Page 70 of The Monster You Made
The village does not rise for us. A handful join, most remain. We leave at dawn, our numbers heavier, but not by much. As we march, I feel his shadow stretching with us, a hand guiding every step. We speak truth, but his lies reach faster. We free chains, but his silence binds tighter.
The rebels cheer, the freed cling to us, and Abigail smiles when I lift her into the supply truck. On the surface, we appear to be a force growing stronger.
But inside, I know the truth. He is leading us. And every victory is a step closer to the end he has chosen.
Chapter 34 - Vera
The snow has not yet melted from the mountain roads when we descend into the valley. The storm left the world brittle, carved in white and gray, every tree branch bowed beneath the weight of ice. The rebels march in silence, their boots crunching on the frost, their breath rising in pale plumes. The freed captives stumble but do not stop, driven by the fire of survival more than hope. Behind us, the military compound feels like a dream, songs, walls, and warmth swallowed by distance. Ahead lies only uncertainty.
***
By midday, we reach a stretch of road winding along the river. Its waters churn dark beneath the snow, swollen from melt, roaring loud enough to drown a man’s thoughts. The rebels spread along its banks, filling skins, washing grime from their hands. For a moment, it looks almost like peace: men laughing, women scrubbing blood from their tunics, Abigail tossing pebbles into the water and clapping at each splash.
But I cannot hear their laughter without hearing the silence underneath. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, her words my only shield against the creeping fear that each step forward is one he chose for us.
***
That evening, the council gathers by firelight in a ring of stones near the river’s bend. Maps are spread across the ground, weighted by rocks and frozen boots. Elira paces, her breaching axe glinting in the fire’s glow. Rourke drinks openly, his flaskpassing between fingers too calloused to notice the cold. Lucian sits apart, sharpening his sword, sparks jumping from steel. He does not look at the map. He does not look at me.
“The Crown’s forces march north,” Elira says, stabbing her breaching axe toward the parchment. “Slow but steady. They mean to choke us between their lines and the mountains. If we wait, we’ll be crushed.”
Rourke snorts. “And if we charge, we’ll be gutted. You think Declan’s blind? He’s baiting us again. He wants us to run into his teeth.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Elira snarls. “We can’t keep wandering. These people,” she gestures at the freed captives huddled by the fires, “need proof we can strike. Proof we can win.”
Lucian’s whetstone grinds on steel. He says nothing.
My heart aches at his silence. The rebels look to him, waiting for their wolf to speak. When he does not, they look to me. Marta’s words burn hot in my satchel, demanding voice. I rise, stepping into the circle of firelight.
“We do not need to bleed on his terms,” I say, voice steady though my chest trembles. “Marta wrote that truth is the Crown’s greatest fear. We’ve freed his prisoners. We’ve shown his chains break. Now we must expose his lies. Not with another battle, but with words spread wider than his soldiers can march.”
Whispers ripple through the rebels. Some nod. Some frown. Elira scowls but does not interrupt. Even Rourke tiltshis flask in my direction, muttering, “At least words don’t cost blood.”
Lucian finally lifts his gaze. His eyes meet mine, shadowed, searching. For a heartbeat, I see the man who held me in the military compound chamber, whose darkness I claimed as my own. Then he looks away, and my chest hollows.
***
The next morning, we set out again, not toward soldiers, but toward villages Marta named in her writings, places where truth might still find roots. The march is slower, burdened by the freed and the wounded, but the air carries a fragile current of purpose. Hope whispers louder than fear for the first time in weeks.
We reach the first village by dusk. Smoke rises from chimneys, and doors creak open as we approach. Faces peer out, wary, gaunt, half-hidden. I step forward, Marta’s satchel slung across my shoulder. My voice rises, carrying her words into the gathering dusk.
“You are not alone. The Crown chains you with silence, but truth still breathes. We have broken his prisons. We have freed your kin. The Wolf fights for you, not against you. Stand with us, and the Crown’s shadow will break.”
Some listen. Some turn away. A boy tugs at his mother’s skirt, pointing at Lucian with wide eyes. She hushes him, dragging him inside. A man spits in the snow, muttering liars. But a few linger. A few step closer. One woman lifts her sleeve, showing scars from shackles. Her gaze locks onto mine, tears glinting in her eyes. She nods.
It is enough. A spark, however small, is still a fire waiting for air.
***
That night, as the rebels settle in barns and huts offered by those willing, I sit by the dying embers of a hearth. Marta’s pages are spread before me, their edges worn soft by my hands. I read them aloud to the handful who gather, farmers, children, rebels who still believe. Their eyes shine in the flicker, hungry for every word. I speak until my voice cracks, until the fire dies, until I cannot tell where Marta’s words end and mine begin.
When the others leave, Lucian lingers in the shadows. His sword rests across his lap, untouched. His gaze never leaves me, though his expression is unreadable. For a moment, I hope he will come closer, that he will speak, that he will let me break the silence growing between us.
But he turns away, vanishing into the dark, and the emptiness he leaves feels colder than the night.
***
The village is quiet the next morning. Snow falls softly, blanketing roofs and muffling the world into silence. The rebels stir reluctantly, their breath fogging in the cold barns where they slept. Some of the villagers bring bread and thin broth, their faces wary but their hands steady. It is not an oath, not a banner raised, but it is something.
