Page 92 of The Monster You Made
Chapter 45 - Lucian
The forest smells of grain and blood. The stolen sacks creak on sledges, their weight both salvation and burden. Rebels drag them through the snow, shoulders bowed but spirits lifted. The freed clutch crusts of bread, bowls of grain, scraps of meat, eating with tears streaking their hollow faces. Hunger eases, if only for a night.
But I cannot eat. Every mouthful feels stolen. Every cheer echoes like a chain.
They feed on your victories,Declan whispers in the dark corners of my mind.And when the food is gone, they will feed on your failures. Either way, they feast because of you.
I clench my jaw, forcing the voice back, but it lingers like smoke.
***
By midday, we stop at a frozen stream to rest. The rebels build fires, their laughter ragged but real. Elira boasts of the fight, her bandaged shoulder ignored as she tells the tale of splitting a soldier in two. The younger rebels hang on every word, eyes bright with belief. Rourke drinks, shaking his head, muttering that belief won’t stop bullets. Still, even he eats, and for once, he smiles.
The freed gather close, whispering Marta’s words as though grace before a meal. Abigail breaks her bread in half and presses it into another’s hand. That small act carries more weight than all our victories.
Yet even here, I feel the jaws closing. Scouts return with word of soldiers shadowing us, columns to the south and east. The Crown is not scattered. They are gathering. Every raid we strike only sharpens their blade.
***
That night, the council meets. Firelight flickers over their faces, tired but fierce.
Elira slams her fist against her knee. “We strike again before they strike us. Another prison, another raid. We bleed them faster than they can gather.”
Rourke snorts, his voice thick. “Bleed them? Look at us. We’re held together by bandages and hope. One wrong step and they’ll gut us all.”
The rebels mutter, divided, but their eyes turn to me. Always me. Their belief cuts sharper than any blade. My chest feels heavy beneath it.
I stare into the fire, listening to the crack of wood, the whisper of chains in the flames. Declan’s voice curls around me.Speak, Wolf. Lead them into their graves. You know you will.
My throat tightens. For a long moment, I say nothing. Then Vera speaks.
Her voice is low but strong. “We do not win by fire alone. We win by truth. Every freed soul, every stolen word, is another crack in their silence. We keep moving. We take what we can, when we must, but we do not burn ourselves out for his traps.”
Her fire steadies me. I add, “We move north. If a prison falls in our path, we break it. If supplies lie before us, we take them. But we do not bleed more than we must. Not for him.”
The rebels nod. Some eager, some reluctant, but they nod. The decision holds.
***
Later, when the camp quiets, Vera finds me again. She sits beside me, her cloak brushing mine, Marta’s satchel heavy in her lap. “You keep giving them direction, even when you believe none exists.”
I shake my head, staring into the flames. “Every choice I give feels like his.”
She grips my hand, fierce. “Then let them be ours. Every choice, ours.”
Her words burn brighter than fire. For a moment, the whispers falter. For a moment, I am still myself.
***
At dawn, scouts bring grim news: a Crown military compound rises on the northern road, its walls bristling with guns, its shadow stretching long. We cannot pass unseen. We cannot circle wide without starving.
The rebels mutter, fear sharp in their voices. The freed cling to one another, their hope trembling.
Elira bares her teeth. “Then we break their military compound.”
Rourke swears, his flask shaking. “Break ourselves, you mean.”
The rebels turn to me. The weight of their belief crushes. The chains pull tighter.
