Page 90 of The Monster You Made
But I feel the weight of it pressing harder. I feel his chains coiling tighter.Another victory, another leash. You are mine, Wolf. Always mine.
***
When camp is set in the woods, Vera comes to me. Her cloak drags frost, and her eyes burn steady. She sits beside me, silent for a time. Then she says, “Every chain you break weakens him. Even if you cannot feel it. Even if he whispers otherwise.”
I shake my head, staring at the smoke still curling on the horizon. “Every chain feels like mine.”
She grips my hand, fierce. “Then let them weigh on both of us. You are not alone in this fight.”
Her fire holds me, steady and strong. For a moment, the whispers falter. For a moment, the chains loosen.
***
At dawn, scouts report movement again, columns in the distance, more than before. The jaws close tighter. But the rebels stand straighter, the freed whisper louder, hope stronger.
And for that breath of morning, I believe we can still outrun his shadow.
Chapter 44 - Vera
The forest groans with the weight of too many feet. Our numbers swell with every prison broken, every chain shattered, and yet it feels less like triumph and more like a burden carried on brittle shoulders. The freed walk among us, still gaunt, still limping, their faith raw and fragile. They whisper Marta’s words as though the syllables themselves could warm them against the cold.
But I see the cracks. Some flinch when Lucian passes. Some whisper that the wolf they follow is chained himself. Fear spreads even in victory. Fear spreads faster than fire.
***
At midday, we pause near a half-frozen river. The rebels scrape ice away to drink. The freed wash grime from their faces, though their hollow eyes remain. Elira leans on her breaching axe, watching them with a warrior’s pride. Rourke slumps against a log, flask empty, eyes bloodshot. The arguments simmer even before the council gathers.
Elira slams her fist on a stone. “Every chain we break grows our army. Soon we’ll strike a city. Soon we’ll tear their heart out.”
Rourke snorts, his laughter bitter. “Army? Look at them. Barely standing, starving, sick. You want to march them into a city fight? You’ll slaughter them faster than the Crown ever could.”
The rebels mutter, divided again. Some echo Elira, hungry for fire and vengeance. Others shake their heads, their eyes darting to the freed who can barely walk. The tension pulls tight, threatening to snap.
I press Marta’s satchel to my chest and speak. “Every freed voice is another crack in their silence. But cracks do not win battles. We must move with care, or we hand him our throats.”
Elira’s glare cuts sharp. “So we creep and whisper while they build gallows?!”
Rourke growls back, “Better to whisper alive than shout dead.”
Their shouting grows, sparks flying. The freed shrink from their fury. I step between them, my voice raw. “Enough! Every whisper, every step, every freed soul is victory. But only if we keep walking. Not into cities, not into graves, forward.”
The silence that follows is sharp, brittle. But it holds. For now.
***
That night, I cannot sleep. The camp is too full of restless breath, of coughing, of murmured prayers. I sit beside the fire, Marta’s pages spread on my lap, though I cannot see the words for the tears that blur them.
Lucian comes, silent as a shadow. He sits beside me, his face carved from stone, his hands still trembling from the fight that never ends. His eyes find the flames, not me. After a long moment, he rasps, “They follow me into chains. Every step, I hear him. Every choice, I feel the leash.”
I grip his hand hard. “Then let them follow me, too. Let the weight be ours, not yours alone.”
His gaze flicks to me, haunted, searching. For a heartbeat, his hand tightens on mine. For a heartbeat, the chains loosen.
***
At dawn, scouts return. A Crown column marches east, heavy with supplies, their trail clear in the snow. Elira bares her teeth. “We strike them. Take their food, their weapons, their strength.”
Rourke mutters curses but does not argue. Even the weary rebels lift their heads. Hunger gnaws sharper than fear. The freed cling to one another, torn between dread and hope.
