Page 74 of The Monster You Made
Cassian's whisper curls hot in my ear:Yes. Strike them. Show them the Wolf’s truth. Make them kneel in blood.
My grip tightens. My vision blurs. For a heartbeat, I want it, violence, fire, an end to silence.
Vera’s hand covers mine. Her touch steadies me, dragging me back from the brink. Her eyes lock onto mine, fierce. “Not this way. Don’t give him this.”
I drop the blade. My chest heaves, sweat freezing on my skin. The villagers slam their gates. We are left outside, unwelcome, starving.
***
That night, the rebels huddle in the snow beyond the village walls. Hunger gnaws, cold bites. Despair spreads like rot. Elira curses, Rourke drinks, and the freed weep quietly. I sit apart, my sword across my knees, my hands trembling.
Vera joins me, her cloak wrapped tight, her breath white in the dark. She leans against me, silent at first. Then she whispers, “Every time you don’t yield, you win. Remember that.”
Her words sink deep, carving space against the whispers. I don’t answer, but I hold her hand until dawn.
Chapter 36 - Vera
The mountains close around us like jaws. The passes narrow, the cliffs lean in, and the wind carries whispers that are not only Declan’s. Superstition clings to these ridges, tales of wolves that never die, of spirits bound in ice, of chains buried beneath the snow. The freed mutter prayers with each step, their voices shaking, their bodies bent beneath hunger. Even the rebels march quieter, as though fearing to wake whatever stirs in the peaks.
I walk among them, Marta’s satchel heavy against my ribs. The words inside are a fire I keep stoking, though it feels smaller each day. The spark in the first village still burns in me, but the rejection of the second, the stones hurled, the doors slammed, that wound bleeds slow and deep. Every time I open the pages to read, I fear they will sound hollow. But the freed beg for the words, their eyes too starved for truth to care how thin it rings. So I give them Marta’s voice, again and again, until my throat cracks.
***
We camp in the shelter of a narrow gorge. The fires are small, hidden against the wind. The rebels huddle in cloaks patched with frost, sharing scraps of meat boiled to gristle. Elira sharpens her breaching axe with steady, angry strokes. Rourke drinks openly, his breath steaming in the cold. Lucian patrols the edges, his shadow long, his silence heavier than the cliffs themselves.
The council gathers near one of the fires, their faces hollow in the glow. Elira slams the flat of her blade into thesnow. “We cannot keep stumbling like this. We need ground worth defending, or these mountains will kill us before the Crown ever can.”
Rourke swigs from his flask, grimacing. “And what then? We dig in, they surround us, and Declan starves us out. These passes are tombs waiting to close.”
Their argument churns like the storm winds. The rebels listen, restless. Their eyes flicker to Lucian, but he does not come closer. His gaze stays fixed on the dark ridges, as though he sees something none of us can. Fear coils in my chest, fear that he does.
***
Later, when the fires burn low, I seek him out. He stands on a ledge above the camp, cloak whipping in the wind, sword across his back. His breath fogs, but his stance is rigid, as though the cold cannot touch him.
“You can’t keep carrying it all alone,” I say, climbing to stand beside him.
He does not look at me. His eyes are fixed on the dark beyond. “If I let go, he takes me.”
I reach for his hand. His fingers are stiff, cold, but they curl around mine slowly, like a man waking from a nightmare. “Then don’t let go. Not to him. To me.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I see the struggle in his eyes, the wolf against the chains, the man against the shadow. Then he exhales, long and ragged, and I feel the tremor ease. Only a little, but enough.
***
The next day, the mountains remind us they are as cruel as the Crown. A rockslide roars down a slope, stones shattering like thunder. The rebels scatter, screaming. A supply truck tips, spilling supplies into the gorge. When the dust settles, three of the freed lie crushed, their bodies broken. The rebels bury them beneath the snow, no songs, no prayers. Only silence.
I stand over the graves, Marta’s satchel pressed to my chest. Words choke in my throat. I want to tell them their deaths are not in vain. I want to say their freedom was worth the price. But the lies will not pass my lips. My silence feels like betrayal, yet my voice feels worse.
Lucian stands beside me, his face stone. His hand brushes mine briefly, a ghost of comfort. But his eyes are far away, fixed on something I cannot see.
***
By dusk, scouts return. Their faces are pale, their breaths ragged. “Tracks,” they report. “Large force, following. Days behind, maybe less.”
The council erupts. Elira demands to turn and fight, her breaching axe gleaming in the firelight. Rourke curses, insisting on hiding in the passes. The freed weep, clutching one another, begging not to be abandoned.
All eyes turn to Lucian. His silence stretches. The rebels shift, restless, desperate. I feel the weight of their hope pressing against him like chains. At last, he says, voice low, “We keep moving. North. Always north.”
