Page 25 of The Monster You Made
The hall inhales as one. A woman on stage where none should be, her stride steady, her satchel in hand. For a heartbeat, even Declan falters, his smile flickering. I see the recognition in his eyes, shock, then calculation. His mask nearly cracks.
Guards move, rifles rising. I’m already in motion. Steel flashes as I seize the nearest by the throat, wrenching his weapon aside. The orchestra falters in dissonant chords. Shouts echo, confusion spreading faster than order.
Vera reaches the podium. Her voice cuts through the chaos, sharper than any blade: “This is your savior? This is your king of crowns? Read what he hides!” She slams the ledgers down upon the treaty, the sound reverberating like thunder. Pages spill, ink bleeding the truth into the golden light.
The crowd gasps. Murmurs ripple. Delegates surge to their feet. Some strain forward, eyes narrowing at the words scrawled across the pages. Others recoil, unwilling to see. But the mask has cracked, the evidence lies bare.
Declan recovers swiftly. His voice booms, commanding: “Lies! Forged by enemies of unity, by assassins in service of chaos!” His hand slams the podium, and his gaze cuts across the hall with righteous fury. “Seize them!”
Chaos erupts. Rifles fire. Curtains blaze with sparks as a lantern shatters. Rourke curses, dragging a wounded guard into the wings for cover. I carve through another, my knife red, my body a weapon honed for this moment. The hall is no longer an audience; it is a battlefield.
And at the center stands Vera, defiant, her satchel emptied, her truth laid bare. The light makes her seem almost unbreakable. Almost.
Gunfire shreds the air. Splinters rain from the stage as guards fire wildly into the wings. Delegates scream, their silks and jewels no shield against panic. Some shove toward the exits, others cower beneath gilded chairs. The opera house groans under the weight of chaos, the chandeliers trembling like they might come down upon us all.
I move through the storm, every step precise. A rifle butt swings toward me, I duck, drive my knife across a throat, seize the weapon before the body falls. Shots crack too close, heat brushing my cheek. The orchestra scatters, bows and violins clattering to the floor.
At the podium, Declan still stands. His smile is gone, but his presence remains, commanding, unshaken, the eye of the hurricane. His voice booms over the fray: “This is proof! Proof of the Crown’s enemies, proof that they crawl from shadows to undermine peace! See how they strike in desperation when unity is at hand!”
The crowd wavers, torn between the ledgers on the podium and the man who speaks as though heaven itself bends to him. His mask has cracked, but not shattered. Not yet.
Vera grips the podium, her voice raw but clear: “Read the names! Read the blood he’s bought! Look beneath the Crown’s banners and see the Cadmus stain!” She throws the pages into the air, parchment scattering like burning leaves. Some delegates seize them, eyes darting across ink, faces paling. Murmurs grow, louder, sharper. Doubt spreads.
Guards surge toward her. I break from the wings, rifle bucking against my shoulder. Two fall, then three. Rourke drags one of the wounded aside, his curses lost in the roar. Still, more flood the stage.
Declan moves with sudden force. He seizes Vera’s wrist, his hand crushing against her skin. His smile returns, cruel this time, meant only for her. “You think truth is enough?” he hisses. “The world bends to power, not paper.”
I charge, the distance between us shrinking. My blade finds his arm, forcing him back. His grip loosens, and Vera tears free. For a heartbeat, our eyes lock, mine searing with rage, his cold with promise. We are not finished. We are only beginning.
Smoke thickens. Flames lick the curtains where a lantern smashed. The opera house becomes a furnace, every exit a choke point. Delegates trample one another, the once-grand summit reduced to chaos and blood.
Vera clutches my arm, shouting above the roar. “The tunnels! Now!”
We fall back toward the tapestry, Rourke covering us with stolen rifle fire. Pages still whirl through the air, carried by the draft, evidence scattered like seeds. Whether they take root depends on who survives this night.
A shot cracks, searing past my ear. Another punches into the wood beside Vera’s head. I shove her forward, through the tapestry, down the narrow stair into the underchamber. Rourke barrels after us, smoke at his heels.
The tunnel swallows us once more, darkness pressing close. Our breaths come ragged, our bodies streaked with sootand blood. Behind us, the opera house rages, Declan’s voice still carrying even through the chaos, an unbroken roar of denial and command.
We run until the noise fades, until only the drip of water and our pounding hearts remain. At last, we collapse in the shadows. Vera clings to the satchel, though most of its contents now scatter above in fire and ruin.
Rourke spits, his face gray with exhaustion. “That wasn’t exposure. That was a damn massacre.”
Vera lifts her head, her eyes blazing through grime. “They saw. They heard. No mask can hide forever now.”
I wipe blood from my knife, my body trembling not from fear but from the weight of what nearly was. My voice is low, steady. “Declan bleeds. Not enough, but it’s a start.”
Silence follows, broken only by the distant rumble of collapsing beams. Old Vienna’s jewel has been scarred tonight, its polished mask cracked wide for all to see. Whether the world believes the truth or Declan’s lie, the stage has changed forever.
I look at Vera, soot streaking her face, defiance burning in her eyes. I look at Rourke, weary but alive. And I know this is only the beginning. The summit has not ended; it has only torn open.
Above, bells toll midnight. Day two closes in fire. Day three will dawn in smoke and blood.
Chapter 10 – Vera
The tunnels still echo with fire.
Every step sends shards of sound ricocheting off stone, the crack of rifles, the cries of diplomats, the roar of flames swallowing velvet and gold. But it is only a memory, carried on the smoke clinging to our clothes. Down here, the world is reduced to breath, to dripping water, to the steady crunch of boots on damp earth.
