Page 67 of The Monster You Made
I walk among them with food, with water, with Marta’s words whispering in my mouth. “You are free,” I tell them. “The truth lives yet.” Some weep, some refuse to look at me, some clutch my hands like anchors. Each reaction carves deeper into me, until I feel hollow with the weight of what they expect.
Elira drills the rebels even here, her voice cracking the air as she forces order into chaos. Rourke oversees the supply trucks, barking at men too eager to linger among gold spilled from the Crown’s coffers. “We can’t eat cash,” he snarls. “Load grain. Powder. Tools. Leave the rest.”
Lucian does not join them. He stands apart, his sword dark with dried blood, his eyes locked on the horizon as though Declan might step from it at any moment. I approach him with careful steps. “You freed them,” I say softly.
His jaw tightens. “I did what he wanted.”
“You broke his chains.”
“I wore them when I did.” He finally turns to me, eyes shadowed. “Don’t you see? He lets me swing. He makes me the blade. And every time I cut him, he sharpens me for himself.”
I want to argue, but the words curdle on my tongue. Because in his voice, I hear the truth of it.
***
That night, the rebels feast on stolen bread, meat roasted over pyres built from broken fences. Songs rise again, rowdy and hoarse. Drunken laughter rolls across the camp, louder than grief, louder than hunger. Hope wears the mask of triumph, even as ash smolders in the wind.
I sit apart with Marta’s satchel, the firelight flickering across the pages. I read her words over and over, searching for a line that can cut through Declan’s silence, something sharp enough to break lies faster than they spread. But the ink blurs, the meaning shifts, and I wonder if even truth can survive being repeated too often.
Lucian joins me in the shadows, his presence heavy but steady. He does not speak at first. When he does, his voice is low, rough. “They believe this matters. They think we hurt him.”
“They’re right,” I whisper, though my throat burns with doubt. “Every chain broken weakens him.”
He shakes his head. “No. Every chain broken is one he wanted me to shatter. He’s guiding us, Vera. Step by step. Into what?”
“Into his own end.” I force steel into my words. “And we’ll deliver it.”
He studies me for a long moment, then looks away. But I see it in his eyes—the fear that when the end comes, it won't be Declan’s.
***
In the days that follow, word of the prison spreads like fire. Villages whisper of it, captives carry tales back to families, songs swell louder. More flock to us: farmers with pitchforks, smiths with hammers, even boys not yet old enough to shave. They bring stories of Crown men tightening their grip, of new decrees and harsher punishments. For every man we free, Declan binds two more. For every lie we burn away, he speaks three in its place.
I feel it when I walk among them, their eyes on me, on Lucian, on the freed who march at our side. Belief grows wild and tangled. It feeds them, but it frightens me. Because belief is fire, and fire consumes even what it means to save.
One night, Abigail climbs into my lap as I sit by the fire, Marta’s satchel spread across my knees. “Did we win?” she asks, her voice small.
I smooth her hair back and kiss her temple. “Yes,” I whisper. “We won.”
But in my heart, the answer twists: We won what he gave us.
***
Lucian wakes screaming two nights later. The sound tears through the camp, snapping every eye open. I rush to him, find him drenched in sweat, his eyes wild, his breath ragged. He gripsmy wrists like shackles. “I felt him,” he gasps. “I heard him. He was here.”
I press my forehead to his, whispering steady, fierce words. “He isn’t here. He can’t have you. Not while I breathe.”
***
At dawn, scouts bring word: another convoy moves north, this one heavier guarded, laden with supplies. The council gathers again in the scarred hall. Elira’s fist shakes the table as she declares, “We strike them again. Break their spine where it bends.”
Rourke spits into the fire. “And play right into his hand, same as before? He’ll bleed us slow until we’re dry.”
Lucian says nothing, eyes dark on the map. His silence suffocates me. Finally, he mutters, “If he wants us there, then we’ll go elsewhere.”
“Where?” I ask.
He lifts his gaze to mine. “Where he doesn’t expect. Where truth cuts deepest.”
