Page 64 of The Monster You Made
The valley smolders behind us, ash drifting on the morning wind. Declan has vanished once more, but his laughter clings to me more than the smoke. It coils in my chest, twisting Marta’s words into doubt. She believed truth could burn chains. But Declan’s lies spread quicker than the truth ever could. And every step we take forward leaves a trail of fire in our wake.
The rebels call it victory. They cheer Lucian’s blade, whisper that the wolf bit deeper this time. Around the fires, they retell it louder, sharper, how Declan fled, how his shadow recoiled. Songs swell again, and hope rises with them. I smile when they look my way. I nod when Abigail sings. But inside, I feel only the echo of that cold laugh.
***
The military compound we claimed becomes a beacon. Smoke from its fires curls skyward, carrying word of our strength. Villages send grain, weapons, even sons and daughters. The courtyard fills with drills, with the clang of steel on steel, with Elira’s barked orders cutting the air. She has become the spine of the camp, her scars proof that flesh can outlast flame.
Lucian watches it all in silence, sharpening his blades, walking the walls. The rebels follow him with their eyes, every gesture heavy with meaning. They do not see the weight bowing his shoulders. They see only the Wolf they’ve made.
At night, when the camp settles, I find him on the ramparts, eyes on the horizon. His voice is rough, low. “He let me cut him. He wanted them to see.”
I press my hand to his, whisper fierce. “Then next time, don’t cut, kill.”
His gaze flickers to mine, shadowed, but steady. “And if I can’t?”
“Then I will.”
For a heartbeat, his lips almost curve. Almost.
***
Whispers reach us soon of a Crown convoy riding north, heavy with gold and supplies. Its supply trucks rumble along the spine road, guarded but stretched thin. If we take it, the fire feeds. If we fail, it smothers. The council gathers again, maps spread, voices sharp.
Elira pounds her fist against the table. “We strike. Starve them. Break their reach.”
Rourke shakes his head, wine sloshing in his hand. “A trap, sure as bones. They’ll line the hills with rifles, box us like hogs.”
Lucian studies the map for a long time, silent. Finally, he speaks. “We strike. But not the road. Here.” His blade taps a narrow bridge across the river. “Force them there, choke them. Their supply trucks will snarl, their rifles worthless.”
I glance down at Marta’s pages, at her notes of corruption in the Crown’s supply chains. “Their greed slows them. Theirarrogance blinds them. If we strike swift, truth rides faster than their supply trucks.”
Elira grins, fierce. “Then it is done.”
***
We march through the night, our boots crunching on the frost, our breath fogging the air. The river glitters in dawn light, its bridge narrow, its stones slick with dew. We lie in wait among the trees, nerves taut. When the convoy rattles into view, gilded supply trucks, soldiers weary from march, I clutch my hatchet tight, Marta’s satchel against my ribs.
The trap closes.
Arrows rain, rifles crack. Supply trucks lurch; horses scream. Rebels surge from both banks, steel flashing, voices fierce. I strike beside Lucian, my hatchet biting wood and flesh, my breath burning with fury. Elira roars from the bridge, her breaching axe cleaving paths. Rourke fires until smoke chokes him, then charges with curses spilling.
The convoy crumbles. Supply trucks tip, soldiers scatter, gold spills across the stones. Rebels seize rifles, food, and treasure. Their cheers shake the bridge, their victory loud. But my eyes fix on the river, dark and swift below. Because through the smoke, I hear it again, that laugh.
***
When the dust settles, the rebels dance among the spoils. Children clutch cash like toys; men boast of riches. Elira declares, “The Crown bleeds gold now! Their veins run dry!” Cheers thunder, echoing downriver.
Yet I see shadows on the far bank. For an instant, a gray cloak glimmers among the trees. Then it’s gone. My heart twists cold. He was here. Watching. Letting us win.
That night, while the camp feasts, I sit apart, Marta’s satchel in my lap. Pages scatter in the firelight, truth written in ink and blood. I whisper her name, whisper prayers I do not believe. Lucian joins me, silent, his hand steady on mine. Neither of us speaks of shadows. We do not need to. We both feel them.
***
Abigail curls between us as we sleep, her breath soft, her doll clutched tight. Her innocence feels like a shield, fragile and fleeting. I wonder how long we can keep it safe.
Because Declan’s laughter does not fade. It grows. Louder, sharper, promising chains.
And even though the rebels cheer louder than ever, I know the truth: fire spreads fastest before it burns out.
