Page 73 of The Monster You Made
***
As the march resumes, the storm breaks again. Snow lashes our faces, stinging like claws. The wind howls, tearing banners from hands. The freed stumble, crying out. The supply trucks slide, wheels splintering. Chaos spreads. I shout orders, my voice lost in the gale. Elira drags men from drifts, Rourke curses the skies, and Vera clings to Marta’s satchel, shielding it from the storm.
Through it all, Declan’s laughter roars.You cannot lead them. You cannot save them. You are mine already.
I fight to hold on, to the sword, to the march, to myself. Each step is agony, each breath a battle. And still, somewhere beneath the storm, I hear Vera’s voice calling me back.
***
The storm does not ease through the night. It pounds us without mercy, a wall of white that blinds and deafens. We stagger forward like wraiths, half-alive, chained together by ropes to keep from vanishing into the dark. The freed we drag by sheer will, their legs buckling, their cries muffled by the wind. The supply trucks are lost, wheels shattered, oxen dead in the snow. We leave them behind, their carcasses half-buried. Every step feels like surrender.
At dawn, we collapse beneath a cliffside, the storm finally breaking into a gray hush. The rebels huddle in a shallow cave, their bodies shaking, their eyes hollow. Frost clings to their lashes, their lips split and bleeding. No songs, no laughter, not even curses. Only silence, heavy as stone.
***
I stand apart, staring into the storm’s dying breath. My sword hangs useless at my side, its weight dragging me down. Cassian's whispers press harder now, filling the void.Look at them. Broken. Starving. Do you feel proud, Wolf? They follow you into graves, and still you march.
My hands shake. I press them to the stone wall until skin splits, blood dripping into the snow. The pain steadies me, but only barely.
Vera appears at my side. Her cloak is torn, her hair matted with ice, but her eyes burn hotter than any fire. She does not speak at first. She only takes my hand, pries it from the wall, and wraps cloth around the cuts. Her touch is firm, unyielding.
“You’ll bleed yourself dry before you let them see you falter,” she murmurs. “But I see you.”
Her words slice deeper than any blade. I want to turn away, but I cannot. I want to collapse, but I do not. I want to tell her everything, the whispers, the chains, the way Declan coils inside me. Instead, I only whisper, “If I break, they all fall.”
Her gaze is steady. “Then don’t break. Not alone.”
***
The council gathers in the cave, huddled around a fire that barely smolders. Elira’s jaw is clenched, her knuckles white on the haft of her breaching axe. “We cannot march like this. Another storm, and we’ll all be corpses.”
Rourke takes a long swallow from his flask before answering. “Then we find shelter. A stronghold, a village, anything. Keep moving north and pray.”
The rebels murmur agreement, though none sound convinced. Their eyes turn to me. Always to me. My silence stretches until it threatens to choke them.
At last, I say, “North. We keep to the cliffs. There are passes Marta named, hidden valleys, strong places. If we reach them, we can breathe.”
The words do not feel like mine. They feel placed in my mouth, heavy as iron. Declan’s laughter rumbles in my chest.Yes. March north. Deeper into the teeth I set for you.
But the rebels nod, clinging to direction like drowning men to driftwood. Vera watches me, her face unreadable. I cannot tell if she sees the chains.
***
The next days blur into a haze of snow and hunger. We march by day, collapse by night. The freed falter, some falling and never rising. We bury them shallow in the snow, no songs, no prayers. Abigail clings to her doll, eyes too old for her years. She doesn’t cry anymore.
At times, I feel Declan so near I could touch him. His voice threads the wind, his shadow walks beside me.Step slower, wolf. They are already dying. Spare them the long march. End it here. End it with me.
I tighten my grip on the sword, fighting the pull. Each time, Vera’s voice cuts through, reading Marta’s words to the weary, whispering fire into ashes. Without her, I would have yielded already.
***
On the fourth night, we find a village tucked in the cliffs. Smoke curls from chimneys, light glows in windows. Hope stirs, weak but real. The rebels murmur, relief breaking through the silence. Elira grins, raising her breaching axe. “Shelter. Food. At last.”
But as we approach, the doors slam shut. Light flares on the walls. Voices rise in warning. “Keep away! The Wolf brings death! You will not poison us!”
Fear ripples through the rebels. The freed cry out, reaching for shelter that rejects them. Vera steps forward, Marta’s satchel clutched tight. She calls out words of truth, her voice carrying strongly. “We come with no chains. We come with freedom. We come with proof that the Crown bleeds!”
But the villagers only hurl curses, stones clattering against the snow. One strikes Vera’s shoulder, sending her stumbling. I catch her before she falls, rage burning in my chest. My sword is half-drawn before I know it.
