Page 96 of The Monster You Made
At dawn, we march. Snow crunches under boots, breath fogs the air. The depot waits beyond the ridges, smoke rising faintly in the distance. The rebels ready their blades. Hunger steels them. Fear sharpens them.
And as I lead them into the storm, Declan’s laugh follows.Yes, Wolf. Lead them. Lead them deeper into my jaws.
***
The depot smolders in the distance, its fires dim against the storm. Supply trucks line the yard, canvas flapping in the wind, shadows of guards pacing between them. The scent of grain and smoke drifts faintly on the gale. Hunger gnaws at the rebels like a second heartbeat.
We wait in the shelter of pines, breath fogging, blades tight in hand. Snow muffles every sound. Elira crouches at my side, her breaching axe resting across her knees, her grin sharp despite the cold.
“We go now,” she whispers, eager.
Rourke mutters a curse, checking the powder in his rifle.
The freed huddle behind us, too weary to fight, but watching with eyes that burn with desperate hope.
Declan’s voice coils in my skull.Look at them.Hungry, weak, desperate. You lead them to slaughter, Wolf. Their deaths will be yours to carry.
My jaw clenches. I raise my hand. The rebels surge.
***
The first guards fall before they can cry out. Steel meets flesh, snow drinking the sound. Elira cleaves through a pair, her roar swallowed by the storm. Rourke fires once, twice, then swings his rifle like a club when the powder fails in the wet. Rebels swarm the supply trucks, slashing canvas, seizing sacks of grain.
I drive my blade through a soldier’s chest, his blood steaming in the snow. Hunger roars louder than fear. We are wolves tearing at prey, desperate and wild.
Then the horns sound. A blast splits the storm, deep and thunderous. The gates of the depot grind open, soldiers pouring out in ranks. Rifles crack, bullets whining past. Rebels scream, bodies dropping into the snow.
Elira roars defiance, hacking through three at once. Rourke curses, dragging a wounded rebel behind a supply truck. I carve a path toward the gates, rage and desperation blurring every strike.
Vera’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Chains! Cut the chains!”
I turn, and see them. Prisoners, shackled to the supply trucks, eyes hollow, hands raw. Their chains rattle as they stumble in the snow, caught between freedom and death. My chest tightens.
Declan’s laugh echoes.Yes. Break their chains. Add them to your leash.
I slash through the bonds, steel biting rust and flesh. Prisoners cry out, some falling to their knees, others seizing weapons from the fallen. The rebels rally around them, hope sparking in the blood-soaked snow.
But the horn sounds again. More soldiers flood the yard. Too many. The storm hides us, but not enough.
***
“Fall back!” I roar, my voice breaking through steel and storm. “Take the supply trucks we can. Leave the rest!”
Chaos erupts. Rebels drag sacks of grain onto sledges, prisoners staggering beside them. Elira fights like a storm, carving a path through the crush. Rourke fires blind, bellowing curses. Vera pulls captives toward the treeline, Marta’s satchel clutched against her chest.
I fight last, blade tearing through armor and flesh, until the snow runs red around me. Then I break away, lungs burning, the storm swallowing the military compound behind us.
***
By dawn, we collapse in a hollow far from the depot. The rebels slump in the snow, clutching sacks of grain like treasure. Prisoners lie trembling, free but broken. The freed eat with shaking hands, tears streaking their faces.
We live. We have food. We have hope.
Chapter 48 - Vera
The grain tastes of ash to me. Even as the freed clutch their bowls with trembling hands, even as rebels tear hunks of bread and laugh through cracked lips, I cannot swallow without feeling the storm’s bite. Every mouthful is hard won, every cheer haunted by the blood left behind.
The depot raid saved us, for now. But in their eyes, I see the truth: One raid cannot feed belief forever.
