Page 80 of The Monster You Made
***
At dusk, we reach a ridge overlooking a valley. Fires flicker below, small as stars, spread across rows of woodenstockades. Barbed wire gleams in the moonlight, sharp as fangs. Watchtowers rise above it all, rifles glinting in the light. The prison lies before us, vast and cruel. My breath catches. Every chain I’ve read about, every horror Marta described, lies waiting in that valley.
Elira bares her teeth, gripping her breaching axe. “We break it tonight.”
Rourke curses under his breath, flask already at his lips. “And feed ourselves to their rifles? That’s not breaking chains, that’s strangling ourselves with them.”
Their voices clash. The council gathers, firelight painting hard shadows across their faces. The rebels listen, restless, fear and hunger gnawing at their patience. Their eyes slide, as always, to Lucian.
He stares at the prison in silence, shoulders heavy, jaw clenched. I step beside him, my voice fierce. “If we wait, we give Declan time. If we strike, we give the world proof.”
His eyes shift to mine, dark, unreadable. For a long heartbeat, I fear he will sink into silence again. Then he says, voice iron, “We strike. Fast. Before dawn.”
The rebels erupt in murmurs, some relieved, some afraid. But in their eyes, I see it, the spark catching fire.
***
Night falls like a shroud. The rebels creep down the slopes, shadows among shadows. Snow muffles their steps, breath fogs in the dark. Elira leads the vanguard, breaching axe ready. Rourke mutters curses, rifle loaded. I move with Marta’s satchel clutched tight, my heart pounding louder than drums.
The first watchtower falls silent under arrows. The second under steel. Rebels surge, cutting wire, tearing through gates. Alarms blare, rifles crack, screams split the night. Chaos erupts, sharp and merciless.
I throw myself at the chains, hatchet biting into locks, metal shrieking. Hands reach through the bars, desperate, trembling. I cut until my palms bleed, until wrists are freed, until hollow eyes stare at me in disbelief. Some stumble into the snow, some collapse, some weep. Their voices rise, ragged prayers too old for me to know.
Through it all, Lucian moves like a storm. His blade carves through soldiers, his roar shakes the night. He is vengeance and freedom all at once. The rebels cheer his name even as blood soaks the snow. And yet, I see the shadow in his eyes, the chains coiling tighter with every strike.
***
By dawn, the prison lies in ruin. Fires smolder, gates splinter, chains lie broken in heaps. Dozens freed. Hundreds saved. The rebels roar, their voices echoing across the valley. Elira lifts her breaching axe high, bellowing, “The Crown’s chains shatter! Their prisons fall before us!”
The freed weep, clutching one another. Abigail dances among them, her doll lifted high like a banner. Hope burns brighter than fire.
But as the sun rises, doubt creeps into my chest. Declan was not here. He let this happen. He wanted us to bleed for this victory, to waste ourselves on scraps while his shadow growsstronger. I see it in Lucian’s face, the way his eyes stay fixed on the horizon, as if waiting for it to open and swallow us whole.
The rebels cheer. The freed rejoice. But inside, I feel the weight of the silence yet to come. Because victories like this are never gifts; they are traps.
***
Tonight, the prison compound is our shelter. Fires burn high, food is shared, songs rise, rough and trembling but fierce. The freed sing louder than anyone, their voices cracked but unbroken. For a moment, it feels like life again.
I sit by the fire, Abigail asleep against my side, her doll tucked beneath her chin. Across the flames, Lucian watches in silence, his eyes shadowed. Our gazes meet. He does not smile. He does not speak. But for a heartbeat, his hand twitches as if to reach for me.
The moment passes. His gaze shifts back to the dark horizon. The chains tighten again.
Chapter 39 - Lucian
The prison smolders behind us when we march again. Smoke coils into the pale sky, carrying the stench of ash and blood. The freed walk with us, stumbling, hollow-eyed, but breathing. Some sing, their voices cracked but defiant. Others only weep. The rebels cheer them, lifting broken chains high like banners. To them, this is victory.
To me, it is bait. Declan dangled it, and we took it. The thought coils in my chest, heavier than armor. His laughter lingers in the silence between cheers.
***
The road south winds narrow through the peaks. Snow slips beneath boots, jagged rock juts like teeth. We move slow, too slow. Scouts vanish into the white and return with whispers: the Crown marches still, their banners rising on every horizon. We are never alone.
At the midday halt, the council gathers. Elira drives her breaching axe into the ground. “We strike again. Every chain we break weakens him.”
Rourke swigs from his flask, grimacing. “And every strike bleeds us dry. He’s herding us, can’t you see? Every camp he lets us free is one step deeper into his jaws.”
The freed listen with wide eyes, clutching each other. The rebels mutter, restless, glancing at me. Always me. Their belief is iron, heavy, and unyielding. I feel it pressing against my chest until I cannot breathe.
