Page 95 of The Monster You Made
I climb a boulder, Marta’s pages clutched in my hand. My voice shakes at first, but steadies. “He chains us with fear. He feeds it, fattens it, makes us believe we cannot move without him. But fear is not truth. Fear is the silence he leaves behind.”
Faces lift. Rebels, freed, even children. Eyes dull with fatigue, but listening.
I raise the satchel high. “Truth is here. In every chain broken. In every voice freed. The military compound we passed is not his victory. Our silence would be. And we will not give it to him.”
The words ripple like flame. Rebels thump fists against chests. Freed whisper prayers. Even Rourke nods once, gruff, though he hides it with a drink. Elira bares her teeth in a grin. Hope breathes again.
Lucian watches from the edge of the crowd, his face shadowed. But when our eyes meet, he nods, slow, deliberate. Chains loosen.
***
That night, I sleep at last. Dreams twist with snow and fire, with Marta’s ink turning to blood, with Lucian’s shadow stretching long. But when I wake, the satchel is still beside me. The words remain.
And so do we.
Chapter 47 - Lucian
The snow does not stop. It falls heavy, endless, erasing every track we leave behind, burying the world in silence. Only the sound of boots, the creak of sledges, and the ragged breaths of the weary mark our passage. Crown riders stalk our shadow, but the storm blinds them as much as us.
Still, I feel him. Declan. His presence coils in the storm, a laugh beneath the wind, a chain tightening in every drift.You run, Wolf, but snow covers faster than my leash can pull. You drag them north only to freeze together.
I grind my teeth, force the whispers back, but they cling.
***
By dusk, the rebels stagger into a clearing ringed with firs. Fires are struck despite the risk; cold has gnawed too deep. Smoke curls up, a fragile defiance against winter. The freed huddle near the flames, eyes hollow, hands trembling as they hold bowls of thin stew scraped from dwindling stores. Abigail sleeps with her doll clutched tight.
The council gathers again. Elira’s face is carved from stone, her voice sharp. “We cannot keep running. Riders press us. Villages close their doors. We need a strike, food, weapons, something. Or the storm will finish what he started.”
Rourke shakes his head, flask empty, hands shaking. “Strike where? Everything north is theirs. We raid again, we draw the army down on our necks. Then we’re finished.”
The rebels mutter, the firelight throwing fear across their faces. Once again, their eyes fall to me.
I feel the weight settle, heavy as chains. Always me. Always their belief, sharp enough to cut.
***
I study the maps spread on a cloak, edges curling with frost. Villages marked with banners. Roads patrolled. And there, a depot, Crown supply trucks stockpiled, guarded but not walled. Close enough to strike before dawn. Enough food to last weeks, perhaps more.
Cassian's whisper slides close.Yes. Take it. Feed them. Bind them tighter to you. Until the feast turns to famine again, and they tear you apart.
I clench my fists until nails bite into flesh. My voice, when it emerges, is rough. “There’s a depot northeast. Supply trucks, supplies. We strike before dawn. Take what we can. Vanish before they close the jaws.”
Elira bares her teeth in a fierce grin. Rourke curses, but nods. The rebels murmur, some fearful, some eager, but the decision holds.
***
That night, I can’t rest. The storm hammers the camp, wind howling through the firs. I walk among the fires, watching rebels mend weapons, watching the freed cling to each other for warmth. Belief burns in their faces, fragile but alive.
Vera finds me. Her cloak is rimmed with frost, her eyes steady despite exhaustion. She lays a hand on my arm. “You leadthem to more than food. Every strike spreads truth. Every freed chain makes his grip weaker.”
I shake my head, the weight pressing harder. “Every strike also feeds his game. He waits. He laughs. And I….” My throat tightens. “I hear him even now.”
She doesn’t flinch. Her hand tightens, grounding me. “Then let me drown him out.”
Her voice is soft, but fierce enough to cut through the storm. And for a moment, the chains loosen.
***
