Page 71 of The Monster You Made
I take the food with thanks, repeating Marta’s words until they cling to the air like frost. The villagers nod, hesitant, but I see the questions burning in their eyes. Is it true? Can the Crown bleed? Can Declan be defeated? I have no answers that will nottaste like lies. I give them Marta’s truths instead, fragile but sharp.
***
By midday, the rebels prepare to move on. Elira sharpens her breaching axe on the porch of the inn, muttering about wasted time. Rourke oversees the supply trucks, snapping at anyone who lingers too long. Lucian does not appear until the last moment, his sword strapped across his back, his face unreadable. He moves like a shadow among shadows, saying nothing.
When we leave, a few villagers follow. Not many. A farmer with a crooked scythe, a woman with a hunting bow, the scarred mother who bared her wrist the night before. They march with us, stiff and uncertain, but their presence makes the others cheer. A spark has taken root, however small.
***
The march is hard. Snow deepens on the road, slowing the supply trucks. The freed captives stumble, some collapsing into the arms of those stronger. Still, we press forward. Every mile feels heavier with the knowledge that Declan watches, even if unseen.
At night, the rebels huddle around fires that crackle weakly against the wind. They sing to chase away silence, their voices rough, hoarse. I read Marta’s words until my throat burns, until even the wind seems to listen. The freed gather close, their eyes hollow but hungry. When I finish, they beg for more, as though truth itself could fill their bellies.
But Lucian does not sit among us. He stands at the edge of the firelight, eyes scanning the dark. He sharpens his blade until sparks jump in the night, until his hands are raw. I watch him, aching to cross the distance, to drag him back into the light.
***
The second village we reach is smaller, little more than a cluster of huts and a frozen well. The people gather, their faces hard, suspicious. When I raise Marta’s words, their eyes narrow. When I speak of freedom, they mutter of blood. When I tell them chains can break, they spit in the snow.
One man steps forward, his beard crusted with frost. “You think we haven’t heard your lies? The Crown told us of you. The Wolf who kills as easily as he breathes. The woman who twists truth to suit her bed. You will bring us only death.”
The crowd murmurs agreement. Fear festers like rot. I feel Marta’s satchel heavy on my shoulder, but her words falter on my tongue. They have been poisoned before they can take root.
Lucian steps forward, his shadow stretching across the snow. For a moment, the villagers hush, waiting. He says nothing. His silence is louder than any denial. The crowd turns away, retreating into their huts. Doors slam. Windows shutter. We are left standing in the snow, unwelcome.
***
That night, anger boils in the council. Elira slams her fist against the table. “We waste time with words! They will not follow until they see the Crown bleed. We must strike, make them fear us more than him.”
Rourke drinks deep, grimacing. “And play into his hand again? You think Declan didn’t know we’d try this? He spreads lies faster than Vera spreads words. We’re chasing shadows.”
Their voices clash, loud enough to rattle the beams. Lucian sits in silence, his gaze fixed on nothing. When I turn to him, desperate for him to speak, he only shakes his head. “Every path leads to him. Every step feeds his design.”
The words cut deeper than steel. For the first time, I wonder if hope is a fool’s fire, burning bright only to consume us.
***
When the council disperses, I follow Lucian outside. Snow drifts heavy, muffling the world. He stands by the well, hands clenched on the rim, breath rising in white clouds. His eyes are wild, haunted.
“Talk to me,” I plead. “Don’t drown in silence.”
He looks at me, and for a heartbeat, I see him, my Lucian, the man who claimed me against stone, who swore he was mine. He turns away. “I can’t.”
The words break something in me. I press Marta’s satchel against my chest, clutching it like a shield, and retreat before he sees my tears.
***
We leave the village at dawn. No one follows. The road winds north, each mile heavier than the last. The rebels march in silence now, songs swallowed by doubt. Even though Abigail does not play, her doll is clutched tight against her chest.
I walk with the freed, repeating Marta’s truths until my voice frays. But the words feel thinner, weaker, as though Declan himself strips them from the air. Each sentence tastes more like ash. Still, I keep speaking. If I stop, silence wins. If I stop, he wins.
But in the dark of my chest, a question coils like smoke: What if he already has?
Chapter 35 - Lucian
The snow eases as we climb into higher ground, but the cold deepens. The air tastes sharper here, thinner, as though each breath must be fought for. The rebels march in silence, their boots crunching hard-packed frost. Their shadows stretch long across the ridges, thin and brittle, like the hope they carry.
I walk ahead, sword strapped across my back, every sense alert. Cassian's shadow does not leave me. It coils in every gust of wind, whispers from every crack of ice. Sometimes I swear I hear his laughter echoing in the cliffs. Sometimes I fear it is only my own.
