Page 28 of The Monster You Made
Old Vienna burns, Declan still roars, and we are adrift on black water. But we are alive. And for tonight, that must be enough.
The barge drifts silently, the current tugging us farther from the city’s heart. I sit with my back against a crate, pressing torn cloth to the wound on my arm. The pain throbs steady, but it is not the worst of me. The worst is the echo of Declan’s voice, still booming in my skull, twisting truth into chains.
Lucian remains at the prow, a statue of shadow, his eyes fixed on the burning skyline. He hasn’t spoken since we cast off, though I see the tension coiled in every line of his body. Rourke paces like a trapped hound, muttering about ambushes, river patrols, the noose tightening with every passing minute.
The river carries us past the poorer quarters first, clusters of shacks huddled against the banks, their windows glowing faint in the night. Families gather outside, watching the sky where smoke plumes choke the stars. Some point toward us, but none call out. Fear binds their tongues as tightly as chains.
I clutch the satchel, what little remains of Marta’s work. The pages inside feel fragile, already frayed at the edges. Are they enough? Did the crowd believe what they saw? Did any of those scattered sheets survive the fire? I whisper Marta’s name like a prayer, though prayers feel hollow now.
Rourke’s mutters grow louder. “We’re floating right into their jaws. Crown boats patrol these waters. And when they spot us, we’ll be fish in a barrel.”
Lucian finally turns. His voice is low, even. “Then we strike before they net us.”
His calm unnerves me more than Rourke’s panic. Lucian speaks as though death is an old companion, waiting patiently at the edge of every plan. Perhaps it is.
The current quickens. Ahead, the river bends sharp. Lanterns bob in the dark, two Crown patrol boats tethered near a dock, soldiers lounging with rifles across their laps. Their laughter drifts across the water, careless, unaware.
Rourke stiffens. “See? Told you.”
Lucian scans the boats, eyes narrowing. “We can’t drift past. They’ll spot us.” He glances at me. “Options?”
My mind races. Fight, and we risk alerting the whole river. Flee, and we’ll be cut down. Unless,
“There,” I whisper, pointing to a cluster of abandoned warehouses on the far bank, their roofs sagging, their windows dark. “If we angle toward the reeds, the current might carry us close enough to slip behind them.”
Lucian considers, then nods. He seizes the pole and leans hard, guiding the barge toward shadow. The wood groans under the strain. Water slaps higher against the sides, spraying cold across my face. My wound burns as I cling to the crate, praying the reeds will shield us.
The patrol boats drift nearer. Lantern light brushes the tarps. My breath stalls. A soldier’s voice calls out, a question, half-drowsy. Another laughs, dismissing it. Their boat creaks as they turn lazily back toward the dock.
We slip behind the warehouses, swallowed by the dark.
Only when the lanterns vanish do I let myself breathe. My arms tremble, the satchel heavy against my ribs. Lucian lowers the pole, his jaw set. Rourke collapses to a crate, muttering relief and curses in the same breath.
The current slows here, eddies curling among the reeds. We drift in uneasy silence, the glow of the city fading behind us. Old Vienna is distant now, but its fire still lights the sky like a wound that will not close.
Lucian finally speaks, voice rough with smoke. “Declan still stands. But tonight, the mask slipped. The world saw.”
I clutch the satchel tighter, though doubt gnaws deep. “And if they believe his lies instead?”
His gaze cuts to me, sharp as a blade. “Then we make them believe ours.”
The words chill me. Not because they lack conviction, but because I hear what lies beneath them: war. Not in whispers, not in stolen shadows, but in fire that will spread until no one can look away.
Rourke breaks the silence, voice hoarse. “So, where to now? River doesn’t run forever. Neither do we.”
I lift my chin, staring at the dark horizon where the river winds into unknown lands. “Wherever the truth still has ears willing to hear it.”
Lucian turns back to the prow, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of burning Old Vienna. His silence says more than words ever could.
The barge drifts on, carrying us away from the city we scarred, toward battles yet to come. Smoke follows, thick and unyielding, a reminder that no matter how far we go, the Crown’s shadow stretches farther.
Chapter 11 - Lucian
The river has narrowed into a slow, winding braid through the countryside, its surface broken by reeds and fallen branches. At dawn, a pale light spreads across the mist, painting the water silver. I stand at the prow, one hand on the pole, scanning the banks for any sign of movement. Behind me, Vera clutches Marta’s satchel in her sleep, her face pale with exhaustion. Rourke snores softly, his arm draped over the rescued child. For a fleeting moment, the world feels still, as though war cannot find us here.
But peace is a lie. Even in the quiet, my mind pulls back to Old Vienna, to the flames, the cries, Declan’s voice thundering in the opera house. His mask slipped, but he still stands. That truth gnaws at me like a rat at bone.
The current grows shallow near a sandbar. I guide the barge toward the bank and tie it off to a crooked willow. We need food, fire, and solid ground beneath our feet. Vera stirs awake, her eyes searching the horizon, her hand immediately going to the satchel.
