on his blades tightens. He knows, as I do, songs are seeds. And seeds grow.
***
One night, after a long march, I sit with him beneath the pines. Abigail sleeps nearby, her head on Rourke’s lap, his snores rumbling low. The camp murmurs, firelight flickering. I study Lucian’s profile, sharp against the glow. “They believe in you,” I whisper. “Do you?”
His silence stretches. At last, his voice comes low, rough. “I believe in the fight. In what must be done.”
“And in yourself?”
He turns then, his eyes catching mine, shadows and fire entwined. “If I fall, the fire spreads without me. That is enough.”
It’s not the answer I wanted. But it’s the only one he can give.
***
The fire spreads. Villages rise. The Crown stumbles. But in the quiet hours, when the camp sleeps and the smoke thins, I still hear his voice, Declan’s, curling through the dark like poison. Fire always consumes its bearer first.
