Page 87 of The Monster You Made
I feel Marta’s pages heavy in my satchel. Her written words taste like fire on my tongue.Truth is not fire; it is a flood. It cannot be stopped, even by ash.
But when I speak, my voice trembles. “This is proof of their fear. They burn because they cannot silence us.”
Some nod. Some only stare at the ruin, too broken to believe.
***
That night, we camp in the skeleton of the village. Snow seeps through cracked roofs, and fires flicker in blackened hearths. The freed huddle close, whispering prayers. The rebels sit sharpening their blades in silence, their eyes hollow.
Elira cannot sit. She paces like a caged wolf, her breaching axe slamming into the wall with every turn. “We should strike south, hard, burn their camps as they burned these homes.”
Rourke takes a swig from his flask and wipes his mouth. “And leave a trail of smoke for them to follow? Might as well shout our names to the Crown.”
Their voices rise, sharp, heated. The freed shrink from them. The rebels glance between them, restless.
I step forward, pulling Marta’s pages from the satchel. The parchment feels thin, fragile, but the words glow in the firelight. I read aloud:Chains break when truth is spoken where silence was demanded. Even whispers can crack iron.
The rebels quiet, their eyes fixed on the page. The freed lean forward, their fear easing for a moment. The words are not mine, but they burn as if they came from my own blood.
When I finish, silence stretches. Then Abigail speaks, her voice soft but steady. “We whisper. We don’t stop.”
Her doll dangles from her arm, its cloth face smudged with soot, but her eyes blaze. And somehow, that is enough to keep the fire alive.
***
At dawn, the scouts return with news: another prison lies east, tucked in the forest. Smaller than the last, but guarded. Elira bares her teeth. “We strike it tonight.”
Rourke sighs, but he does not argue. The rebels murmur, restless but eager. The freed clutch one another, torn between fear and hope.
Lucian listens in silence, his gaze fixed on the frostbitten horizon. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady as iron. “We break it.”
The rebels roar in answer, their doubt turning to fire.
And in my chest, hope stirs, fragile but burning. We march east at dusk.
***
The march east is silent but charged. Every step feels heavier, the forest pressing close, branches cracking like bones underfoot. The freed walk tight between the rebels, fear etched on every face, yet beneath it, I see something else, anticipation. They’ve heard the wordprison. They know what it means.
By dusk, the camp appears between the trees. A ring of wooden walls, lights flaring atop watchtowers, barbed wire glittering in the firelight. Shadows move behind the fence, too many to count, but their hollow voices carry, rising like ghosts. The sound grips my chest and twists.
Elira grins, her breaching axe resting on her shoulder. “Tonight, we show them what chains are worth.”
Rourke checks his rifle, muttering, “We’ll bleed for this. But better here than on the run.”
The rebels tighten straps, check blades, swallow fear. Lucian stands apart, his gaze fixed on the camp, his breath a slow fog. His silence is worse than shouting. I know he hears Declan in the creak of every fence post, in the moan of every wind through the trees.
I move to his side, gripping Marta’s satchel close. “You lead them, not him.”
For a heartbeat, his eyes meet mine, haunted, burning. Then he nods once. The signal.
***
The assault begins with fire. Arrows streak into the night, lights crashing against the wooden walls. Flames lick upward, smoke curling. Elira charges first, bellowing, her breaching axe splintering the gates. Rebels surge behind her, shouts shaking the night. Rourke fires shot after shot, the crack of powder splitting the dark.
I rush to the fences, hatchet biting into locks and chains. Hands claw through the bars, grasping mine. Hollow eyes widen as I smash the metal free. “Run!” I shout. “Run to the trees!”
The freed spill out like floodwater, stumbling, weeping, clinging to one another. Some collapse, too weak to rise, until rebels drag them forward. Others drop to their knees, whispering thanks through broken voices. The sound tears me open.
