Page 69 of The Monster You Made
Vera finds me there, her hair whipped by the wind, her cloak heavy with frost. She grips my arm, forcing my gaze to hers. “He isn’t here, Lucian.”
But her eyes search mine as if she fears I’ll vanish into the storm too.
***
We survive the night. At dawn, the camp is ragged, weary, but unbroken. The freed cling tighter to us, as if the storm bound them by more than necessity. Elira rallies them with promises of vengeance. Rourke curses and jokes until men laugh despite themselves. Vera reads Marta’s words again, her voice cutting through the wind like fire.
And me? I sharpen my sword. Always sharpening. Because I know the storm was not Declan’s strike. It was his shadow, reminding me that even nature bends toward his design.
***
The storm leaves the land brittle and silent. Snow crusts the hills, crunching under boots as we trudge onward. The freed march slower now, but they march still, driven by somethingheavier than fear. Each day, I watch their backs bend, their legs tremble, and still they do not stop. I envy their stubbornness. For me, every step feels like I’m walking deeper into his snare.
***
By dusk on the third day, we reach a village clinging to the mountainside. Smoke curls weakly from chimneys. The people gather at the square as we approach, their faces wary, their bodies stiff. Some clutch tools like weapons. Others clutch children close, as though we might take them as easily as the Crown does.
Elira marches forward, breaching axe slung across her shoulder, her voice booming. “We’ve broken the Crown’s prison. Freed their captives. Stood against their chains. Stand with us, and we’ll break more!”
Her words strike like hammers. A few heads nod, a few fists lift, but more eyes remain flat, uncertain. Doubt clings to them as thick as the frost.
Vera steps forward, then, with Marta’s satchel in hand. She reads from the pages, her voice steady, fierce. “The Crown feeds you lies. They chain your neighbors, your kin, your children. But the truth lives yet! We carry it in these words, and we will not let it be buried.”
Some stir at her voice. I see it in their eyes, the spark, the flicker. But just as quickly, the whispers rise. Savage. Liar. Monster. Words Declan planted, taking root in soil too eager to grow them.
I feel the weight of every whisper on my shoulders.
***
At night, we gather in the inn, its beams creaking under the press of bodies. The air smells of sweat, smoke, and fear. The council argues again.
“They’re afraid,” Elira snarls. “Afraid of him, afraid of us. We need to burn that fear away.”
Rourke swigs from his flask. “And what do you suggest? Another bloody raid? Another pile of corpses to frighten them into singing our songs?” He spits to the side. “Fear doesn’t burn. It festers.”
Vera looks to me. Her eyes beg an answer I do not have. All I can give is silence, my hands clenched tight on the hilt of my blade. They think me unshakable, but inside, I feel the chains cinching tighter.
***
The next morning, we try again. We gather the villagers in the square, show them the freed captives, their scars, their hunger, their broken chains. Elira roars of vengeance, Rourke grumbles of survival, and Vera preaches truth. I stand there, sword in hand, saying nothing. My silence speaks louder than words. They cheer, some of them. Others retreat, faces closed. Declan’s lies cling to them, invisible but strong.
One man spits at my feet. “Wolf,” he calls me. “Beast.”
The crowd murmurs, torn between faith and fear. For a heartbeat, I want to cut him down, silence his voice as Declan would. My hand tightens on the hilt, the urge screaming in myblood. But then I see Abigail watching me, her doll clutched to her chest. Her eyes wide, waiting to see what I will do.
I let go of the sword. I turn away. The man lives. The whispers grow.
***
That night, Vera finds me outside the inn, the cold cutting through my cloak. She takes my hand, her grip fierce. “You chose mercy,” she whispers. “That matters.”
I shake my head. “Mercy doesn’t silence him. It feeds him. Every moment I hesitate, he grows stronger.”
She presses closer, her voice low, urgent. “No, Lucian. Every moment you resist him, you stay yours. That’s what matters.”
Her words warm me more than the fire ever could. But still, in the back of my mind, I hear Declan laughing.
***
