Page 79 of The Monster You Made
The snow has no mercy. It buries the bodies, erases the blood, muffles the cries of the dying until silence claims them all. By morning, the gorge is only white again, though I know what lies beneath. The rebels avoid looking back as we march, but their shoulders are heavy with memory. Every victory tastes of ash.
Lucian walks ahead, his cloak torn, his sword still uncleaned. He does not speak. He has not spoken since the last horn faded. The rebels glance at him with reverence, but I see the hollowness in his steps, the way his shadow drags longer than the man. I want to reach for him. I want to break the silence he wraps around himself like armor. But each time I try, I remember the way he looked in the battle, lost, chained, almost gone. My voice feels too small to pull him back.
***
We climb deeper into the peaks. The air thins until breath burns. Boots crunch on frost, and hands clutch ropes to keep from sliding into endless dark. The freed stumble often, their bodies weakened from hunger. Some do not rise again. Elira curses, hoists them up, and forces them forward with fury in her eyes. “No one stays behind,” she snarls, though even her strength frays.
Abigail lags near me, her doll dragging in the snow. She no longer waves. Her eyes are dull, too old for her face. When she stumbles, I catch her. She looks at me, lips trembling. “Will he take us?”
I kneel, brushing frost from her hair. “Not if we keep walking. Not if we keep fighting.”
Her small hand grips mine tight. “Then I’ll walk forever.”
Her words pierce me deeper than any blade. I hug her briefly before we move on.
***
By midday, the scouts return. Their faces are grave. “The Crown has split again. They shadow us from two sides, driving us toward the high pass. If we continue, we march into their jaws.”
The council gathers on a ledge, the wind tearing at their cloaks, maps spread across the rock. Rourke shakes his head, spitting curses. “We’re rats in a trap. They’ll squeeze us until we choke.”
Elira slams her breaching axe down, splintering the rock. “Then we bite through the trap. Better their blood than our fear.”
Their voices clash. The rebels mutter, restless, glancing at Lucian. Always at him. He stares at the map but remains silent. His silence cuts deeper than their shouting.
I slam Marta’s satchel down on the stone, the pages flapping in the wind. “She wrote of this! Camps, prisons, whole villages swallowed by silence. If we free them, we grow stronger. If we bleed here, we are only bones in the snow. We must strike chains, not shadows.”
The council falls quiet. Elira glares, but she does not argue. Rourke drinks; his silence agreement is enough. Still, theyall turn to Lucian. His jaw clenches. His eyes remain fixed on the map. For a moment, I fear he will not speak at all.
At last, his voice scrapes out. “Prisons. Chains. That’s where we bleed him.”
Relief floods me so fast I almost stumble. His words ignite something fragile among the rebels. Whispers ripple, not of fear, but of purpose.
***
That night, we shelter in a frozen cave. Fires sputter weakly, barely enough to keep the cold from killing us. The freed huddle together, children tucked against thin bodies. The rebels sit sharpening blades, their eyes distant. I read Marta’s words aloud, my voice cracking but steady. Her truth echoes off the stone, wrapping us in something warmer than fire.
Lucian lingers at the mouth of the cave, staring into the snow. Shadows cut sharp across his face. I approach, clutching the satchel. “You gave them more than orders today. You gave them direction.”
His eyes flick to me, hollow. “And if that direction leads them to slaughter?”
“Then it will be slaughter with meaning,” I say fiercely. “Not this, running, bleeding, fading. Chains break when we strike them. You said it yourself.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he will argue. Instead, he nods once, slow. “Then we strike.”
***
When dawn comes, the march turns south, away from the Crown’s jaws. Toward the prisons. The air bites sharper, the snow falls heavier, but the rebels walk with new purpose. The freed whisper to one another, hope stirring faintly. Abigail clutches her doll tighter, her eyes brighter.
I walk beside Lucian. His silence still weighs heavy, but his steps are steadier now. For the first time in days, I feel the chains on us loosen, just slightly. Enough to breathe. Enough to believe we might still be more than prey in Declan’s game.
But in my chest, fear lingers. Because chains loosen only to tighten again.
***
The march south carves itself into bone and marrow. The snow deepens, the wind sharpens, and still we move, driven not by strength but by the fragile ember of purpose. Each step crunches against frost, echoing in my ears like the ticking of a clock counting down. I clutch Marta’s satchel against me, its weight the only steady thing left in a world sliding toward silence.
The freed walk closer now, their eyes no longer hollow but searching. They murmur questions, soft and hesitant, about the prisons we seek, about chains we will break. The rebels answer with rough voices, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with curses, but their words spark belief. Even a spark is enough in this cold.
