Page 86 of The Monster You Made
Dawn comes pale and bitter. The march begins again, boots crunching frost, breath fogging in the cold. The rebels walk with heads bowed, but they walk. The freed stumble, but they rise again when they fall. Vera walks at my side, Marta’s satchel against her chest, her eyes steady on the horizon.
The horns will come again. The traps will spring again. But for now, we keep moving. For now, I remain myself.
***
The forest does not relent. Snow thickens with every mile, branches claw at our cloaks, and the ground turns slick with frost. The freed stumble often, too weak for the pace, but Elira snarls and drags them to their feet.
“No one falls behind,” she growls, though I see her jaw clench at the weight of it all. Rourke curses under his breath, his flask long drained, his hands trembling.
By midday, we reach a hollow where the trees part. Scouts return with word of another Crown patrol shadowing us, not close enough to strike, but always there. The jaws tighten. Always tightening.
The council gathers in the cold. Elira pounds her breaching axe into the frozen earth. “We strike them before they strike us. Break the teeth before they close.”
Rourke shakes his head, eyes red with exhaustion. “We fight every patrol; we scatter to the wind. That’s what he wants. He’ll bleed us until nothing is left.”
The rebels murmur, their voices sharp with fear. The freed clutch each other, their eyes wide. All turn to me. Always me. The chains pull tighter with every gaze.
I say nothing at first. The silence stretches, heavy, dangerous. Declan’s laughter fills it, curling like smoke.Speak, Wolf. Tell them how they will die for you. Tell them every grave you dig is mine.
My chest burns. My throat closes. But Vera steps forward, Marta’s satchel in her hands, her eyes blazing. “We carry truth. Not graves. We do not waste blood in shadows. We keep moving, we keep spreading her words, until they choke on them.”
Her voice cuts through the cold. For a moment, even Declan’s laughter fades. I seize it. “We move. No battle here. Not tonight.”
The rebels nod, some in relief, some in doubt. Elira scowls but does not argue. Rourke mutters curses but falls silent. The decision holds.
***
That night, we camp beneath twisted pines. Fires burn low, their smoke curling against the branches. The rebels sit sharpening blades, their faces gaunt. The freed huddle close, whispering prayers, clutching scraps of food. Abigail curls against Vera, her doll clutched to her chest, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
I pace the edge of camp, sword at my side. The forest is too quiet. Each creak of branches, each snap of frost, sounds like a horn about to blare. The chains feel tighter in the stillness.
Declan’s voice coils through the dark.You think you chose mercy. You think you spared them. But every step you take only binds them closer to me.
My grip tightens on the hilt of my sword until my hand aches. My breath fogs harshly in the cold. For a moment, I nearly roar just to silence him.
But then Vera comes, her cloak trailing frost, her eyes steady. She stands beside me, silent at first. Then she says, “Every time you hold back, every time you choose, that is yours. Not his.”
I meet her gaze. Her fire burns steady, fierce. For a heartbeat, I believe her. For a heartbeat, the chains loosen.
***
At dawn, we march again. Snow falls thick, covering our tracks, muffling the sound of boots. The freed stagger but rise each time they fall. The rebels mutter but keep moving. Verawalks at my side, Marta’s satchel pressed to her chest, her eyes set forward.
The horns will sound again. The jaws will close again. Declan will laugh again. But for now, with her fire beside me, I keep walking.
For now, I am still mine.
Chapter 42 - Vera
The snow swallows sound. Our footsteps crunch but fade quickly into the silence of the trees. The freed march between us, a shivering line of shadows, their breaths rising like smoke. Children whimper, their mothers’ hands clasped tight over their mouths. Fear travels faster than frost.
By noon, we come upon the ruins of another village. Houses gutted by fire, walls collapsed in heaps, the well filled with ash. A sign nailed to a charred post flaps in the wind:Traitors feed wolves.The words bleed with Crown paint, still fresh. My chest knots.
Elira kicks the sign down, fury burning in her eyes. “They mean to turn every hearth against us.”
Rourke mutters, “They won’t need to turn them. The fear does it for them.”
The rebels scavenge what little remains, charred grain, shattered tools, half-burnt blankets. The freed stand silent, horror carved on their faces. One whispers, “This is what happens to those who help.”
