Page 58 of The Monster You Made
Word comes of a Crown general riding south to rally the broken garrisons. His name is Calder, a man known for cruelty, his campaigns leaving villages gutted and fields drowned in blood. If he succeeds, the Crown’s grip tightens. If he falls, the cracks widen.
We march to intercept him.
The ambush unfolds in the gorge at dawn. The rebels line the cliffs, bows drawn, rifles ready. When Calder’s column enters, steel gleaming, banners snapping, the trap closes. Arrows rain, rifles thunder, rocks tumble from above. Chaos erupts. Soldiers scatter, horses scream, men fall.
I drop into the fray, blades flashing. Rebels surge behind me, their cries filling the gorge. Calder himself rides at the center, a great saber in hand, his face hard as stone. He cuts through rebels with brutal precision, his strength immense, his fury cold. For a moment, he seems a storm none can break.
Then Vera is there, her hatchet carving through the guard at his side, her voice sharp as a cry of truth. Elira’s breaching axe cleaves down, knocking him from his horse. I drive forward, blades crossing his saber, sparks scattering. He is strong, but strength alone cannot bind me again. Rage fuels me, precision hones me. When the moment opens, I take it. My blades cross his throat. His blood sprays the dust.
The rebels roar. Calder falls.
***
By nightfall, word spreads. A general of the Crown, slain. His men scattered, his banner torn. Villages light fires in secret to mark it, their smoke curling into the sky like signals. The fire spreads faster now, brighter, harder to ignore. For the first time, I see fear in the faces of the Crown’s soldiers we capture. They whisper my name like a curse, like a prayer.
But fear is not victory. Calder’s death is only another spark. Declan still looms. And he will not forgive.
***
The cost comes days later. A village that sheltered us lies in ruin, its people slaughtered, its wells poisoned. Abigail walks among the ash, silent, her doll limp in her hand. Vera gathers her close, whispering comfort, though her own tears fall unchecked. Elira’s face is stone, her breaching axe clenched untilher knuckles pale. Rourke curses until his voice breaks, then drinks until silence swallows him.
I stand apart, fury boiling but useless. Every strike we make saves some, but dooms others. Every victory carries ash in its wake. It is a balance I cannot break. And yet, I cannot stop. Because to stop is to kneel.
***
That night, Vera comes to me beneath the pines. Her hand finds mine, her voice steady though her eyes shine. “We cannot save everyone,” she says. “But we can make their deaths mean something. We can make their lives remembered.”
Her words cut deep, not as comfort but as truth. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in, grounding myself in the fire she carries. “Then we burn until even his shadow cannot stand.”
***
The rebels grow restless, eager. Songs turn to oaths. Oaths to demands. They no longer ask if we will strike again, but when. They look to me, always to me. And I feel the chains tightening, not Declan’s this time, but theirs. The weight of belief is heavier than iron.
Elira sees it, though she does not say it. She only stands beside me, her scarred face proud, her voice carrying my commands louder than I could. Rourke grumbles but follows. Vera steadies me with a glance, with a touch, with the truth in her eyes when all else threatens to drown me.
And Abigail sleeps between us, safe for now, her dreams untainted by the ash we wade through.
***
Word reaches us then that chills the camp. Declan himself moves again. Not with armies this time, but with silence. His agents sow discord in villages that rose for us. His whispers turn neighbor against neighbor. Fires burn not by soldiers’ hands but by traitors’. Chains close where we thought them broken. He does not need armies to crush us. He only needs lies.
I feel his voice in my skull again, cold, certain:You are mine.
But I am not. Not anymore. Not while Vera breathes, not while Abigail laughs, not while rebels rise. Not while even one voice still sings of freedom.
I lift my blades to the night sky, their steel catching the firelight. “Then let him come,” I whisper. “Let him choke on the fire he made.”
The words carry into the dark, and the rebels who hear them whisper them back, like prayer.
And I know: This war has only just begun.
Chapter 26 - Vera
Ash still clings to our clothes when we leave the gorge. Calder’s blood stains our blades, but it is Abigailren’s silence in the burned village that haunts me more than his death. No songs rise in my throat, though others sing louder than ever. To them, Calder’s fall proves we are unstoppable. To me, it proves only that Declan will never stop.
The camp swells now with freed prisoners, deserters, villagers who can no longer bear the Crown’s heel. Each new voice makes the fires brighter, the nights louder. They call Lucian wolf, breaker of chains. They call Elira stone, unyielding. They call me flame, though I feel only ember. And still they look to us, eyes hungry for direction, for hope.
***
