Page 65 of The Monster You Made
Chapter 31 - Lucian
The bridge still stinks of blood when the songs begin. Rebels dance with gold clutched in their fists, their laughter rolling like thunder through the night. They believe we have broken the Crown’s spine, that the supply trucks we burned and the spoils we seized are proof of victory. They cannot hear what I hear. The echo of his laughter in the trees. The certainty that we did not strike him, but walked where he wanted us to.
I sharpen my blades at the edge of camp while cheers echo behind me. Sparks fly with each stroke, the steel catching firelight. My hands move steadily, but my mind churns. He watched us. I felt it. The cloak in the treeline, the glimmer of his eyes. He gave us this. And gifts from him are chains.
Vera finds me there. She carries Marta’s satchel close, her face pale but fierce. She does not speak at first, only kneels beside me, her hand brushing mine. Her silence steadies me more than words could. But even she cannot quiet the voice that curls in the back of my skull:You are mine.
***
At dawn, Elira drills the rebels until their arms shake, her voice booming across the courtyard. “Steel is nothing without will! Again!” They obey, their eyes shining with belief. She thrives in it, shaping them into soldiers. To them, she is a mountain, unyielding. To me, she is a reminder that even scarred stone can endure.
Rourke staggers late to drill, drink heavy on his breath, but his aim remains true. He laughs too loudly, curses too sharply, but when he corners me later, his words cut cleanerthan blades. “He’s fattening us, Lucian. Letting us grow so he can gut us all at once.”
I don’t answer. Because I know he’s right.
***
Scouts return with grim news days later. Villages that raised our banners now hang silent, their wells poisoned, their people vanished. Chains clatter in the distance of their reports. Declan moves again, not with armies, but with whispers and silence. He unravels faith faster than we can sew it.
The council gathers in the military compound hall, smoke still staining its stones. Maps spread across the table, oil lamps burning low. Elira pounds her breaching axe against the wood. “Enough chasing supply trucks and whispers. We march on him. Break him now.”
Rourke spits. “March blind into his teeth? You’ll give him what he wants.”
Eyes turn to me. Always to me. I feel the weight of them, the weight of belief. My silence stretches. I study the maps, the scouts’ notes, the thin threads of villages fraying. At last, I say, “We cannot wait. His lies rot faster than our fire spreads. We strike.”
Murmurs ripple, fear, hunger, hope. Vera’s hand brushes mine beneath the table. Her voice is low, meant only for me. “If you face him again, you must end it.”
I nod, though chains tighten in my chest.
***
We march before dawn, our boots grinding frost, our breath fogging in the air. Songs fade to whispers on the road. Abigail rides with the supply trucks, her doll clutched tight. She smiles when she sees me look back, unafraid. Her belief is heavier than iron.
The valley looms by dusk, fog curling low between ridges. Fires glimmer in the distance, too neat, too still. A trap. My jaw clenches. But to turn back now would break them. So I lift my hand. We descend.
***
The clash comes suddenly. Rifles crack, arrows hiss, steel clashes. Elira roars, her breaching axe splitting shields. Rourke fires, curses, reloads, and fires again. Vera fights at my side, her hatchet flashing, her cries fierce. The rebels surge like a storm.
And then—his voice cuts the din. Calm. Cold. “Lucian.”
He steps from the smoke, cloak gray, eyes gleaming. His smile is cruel. “Ever the dog chasing a leash and calling it freedom.”
I lunge.
Steel collides, sparks scatter. His strength is unreal, his precision inhuman. Each strike binds, each parry presses chains tighter in my mind.
Rage floods me. I break the lock and drive my elbow with a swing into his nose, feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of his nose caving in. Blood splatters in globs as his hand barely keeps the bleed in check. He snarls, eyes flashing with fury.
He retreats into the shadows, soldiers covering his escape. We drive them back, pressing hard, but when dawn breaks, he is gone. Again.
***
The rebels cheer faintly, clinging to the blood spilled. Elira lifts her breaching axe, roaring, “He bleeds! He runs!” They echo, voices fierce. But I hear only his laughter, still coiled in my skull. And I know the war narrows to one truth: Either he falls, or I do.
I step out from the valley with the rebels, the air thick with whispers that ain’t born of smoke or shadow. The villagers meet us, their hands offering bread and water, but their tongues carry something heavier, rumors. They say Crown supply trucks roll bold as brass through U.S. military depots, guarded not by hired blades but by soldiers in crisp, official uniforms. The higher-ups deny it, of course, but the truth’s plain as day. The Crown’s got one hand wringing its people dry while the other’s shaking hands with government men in broad daylight.
Night falls, and we huddle round the fire, the crackle of flames mixing with the rebels’ talk. One name rises above the rest, like a spark that won’t die: Cadmus. No ghost, no rumor, but a commander, decorated and untouchable. His loyalty ain’t to the flag; it’s to the Crown. Word is, his speeches are already crackling through radio broadcasts, each word honed sharper than a blade, his promises gleaming with the polish of power. I turn my face from the fire, the heat too close, and feel chains tightening around me, chains I can’t even see.
