Page 94 of The Monster You Made
Elira snarls, but she does not argue.
***
We skirt the village, trudging through deeper snow to keep clear of its eyes. Still, I feel them, watching us from windows, from cracks in doors. Villagers peering out, weighing us, fearing us, perhaps praying we pass without notice. Children’s faces press to glass, pale and wide-eyed. I clutch Marta’s pages tighter.
At the edge of the fields, I pause. One woman stands outside her door, a child clinging to her skirts. She lifts her hand, not a wave, not quite. More a plea. My chest tightens. I want to go to her, to speak Marta’s truth, to promise chains can break. But Lucian’s shadow looms behind me, and the Crown’s banners snap over her head. The words choke on my tongue.
We move on.
***
That night, the camp is restless. The rebels whisper about the village, about the faces they saw. Some are angry we did not strike, others grateful. The freed huddle close, their hope flickering.
Elira sharpens her breaching axe in silence, sparks flying. Rourke drinks, muttering curses into the snow. Lucian walks the perimeter, silent, his shadow heavy on us all.
I sit by the fire, Marta’s words spread on my lap. The firelight flickers over ink that feels thinner with every raid, every betrayal, every silence. I read aloud anyway, voice steady though my heart shakes. “Truth spreads, even when chained. Chains rust, even when polished bright.”
The freed lean forward, their faces lit by flame and words. The rebels listen too, weary but willing. For a moment, hope breathes again.
***
When the fire dies down, Lucian approaches. He stands beside me, his eyes shadowed, his hands still trembling from unmade choices. “They fear us more than him,” he rasps. “Even when we save them, they fear.”
I grip his arm, fierce. “Then we make them fear silence more. We give them words he cannot burn.”
His gaze finds mine, haunted but alive.
***
Snow deepens as the night drags on, weighing down the tents and muting every sound. The rebels sleep in fits, blades never far from reach. The freed huddle close, their thin cloaks no match for winter’s teeth. I cannot sleep. Marta’s words burn against my chest like an ember, urging me to rise.
I wander the edge of camp. The pines creak under frost, shadows stretching long in the moonlight. And there he is, Lucian, standing alone, his cloak heavy with snow. He does not turn as I approach, but I know he hears me.
“They looked at us like monsters,” he says, voice low. “That woman. Abigail. Do you see it? Their eyes, their fear?”
“I saw,” I whisper. “But I also saw her hand. She wanted to reach for us. Fear and hope, they live together.”
He exhales, breath steaming, ragged. “Declan twists both. Makes them see me as his shadow. And maybe they’re right.”
I take his hand, cold and trembling, and press Marta’s satchel into it. “Then hold this instead. Hold truth, not chains.”
His grip tightens, as if the words themselves could anchor him. For a heartbeat, silence softens. Then the night breaks.
***
A cry shatters the camp. Scouts return, stumbling, blood on their cloaks. “Crown riders, tracking us, hours behind!”
The camp stirs in panic. Rebels leap to arms, freed clutch children, and scatter. Elira’s breaching axe gleams in firelight as she barks orders. Rourke curses, fumbling for his rifle.
Lucian’s voice cuts through it all, sharp as steel. “We move now. Break camp. Leave nothing for them to follow.”
The rebels obey, swift but weary. Fires are stamped out, sledges reloaded. Children are lifted into arms, freed herded into lines. We vanish into the snow, our tracks already filling with white.
***
By dawn, exhaustion hangs over us heavier than frost. The riders have not struck yet, but the fear presses closer with everystep. The rebels whisper of betrayal, of scouts spotted by the village. Rourke growls that the garrison must have sent word.
At midday, we find shelter in a hollow shaped by the wind. The rebels fall apart, some crying, others silent. The freed cling to scraps of food, their hope fragile as paper.
