Page 52 of The Monster You Made
When the powder goes up, the sky turns white. Fire roars, water erupts, barges split apart. The river glows with flame, soldiers screaming as they plunge into the black. We vanish into the reeds before the Crown can rally, the fire behind us lighting the night for miles. By dawn, every village along the river whispers the same truth: The Crown can bleed, and rebels cut deep.
***
But each strike sharpens Declan’s gaze. His riders scour the countryside, his gallows groan with weight. Refugees flood the camp faster than we can feed them. For every cheer we earn, a family somewhere pays the price. I feel their eyes on me, heavy, questioning. Is this the path to freedom, or to ruin?
One night, I walk alone into the forest. The pines whisper, the moon cold above. Vera follows, silent until she speaks. “You carry their hope,” she says. “But hope is heavy. Share it, or it will break you.”
I look at her, at the fire in her eyes, at the scars she carries with such quiet fury. “And if it breaks you instead?”
She steps closer, her hand finding mine. “Then we break together. And we rise together, too.”
Her words cut deeper than any blade. For the first time, I let myself believe them.
***
Weeks pass. Strikes spread like sparks on dry grass. Supply trucks burned, outposts raided, banners torn. Each act whispered from village to village, until the Crown’s shadow is no longer unbroken. Still vast, still dark, but no longer unbroken.
Then word reaches us that freezes the camp. Declan himself rides north. Not just soldiers. Not just riders. Declan, the man who forged my chains, who wears his lies like armor, who bends the Crown to his will. He comes to snuff the fire himself.
Elira gathers us by the fire. Her voice is steel. “This is no longer raids. This is war. He comes to end us. We must decide: do we scatter and fade, or do we stand and show the world that even Declan can bleed?”
The camp is silent. Faces pale, eyes wide. Some whisper of running, of hiding. But Vera stands, her voice steady, sharp as truth. “If we scatter, we are nothing. If we stand, we are fire. Fire spreads.”
Her words ripple through the camp, through me. I rise, my blades catching the firelight. “They made Declan and I in their shadow once. They chained me, broke me, forged me into this weapon. Now I will show him how their creation can be repurposed. I will show him the shadow can burn.”
The rebels cheer, not loud, not reckless, but fierce, unyielding. They choose to stand. And in their eyes, I see it: not just survival. Not just vengeance. But the beginning of something larger. An army. A war.
***
That night, as the camp prepares, I sit with Vera and Abigail. The girl leans against Vera’s shoulder, asleep, her small hand clutching the doll. Vera’s gaze meets mine, weary but burning. “This is the moment,” she whispers. “The one Marta dreamed of. The one we’ve bled for. Do you feel it?”
I look at the camp, at the rebels sharpening blades, at the firelight gleaming in their eyes. I look at Vera, at the truth she carries like a light. I look at Abigail, safe for now, dreaming despite the storm outside.
“Yes,” I say. My voice is rough, but steady. “I feel it.”
The fire has spread. And when Declan comes, we will not run. We will not hide. We will burn.
Chapter 22 - Vera
The forest no longer feels like shelter. Every tree whispers of eyes watching, every rustle carries the weight of pursuit. Yet the camp breathes louder than fear now. After the strikes, after the fires, after the decision to stand, something sharper lives here: resolve. The rebels sharpen blades with steadier hands, string bows with stronger arms. They laugh around the fires, though the laughter is edged with nerves. Children play in the shadows, their games mimicking battles they’ve overheard. Even their innocence has been bent into war.
Elira moves through it all like a mountain in motion, her burn-scarred face lit by light. Her presence is weight enough to steady men twice her size. When she speaks, the camp stills. “Declan comes,” she says, as if naming a storm. “But storms break against rock. And we will be rock.”
Her words ripple through me. I clutch Marta’s satchel, the pages heavy as fate. They whisper of patrols and routes, of choke points and weaknesses. Knowledge enough to turn fire into a blade. But knowledge is not certainty. I fear what will come when Declan himself steps into the forest. His lies have bent kingdoms. His chains forged monsters. How do we face a man who wears shadows like armor?
***
Lucian does not fear, not in the way others do. I watch him at night, his blades gleaming in the firelight as he sharpens them. His silence is steady, not brittle. But I see the tightness in his jaw, the moments his eyes drift to Abigail sleeping nearby, to me. He carries more than steel. He carries us all.
When I sit beside him, he does not speak at first. Only when I touch his hand does his voice break the quiet. “Declan will not stop,” he says. “Not until we are ash. We cannot wait for him to strike first.”
My breath stills. “You mean to take the fight to him?”
His eyes lift to mine, sharp as frost. “We cannot win if we only bleed. We must cut. Deep. Where it hurts.”
***
The council gathers that night. Elira, Rourke, Lucian, and a handful of the rebels who have seen more than one campaign. Maps spread across the table, lit by oil lamps. Rourke taps a scarred finger against a mark on the parchment. “His supply convoys come through here. Guarded, aye, but predictable. Hit them, and he’ll feel it.”
