Page 109 of The Monster You Made
“They’ll make me face him,” he murmurs. “That’s their plan. Put me in front of him, watch me break.”
I sit beside him. “Then don’t break.”
He laughs, bitter. “Easier said, Vera.”
“No. Not easier. Just truer.” I take his hand, press it hard against my chest. “Feel that? That’s why you don’t break. Not because they won’t try, not because it isn’t hard. Because this, what we are, is stronger than what they made him into.”
His eyes close. For a moment, the weight lifts from his shoulders. He leans into me, forehead brushing mine, and I feel the storm inside him slow.
***
Sleep comes in fragments. I wake to the sound of his breathing, steady but ragged, like a man running from ghostseven in dreams. I whisper Marta’s words into the dark, hoping they reach him where I cannot: “Truth endures. Chains break.”
And in my heart, I add one more line Marta never wrote:Brothers can be found again.
Chapter 55 - Lucian
The storm breaks before dawn. Wind howls across the valley, snow driving sideways, erasing tracks as quickly as they’re made. I stand on the battlements of the safehouse, cloak whipping behind me, eyes fixed on the white horizon. It feels like Cadmus itself breathes out there, hidden, watching, waiting.
Below, the rebels stir to life. Fires are stoked, weapons checked, supplies rationed. No one speaks of the hospital. No one says Cassian’s name. But the silence carries it. Every glance toward me asks the same question: Will he face his brother, or will he break?
I give them no answer.
***
Elira joins me on the wall, her breath steaming in the cold. She leans her breaching axe against the stone. “You can’t fight ghosts forever,” she says.
“I’m not fighting a ghost.” My eyes don’t leave the horizon. “He’s flesh. Blood. They carved him, but he’s still mine.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Then don’t hesitate. When the time comes, strike fast. For him, or for yourself. But don’t linger.”
Her bluntness cuts, but it steadies me. I grip the stone, grounding myself. “I won’t.”
***
By midday, the storm eases. Scouts return with reports of Crown patrols thickening along the border. Supply routes tighten, soldiers move in disciplined columns. They’re preparing for something.
“They know we’re close,” Rourke mutters over the maps. His flask lies untouched for once. “They’re funneling us straight into their teeth.”
“They want Lucian to see him,” Vera says softly. “They’re setting the stage.”
I trace the routes on the map with my finger. Every line converges on a blank stretch of forest, no towns, no markers. Too empty. Too deliberate. “Cadmus is there,” I say. My voice carries no doubt.
Elira bares her teeth. “Then we take it.”
“Not yet,” I counter. “We bleed them first. Pick their patrols, choke their supply lines. We make them nervous. We make them rush. Then we strike when they least expect.”
The council nods, but Vera watches me longest. Her eyes hold questions I don’t dare answer aloud.
***
Night. The rebels move in small packs, slipping through snow and shadow. We strike fast, an ambush on a supply convoy, a silent raid on an outpost. Each time, we leave their dead in the snow and vanish before the echoes fade. Each time, I search the faces, waiting to see him. Each time, relief and dread war inside me when I don’t.
As we burn another outpost to ash, a courier’s bag yields a single drive. We load it into the console back at the safehouse. The screen flickers, static hissing, and then,
Cassian.
But not as I remember. His face is sharper, scarred, jaw rebuilt. Eyes colder. The scene progresses into a montage showing Cassian’s face gradually changing through modifications until Declan appears on screen. His voice is steady, too steady. “Lucian,” he says. “Brother. Traitor. You will kneel before Cadmus or you will die beneath him.”
