Page 85 of The Monster You Made
By dawn, we are miles from the village. The horns are distant now, but the wound is fresh. The rebels slump against trees, their faces hollow. The freed sob, clutching one another. Abigail curls against me, her doll clutched tight, her eyes red.
Elira snarls, spitting into the dirt. “Cowards. Traitors. They will choke on their chains.”
Rourke drinks deep, blood crusting his sleeve. “And we’ll choke on their betrayal.”
The rebels mutter, anger and despair clashing. They look to Lucian, who stands apart, blood still dripping from his blade. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, shadowed, unreadable.
I clutch Marta’s satchel tight, my chest aching. The words feel thinner than ever. But I speak them anyway, my voice hoarse. “Truth spreads, even when betrayed. Chains break, even when reforged. Marta’s fire lives, and we carry it still.”
The rebels listen, some nodding, some only staring. Hope flickers, weak but alive. It has to be.
***
That night, when camp is made, Lucian comes to me. His face is hard, his hands still shaking. “Every village, every prison, is his. Every choice, his.”
I grip his arm, fierce. “Not every choice. Not while we breathe. Not while I speak.”
His gaze burns into mine, haunted but alive. For a heartbeat, the chains loosen. For a heartbeat, I believe we are still more than his shadow.
Chapter 41 - Lucian
The forest closes around us like a fist. Branches whip our faces, roots clutch at boots, snow falls in thick silence. Behind us, the horns fade, but their echo lingers, a reminder of betrayal sharp as a blade. The rebels stumble forward, dragging the freed, their breath ragged, their steps uneven. Hope burns, but it burns thin.
I walk at the front, sword drawn, eyes scanning the trees. Every shadow feels like a trap. Every gust of wind sounds like a horn. The villagers’ faces haunt me, the fear, the silence, the smiles as soldiers poured into their square. I feel their betrayal like a chain around my throat.
They will always betray you,Declan whispers.They fear you more than they fear me. They belong to me. Even when you free them, they belong to me.
I clench my jaw, pushing the voice back, but it lingers, sliding beneath my skin like frost.
***
By midday, we stop near a frozen stream. The rebels collapse onto the snow, some tending wounds, some staring blankly. The freed huddle close, too exhausted to weep. Abigail curls beside Vera, her doll clutched tight, her eyes wide and hollow.
The council gathers. Elira slams her breaching axe into the ice. “We strike back. Another prison. Another chain broken. We cannot crawl away like beaten dogs.”
Rourke spits, his flask shaking in his hand. “Strike? And lose more blood? We barely crawled out of that village alive. How many times will we march into his jaws before you admit they’re closing?”
The rebels murmur, restless, torn. Their eyes flick to me. Always to me. Their belief is iron, pressing down until my chest feels crushed. Vera watches too, her satchel of Marta’s words heavy in her lap. Her gaze cuts deeper than any blade.
I want to give them certainty. I want to roar, to promise victory. Instead, I feel the chains pulling tighter, Declan’s laughter coiling through the silence.Speak, Wolf. Every word is mine. Every path leads to me.
I rasp, “We keep moving. South. Away from their jaws. If another prison falls in our path, we break it. But we bleed no more than we must.”
Elira snarls, but she nods. Rourke swears, but he does not argue. The rebels take it as direction, clinging to the scraps I give them. Their relief feels heavier than their doubt.
***
That night, the camp is quiet. Fires burn low, smoke rising thin into the dark. The freed sleep huddled together, their breath shallow. The rebels sharpen blades, their eyes hollow, their hands shaking. I pace the perimeter, sword at my side, breath fogging in the cold.
Declan’s voice coils through the silence.They follow you, Lucian. They bleed for you. They die for you. Tell me, how long until you admit you are not their savior, but their executioner?
I close my eyes, gripping the hilt of my sword until my hand aches. My breath comes ragged, too loud in the stillness. For a heartbeat, I believe him. For a heartbeat, I feel the weight of every grave on my hands.
Then Vera comes. Her steps are soft, her cloak pulled tight. She stands beside me, silent, staring into the dark. After a long moment, she says, “You keep walking, even when you think you cannot. That is what they follow. Not him. You.”
Her words cut sharp, fierce. I want to believe them. I want to let her fire burn away his shadow. For a heartbeat, it almost does.
***
