Page 89 of The Monster You Made
“You speak truth, even when it breaks you,” she says softly. “That’s why they follow. Not for his chains. For yours.”
I look at her, my chest tight. “Every word I speak feels like his.”
Her hand finds mine, steady, fierce. “Then let mine bind yours. Not his.”
The fire cracks. Her warmth holds. For a moment, the whispers falter.
***
At dawn, scouts return. They bring word of another column marching north, larger than any we’ve seen. The Crown gathers. The jaws close.
Elira grins, her eyes bright with bloodlust. “Then we strike first.”
Rourke curses under his breath. “Then we run.”
The rebels turn to me. Always to me. Their belief burns, fragile and fierce.
I draw my sword, its steel catching the pale light. “We choose neither. We cut chains. Where they march, we march faster. Where they cage, we break it. Let them chase shadows while truth spreads faster than fire.”
The rebels roar. The freed look up as though the sky itself opened. For a heartbeat, hope burns stronger than smoke.
And for that heartbeat, I almost believe it too.
***
The march north grinds bones and spirits alike. Frost clings to beards, lashes, cloaks; boots break through ice withevery step. The freed stumble often, some carried by rebels too exhausted to carry themselves. Still, we move, faster than fear should allow. Hope is the only pace we can keep.
By twilight, the forest thins. Scouts return, breathless, with word of another prison, smaller, hidden in the crook of two hills, guarded but not heavily. A gift, some would call it. I feel the chain beneath the bow.
Elira grins, her teeth sharp in the firelight. “We strike before dawn. Break it before they know we’re here.”
Rourke shakes his head, his flask dangling empty at his side. “Every ‘gift’ bleeds us thinner. How many gifts do we take before we’ve nothing left to fight with?”
The council mutters. The freed shiver, their eyes pleading. And as always, all eyes find me. Their belief sears, hotter than any brand.
Say the word,Declan whispers in the dark.Say it, and watch them march into their graves for you.
I clench my jaw until it aches. My chest burns with the weight of silence. But Vera steps close, her satchel tight against her, her eyes fierce. She says nothing, only meets my gaze. It is enough.
I rasp, “We strike. We break it. Not for him. For them.”
***
The attack comes before dawn. Fog clings to the hills, muffling sound, cloaking shapes. Elira leads the charge, her breaching axe tearing into the gates. Rebels surge behind her, their cries sharp in the dark. Rourke fires until smoke blindshim, then curses and swings the rifle like a hammer. I cut chains, split steel, and tear shadows apart until captives spill out like floodwater.
Their cries rise higher than horns. Their tears burn hotter than fire. They clutch one another, falling to their knees, whispering words too broken to hear. Some rise and run, some collapse in the dirt, some cling to me with trembling hands. Every face cuts deeper.
They kneel for you now,Declan hisses.Do you see? Savior, tyrant, it makes no difference. They bow either way.
I snarl aloud, slamming my blade through another lock. “Run!” I roar. “Run to the trees!”
The freed surge outward, dozens of them, their chains scattered in the mud. The rebels push them on, bleeding, shouting, alive. Fire consumes the camp, smoke rising to choke the dawn.
***
By morning, the hills burn behind us. The rebels stagger, bloodied, exhausted, but their cheers echo in the trees. Elira lifts her breaching axe high, her voice hoarse but proud. “Chains fall! The Crown bleeds!”
The freed answer with cries that sound almost like songs. Even Rourke, blood dripping from his knuckles, lets out a bitter laugh. For a moment, belief shines brighter than the flames.
