Page 76 of The Monster You Made
The scouts return with grim news. “Soldiers,” one reports, his voice ragged. “Closer. Their banners carry the Crown’s mark. Days behind, maybe less.”
Fear ripples through the ranks. The freed cry out, clutching one another. The rebels look to the council, then to Lucian. He says nothing, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the cliffs.
It falls to me. I step forward, raising my voice. “We knew this would come. Declan cannot hide forever. We have endured storms, hunger, and loss. We will endure this, too. The Crown bleeds, and we carry that proof. Every step we take is a wound in his chains.”
Some cheer weakly. Some bow their heads. The fire does not catch as it once did. Still, it burns faintly, and that must be enough.
***
By dusk, we find shelter in a narrow cavern. The rebels huddle close, fires small, their bodies pressed together for warmth. I sit near the entrance, Marta’s pages open on my knees. My voice cracks as I read, but I do not stop. Even when my throat burns, even when the words feel like ash, I keep speaking. If I stop, silence wins.
Lucian stands just beyond the firelight. His sword rests across his lap, untouched. His eyes are fixed on me, dark and unreadable. For a moment, I think he might come closer. For a moment, I think he might speak. But the moment passes, and he turns away, vanishing into the dark.
***
That night, whispers spread through the rebels. Fear turns to doubt. I hear fragments as they huddle together: The Wolf is broken. The girl’s words are lies. Declan cannot fall. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, fighting the despair clawing at my chest. Each whisper feels like a stone hurled against me, breaking me piece by piece.
Abigail crawls into my lap, her doll pressed between us. “Tell me it’s true,” she whispers, her eyes wide, pleading. “Tell me he can’t win.”
I hold her tight, my voice shaking. “It’s true. He can be broken. I swear it.”
The lie tastes like blood on my tongue. But her head rests against my chest, her breathing steadies, and I know I would lie a thousand times more to keep her hope alive.
***
At dawn, the scouts bring worse news. The soldiers have split, flanking the passes. Declan is closing the jaws around us. The council gathers, voices sharp with fear. Elira demands they turn and fight, her breaching axe gleaming. Rourke insists on scattering, vanishing into the peaks. Their words clash like steel, but no decision holds.
All eyes turn to Lucian. His silence is a wound. I feel the weight pressing on him, the chains I dreamed binding tighter. I step closer, laying my hand on his arm. “Say something. They need you.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and haunted. For a heartbeat, I see the man beneath the shadow. Then he shakes his head. “Every path leads to him.”
The words steal the breath from me. Around us, the rebels murmur, restless, afraid. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, my heart breaking. If even Lucian yields to despair, what hope remains?
***
That night, I dream again of chains. This time, they coil not only around Lucian, but around me. Around Abigail. Around every rebel, every freed, every soul that dares whisper freedom. Declan stands above us, his laughter a storm. The chains tighten until I cannot breathe, until even Marta’s pages burn to ash in my hands.
I wake with tears freezing on my cheeks, my body shaking. The fire has died. The cavern is dark, the rebels silent in their restless sleep. I clutch Marta’s satchel to my chest, whispering her words into the dark, too soft for anyone to hear. I whisper until my voice is gone, until silence swallows even that.
And still, somewhere in the dark, I swear I hear Declan laughing.
Chapter 37 - Lucian
The mountains strip men down to bone and will. Every step north feels heavier, as though the peaks themselves want us buried beneath their weight. Snow blinds, wind claws, and still the rebels march. They do not sing anymore. They do not even curse. They only endure, because I endure. That truth chains me harder than any iron.
***
By midday, the scouts return. Their faces are pale, their eyes wide. “Crown soldiers,” one rasps. “Less than a day behind. And more ahead, blocking the pass.”
The council gathers in the shadow of the cliffs. Elira slams her breaching axe into the snow. “Then we fight. Better to bleed on our feet than starve on our knees.”
Rourke spits, shaking his flask. Empty. “Fight two armies? In these cliffs? You’ll be painting the snow red with our guts before the first horn sounds.”
The freed weep, clutching one another. The rebels look to me. Always to me. Their silence presses, suffocates. My throat tightens. The chains coil.
Every choice is mine for I am the crown, Declan whispers. Every mistake is mine. March where I want, fight when I want, bleed when I want. And when you break, Lucian, they’ll thank you for it.
I clench my fists until blood beads. “We hold here,” I say, voice like stone. “Not in the open. Not on their ground. We turn the cliffs into our teeth.”
