Page 91 of The Monster You Made
Lucian listens in silence. His jaw tightens, his eyes shadowed. Finally, he says, “We take what they carry. Fast. Before the jaws close.”
The rebels roar, fire sparking again. The freed whisper prayers. And I feel both hope and dread twist inside me.
For every chain we break, another waits. For every fire we light, his shadow grows longer.
Still, we march.
The march toward the supply column is silent but tense. Snow crunches beneath boots, breath fogs thick in the air. The rebels carry their exhaustion like armor, the freed clutching one another, whispering prayers. Hunger gnaws sharper than cold. Every step feels like a gamble with our lives.
By dusk, we reach the ridge. Below, the column snakes through the valley, supply trucks laden with barrels and sacks, guarded by soldiers marching in tight formation. The lights cast long lines of firelight across the snow. It looks endless. It looks vulnerable.
Elira grins like a wolf. “Meat for the taking.”
Rourke shakes his head, muttering, “Meat with teeth.”
The council crouches in the snow, studying the valley. Elira slams her breaching axe into the ground. “We strike from both ridges, crush them between us, take everything.”
Rourke spits into the snow. “And lose half our fighters before we touch the supply trucks. They’ll bleed us dry before the food ever reaches our mouths.”
The rebels murmur, restless, eyes flicking between us. Hunger sharpens their edges. Fear dulls them. I clutch Marta’s satchel, her words burning against me. Chains starve as well as bind.
Lucian speaks at last, his voice low but steady. “We strike fast. One side only. Hit the rear, burn the front, break the line. We take what we can carry and vanish before their horns bring more.”
The rebels nod, fierce relief flashing in their eyes. The plan is not victory. It is survival. But survival is enough.
***
Night falls. We descend the ridge like shadows. The rebels move in silence, blades drawn, bows strung. Elira leads thecharge, her breaching axe flashing as it cleaves the first guard in two. The valley erupts. Shouts rise, horns blare, steel clashes against steel.
I sprint to the supply trucks, hatchet slamming into chains and locks. Barrels burst open, grain spilling into the snow. Rebels shove sacks into arms, hurl crates onto sledges. The freed scramble to help, desperation carving strength into their frail limbs.
Lucian roars, his blade cutting through soldiers, his fury holding the line. He is a storm in the firelight, his shadow towering over the valley. For a moment, belief burns brighter than fear.
But the Crown does not break easily. Their rifles crack, cutting rebels down. Elira takes a shot to the shoulder but fights on, blood streaming. Rourke swings his rifle like a club, shouting curses. The rebels press forward, but the tide is heavy.
I climb a supply truck, Marta’s words blazing in my chest. “We are the flood!” I scream. “Chains cannot starve us!”
The freed echo me, their cries rising louder than horns. Their voices shake the valley, their belief turning fire into fury.
Lucian bellows, his sword flashing. “Take it all!”
The rebels surge, ripping sacks from supply trucks, cutting down guards. The column breaks, soldiers scattering. Flames consume the lead supply trucks, smoke curling high into the night.
***
By dawn, we vanish into the trees, sledges groaning with grain and supplies. The rebels stagger, bloodied but alive. The freed clutch scraps of food like treasure. Abigail holds a crust of bread against her chest as though it were a jewel. Her eyes burn with fierce belief.
Elira grins despite the blood soaking her bandaged shoulder. “We starve them now.”
Rourke drinks deep from a stolen flask, his laughter bitter but real. “For once, we eat before we bleed.”
The rebels cheer weakly, their voices thin but alive. The freed whisper Marta’s words, their faith fragile but unbroken.
I watch Lucian. He stands apart, his blade black with dried blood, his eyes shadowed. He does not cheer. He does not smile. I know what he hears, Declan’s voice, whispering in the silence.Every sack you carry is mine. Every breath you take is mine.
I grip his arm, fierce. “This was ours. Not his. Ours.”
His gaze meets mine, haunted but burning. For a heartbeat, I see him believe it. For a heartbeat, I do too.
