Page 36 of The Monster You Made
He’s right. The riders push us toward the cliffs, toward the deadfall where the forest ends in jagged stone. The perfect trap. Unless we carve our own escape.
We double back through the trees, keeping low, Abigail muffled in Vera’s arms. Hours drag until the forest breaks into marshland. The ground sucks at our boots, each step a battle against muck and ice. The air reeks of rot, thick and cloying. Perfect ground to vanish, if we survive it.
By nightfall, we find shelter in the ruins of an old mill, its wheel broken, its stones black with moss. The roof sags but holds against the cold. Rourke collapses near the hearth, too tired to curse. Vera tends to Abigail, wrapping her in wool scavengedfrom a chest of moth-eaten blankets. I take first watch, blade in hand, eyes fixed on the shadows.
Hours creep. Abigail sleeps. Rourke snores. Vera crosses the room, quiet as mist. She stops beside me, her face a pale shape in the moonlight. “You didn’t kill him,” she says softly. “The boy. Jonas.”
I don’t answer. My jaw clenches. She places a hand on my arm. “That choice matters, Lucian. More than you know.”
Her touch is light, but it anchors me. For the first time in years, the rage inside me loosens, if only a fraction. I turn my hand, covering hers. No words, just the weight of silence between us.
Outside, the wind howls through broken shutters, carrying the echo of distant horns. The hunt has not ended. But tonight, in the hollow of the ruined mill, we endure.
And endurance is the seed of defiance.
Chapter 14 - Vera
The ruined mill breathes with ghosts. The wheel outside creaks when the wind shifts, groaning like an old bone refusing to break. I sit beside Abigail, her small body curled under blankets that smell of mold and damp stone. Her face is pale in the moonlight, but her breathing is steady. For now, that is enough.
Lucian keeps his watch by the door, a shadow carved from darker shadow. He has not slept since the tower burned. I can feel his exhaustion, though he hides it behind stillness. Rourke sprawls near the hearth, snoring between muttered curses, a man too stubborn to admit he is broken. The mill is a fragile haven, but it will not last. The Crown will not rest until this place, too, is ash.
At dawn, I wake Abigail and gather what little we have left. My wound from the riot aches, stiff beneath the wrappings, but I grit my teeth against it. Lucian notices, of course, he notices, but says nothing. His silence is a language I am learning to read: not indifference, but restraint.
We set out before the sun has fully crested the ridge. Frost slicks the ground, each step cracking like glass beneath our boots. The marsh behind us fades into mist, and ahead, the hills roll toward a spine of black pines. It feels as though the land itself closes around us, narrowing our path.
By midmorning, we pass through the remains of a village burned weeks ago. Charred beams claw at the sky, roofs sag inward, and the well is choked with ash. I walk the streets in silence, Abigail clutching my cloak. Rourke shakes his head,muttering about Declan’s efficiency. Lucian’s jaw tightens, but his eyes stay fixed forward. He cannot look at the ruin, or perhaps he cannot look away.
Among the ashes, I find a scrap of parchment caught in a broken fence. The words are smeared, half-lost, but I recognize Marta’s hand. Truth survives wherever there are eyes willing to carry it. I clutch it to my chest, my throat thick. She was here. Or her words were. And now, even here, they still remain.
The villagers are gone, fled or buried, I cannot say. But in the silence of their absence, I feel the weight of what we carry. Marta’s truth does not belong to me alone. It belongs to every life choked out by Declan’s fire. Every voice silenced too soon.
Abigail tugs my hand, her voice small. “Will our home be like this, too?”
I kneel to meet her eyes. They are wide, searching, too old for her years. “Not if we fight to keep it whole,” I whisper. “Not if we carry what others cannot.”
She nods, though her lip trembles. I brush her hair back and force a smile I do not feel. Lucian watches from a distance, his expression unreadable. But when I stand, he falls into step beside me, close enough that I feel the heat of his presence.
By evening, we reach the pines. The forest is dark, thick, and silent. No birds call here, no wind stirs the needles. It feels wrong, unnatural, yet it swallows us whole as we enter. The path vanishes quickly, leaving us to weave between trunks black as iron. My skin prickles with unease.
Rourke mutters about cursed woods, and even Lucian’s gaze sharpens. But there is no turning back. Behind us, the Crown closes. Ahead, only shadows remain.
The pine forest closes around us like a shroud. The air is thick, heavy with resin, and every step sinks into a carpet of needles that muffles sound. Too quiet, so quiet that even Rourke’s curses fade as though swallowed whole. The trees here are older than memory, their trunks blackened by time, their branches clawing toward a sky we can no longer see. Abigail presses against my side, her small fingers clinging to mine. I whisper comfort, though the words taste empty in my mouth.
Lucian leads, silent as a shadow. His movements are fluid, careful, yet even he cannot mask the tension coiling through him. He senses it too, something unnatural here. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade, thumb brushing the worn leather of its grip. Rourke mutters about ghosts and curses, though his voice is low, as though he dares not speak too loud lest the forest hear him.
Hours pass with no sign of life, no birds, no deer, no sound but our breath. The silence gnaws at me, hollowing the air. It feels as though the forest itself waits, listening. Abigail grows restless, her questions hushed to whispers. “Why are there no animals? Why does it feel like this?”
I kneel, brushing her hair back. “Because this forest remembers,” I say softly. “Sometimes places carry wounds the way people do.” She frowns, but the answer seems to quiet her. Still, I wonder if my words are true, or if I’m only soothing myself.
By midday, we stumble upon ruins hidden deep within the trees: stone walls crumbled, overgrown with moss; a circle of pillars broken like teeth. The air grows colder here, each breath a ghost. Lucian halts, scanning the shadows. His jaw tightens. “This was not built by villagers.”
Rourke spits into the dirt. “Old ground. Sacred, maybe. Best to keep moving.”
But I step closer, drawn to the center of the ruins. There, beneath layers of pine needles, something glimmers faintly. I brush the debris aside and uncover a carving etched into stone, spirals and sigils worn by centuries but still humming with presence. The sight makes my skin prickle. Marta once told me of places older than the Crown, older than memory, where truth was carved into stone so it would not burn. Could this be one?
Lucian’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp. “Leave it.”
I look up at him. His eyes are darker than usual, unreadable. “Why?”
