Page 88 of The Monster You Made
Above it all, Lucian roars. His sword is a storm, cutting through soldiers who scramble to hold the line. His fury clears the way, but his face is carved from stone, shadowed, merciless. He fights like the chains on his own wrists demand blood.
***
The Crown resists harder than before. Horns blare, boots thunder, rifles crack. The rebels are pushed, pressed, blood splashing snow. Elira cleaves through three at once, but her shoulder runs red. Rourke fights with his fists when his bullets run dry. Still, the tide rises.
I feel the weight of Marta’s satchel against me. Her words burn in my chest. I climb the wall, my lungs heaving, and shout across the camp: “Truth cannot be caged! Chains cannot hold us! We are the flood!”
For a moment, the voices of the freed rise to join mine. Their cries swell louder than the horns, louder than the gunfire. Hope cracks iron.
Lucian bellows, his sword blazing in firelight, “Break them!”
The rebels surge, fury renewed. The Crown falters, their line breaking. Flames roar higher. Chains shatter beneath breaching axes and fire.
***
By dawn, the camp lies in ruin. The walls collapse in smoke and embers, the ground littered with broken chains. Dozens freed, maybe hundreds. Their hollow faces turn upward, eyes wide, as though the sky itself opened.
The rebels stagger, bloodied, exhausted, but their shouts rise with the morning light. Elira lifts her breaching axe, her voice hoarse but fierce. “The Crown’s prisons fall! Their chains burn!”
Cheers erupt. The freed cling to one another, their belief glowing brighter than fire.
But when silence falls, I feel it, the trap beneath the triumph. Declan was not here. He let this fall. He wanted this seen.
Lucian stands apart, his blade still dripping, his face shadowed. I know the thought that grips him because it grips me too: how many prisons will we burn before we see the jaws close around us?
I clutch Marta’s satchel, my chest aching. “We move,” I whisper. “Before he turns this victory into our chains.”
Chapter 43 - Lucian
The forest reeks of smoke. Even as we march east, the stench clings to us, heavy and bitter, crawling into every fold of cloak and every breath we draw. The freed stumble behind, dozens of them, their chains still rattling though broken. They carry their wounds and hollow eyes like scars carved too deep to heal.
The rebels try to sing, but their voices crack. Elira bellows verses, her tone fierce, but few answer. Hope rises slower now, weighed down by the smoke of too many pyres.
I walk ahead, sword strapped across my back, my ears straining for the horns that always come. They do not sound, yet the silence is worse. Every shadow looks like his. Every rustle sounds like chains.
***
By dusk, we halt in a clearing where frost gleams silver on the grass. Scouts report no pursuit, no camps nearby. Relief ripples weakly through the rebels. They build fires, they share what little food we carry, they let themselves breathe.
I do not. I stand apart, watching the treeline. My hand grips the hilt of my sword, though no enemy comes. His voice curls in the quiet:You free them, and I bind them again. You lead them, and I lead you. When will you see it?
I close my eyes, pressing my teeth together until my jaw aches. But the whispers linger. They always linger.
***
The council gathers around the fire. Elira slams her fist against her knee. “Another prison broken, another victory won. Let the Crown choke on our fire.”
Rourke scoffs, tossing back a mouthful of drink. “Fire burns out. Look at them. Hollow eyes, broken feet. We can’t keep this pace. We’ll die before we reach the next cage.”
The rebels murmur, restless. Some side with Elira, voices fierce with pride. Others with Rourke, their faces carved with exhaustion. The freed listen too, their fear soaking the air like cold rain.
I remain silent until they fall quiet. Then I speak, my voice low. “He lets us take them. He shows the world our fire so they’ll see it burn out. Every prison we break is another trap sprung. But still, we break them. Because if we don’t, no one will.”
The firelight flickers on their faces. Some nod. Some only stare. But they listen. They always listen. And that weight crushes me more than any chain.
***
Later, when the camp quiets, Vera comes. She kneels beside me where I sit on a fallen log, her cloak wrapped tight, Marta’s satchel against her chest. Her eyes burn with that same fire that never dies.
