Page 62 of The Monster You Made
I do not answer. Because I know it is true.
***
Word comes that a Crown garrison holds fast in the hills east, its walls thick, its stores vast. If it falls, the rebels gain not just food but proof, a military compound torn down by fire and chain-breaker alike. The council gathers, maps spread, voices sharp.
Elira slams her breaching axe against the table. “Strike it now. Show them stone crumbles as easily as bone.”
Rourke shakes his head, muttering curses. “A military compound ain’t a supply truck. We bleed ourselves dry before we breach those walls.”
Lucian studies the map, his silence heavy. At last, his finger taps a mark near the ridge. “There is a water channel here. If we choke it, the well inside runs dry. Desperation will break them faster than steel.”
All eyes turn to him. Murmurs ripple. Some eager, some doubtful. I glance down at Marta’s papers, at the notes she left of Crown shortages, of corruption in their ranks.
“If we strike with truth and steel together,” I say, “their walls will not hold. We must show the world that even stone cannot shelter lies.”
Elira grins, fierce. “Then it is decided.”
***
The march to the hills is long, the rebels heavy with anticipation. Songs rise at night, sharpened by hunger for victory. I braid Abigail’s hair by the fires, her laughter soft, her questions sharper.
“Will the walls fall?” she asks.
I hesitate, then whisper, “Yes.” Because she needs to believe. Even if I do not.
When the military compound looms at last, its towers stark against the dusk, my breath stills. It feels immovable, eternal. A mountain of stone defying flame. Yet Lucian stands unflinching, his blades gleaming. Elira’s breaching axe rests ready across her back. The rebels tighten their grips, their eyes hungry.
***
The plan unfolds in shadow. While Elira leads a false assault on the western gate, Lucian, Rourke, and I slip through reeds to the ridge. The water channel lies before us, stone-lined, carrying the military compound’s lifeblood. Lucian signals, and rebels roll boulders down, collapsing the channel, damming the flow. Water churns, mud spills, the military compound thirsts.
The next night, when Elira strikes again, their strength falters. Arrows rain, rifles crack, ladders rise against the walls. The rebels climb, steel clashing against desperate soldiers. I scramble beside them, Marta’s satchel tight across my chest, my hatchet biting wood, flesh, bone. Lucian moves like a storm, cutting paths where none exist. Elira bellows, her breaching axe splitting shields. Rourke fires, curses, reloads, and laughs through blood.
At last, the gates splinter. Rebels surge inside, voices roaring. The military compound falls.
***
Victory tastes of ash. Bodies fill the courtyards; blood stains stone. Survivors kneel, chains clattering. Some rebels cheer, others weep. Abigail stares wide-eyed, clinging to my hand. I whisper comfort, though my own throat feels carved hollow.
That night, fires blaze high. Rebels drink, sing, boast. Elira raises her breaching axe, declaring, “Stone falls! The Crown crumbles!” Cheers thunder.
Lucian sits apart, sharpening his blades in silence.
I sit with him, my voice low. “They believe,” I say. “Is that not enough?”
His gaze lifts, shadowed, sharp. “Belief without truth is ash. Declan is not broken. Not yet.”
I press Marta’s satchel to my chest, whispering her name. And in the crackle of flames, I hear it again, Declan’s laughter, low and cold, curling through my skull. A promise.
Chapter 29 - Lucian
Stone falls, but the echo does not fade. The military compound lies in ruin, its banners torn, its wells dry. The rebels cheer, their voices thunder in the courtyards, but I hear only the silence after, the silence of the dead, the silence of those who will never see walls again. Every victory tastes of ash. And still, they look to me.
The Wolf, they call me. Breaker of Chains. They do not see the chains still coiled in my marrow. They do not hear his laughter still curling in the back of my skull. They see only blades raised, walls broken, victories carved. Belief is weight heavier than steel, and I carry it whether I will or not.
***
The days after the military compound bleed together. Rebels hammer broken iron into new blades, stack captured rifles, share food seized from stores. The camp swells again, swollen with voices that sing louder than grief. Songs spread faster than fire, tales reshaped until I barely recognize myself in them. I am no longer a man in their telling. I am a storm, Wolf, shadow turned weapon. They forget I bleed. They forget I doubt.
