Page 83 of The Monster You Made
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The rebels crash through the stockades, breaking locks, tearing chains from walls. Prisoners stumble out, hollow-eyed, hands raw. Some collapse in the snow, weeping. Some fall to their knees, clutching dirt as if it were holy. Vera throws herself at the locks, her hatchet biting metal, her voice fierce as she shouts Marta’s truth. “You are free! Declan cannot chain you forever!”
The freed pour out, voices ragged, disbelief burning into joy. Hope rises sharper than any horn. It swells, loud enough to shake the trees.
But over it all, I hear him.Free them, wolf. Free them for me. They will bleed again, and it will be on your hands. Break every chain, until you are the last link.
***
By dawn, the camp lies broken. Smoke curls into the sky, barbed wire torn, chains scattered. Dozens freed, maybe more. The rebels roar, their voices hoarse, their triumph echoingacross the valley. Elira lifts her breaching axe high, shouting, “The Crown’s chains fall before us!”
The freed join the cry, their voices cracked but fierce. Abigail clings to Vera’s hand, her doll lifted high like a banner. Hope burns bright as fire.
But I stand apart. My sword drips, my hands tremble. The cheers wash over me, but they do not reach me. His laughter coils louder, deeper, cutting through the sound of freedom.You bleed for me, Lucian. Every victory is mine. Every cheer is mine. You are mine.
***
That night, we camp within the ruins. Fires burn, food is shared, songs rise trembling but strong. The freed sing louder than any, voices unbroken even in their weakness. The rebels drink, laugh, weep. For a moment, it feels like life again.
I sit apart, my sword across my knees, the steel catching firelight. My hands shake. My breath fogs. Vera approaches, her eyes soft but fierce. She sits beside me, her hand brushing mine.
“You pulled back,” she whispers. “I saw it. You pulled back from him.”
My voice scrapes raw. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes,” she says. Her fingers lace with mine, warm and steady. “I’ll keep pulling you back.”
Her touch sears me. For a heartbeat, I believe her. For a heartbeat, the whispers fade.
But only for a heartbeat.
Chapter 40 - Vera
The ruins of the prison still smolder when we march on. Smoke clings to our clothes, seeping into hair, skin, lungs, until it feels like we carry the dead with us. The freed stumble alongside us, weak but fierce, their chains left broken in the snow. The rebels chant in bursts, ragged voices shouting Lucian’s name, shouting mine. Their faith swells, louder than the horns we fear will rise behind us.
I should feel proud. I should feel strong. Instead, I feel the trap closing.
***
By midday, we reach a valley where the snow thins and black pines crowd close. The air here is heavy, still, as if the mountains themselves hold their breath. Scouts return whispering of soldiers to the west, villages to the east. The council gathers, maps spread across a fallen log.
Elira slams her breaching axe down, splinters flying. “We strike again before they close on us. Another prison, another chain broken.”
Rourke spits, shaking his flask. “You’ll have us marching into our graves. Every time we bleed, he smiles. Can’t you see it?”
Their voices rise, sharp as steel. The freed clutch each other, listening, afraid. The rebels murmur, restless, glancing, always, to Lucian. He stands apart, arms folded, his silence heavier than their shouting.
I slam Marta’s satchel down on the map, the pages fluttering in the wind. “Her words are true. We must speak louder than his lies. Every prison freed is not just chains broken, it’s voices added to ours. Declan cannot silence everyone.”
The council falls quiet. Their eyes turn to me. For once, Lucian does not speak first. His jaw tightens, his gaze fixed on the horizon. I feel the silence pressing, threatening to crush us.
So I speak louder. “If we march into villages, we spread truth. If we hide in these peaks, we die in silence. We must carry Marta’s words to every ear that will listen.”
Elira growls but does not argue. Rourke curses but does not deny. At last, Lucian’s voice cuts through, low, rough. “Then we march east.”
Relief floods me. For a heartbeat, I believe we can still turn the tide.
***
