Page 68 of The Monster You Made
And in that moment, I know: Every step we take now is a gamble, not against armies, but against the man who commands shadows. And shadows do not fight fair.
***
The prison is gone. The freed march with us. Hope surges. But I feel it still, the shape of his laughter behind every victory,the chains waiting in places we cannot see. We won a battle, yes. But in the silence that follows, I cannot shake the truth:
Declan wanted us to win.
And one day soon, we will pay for the gift.
Chapter 33 - Lucian
The prison’s ashes cling to me like a second skin. Days have passed, yet I still feel its smoke in my lungs, its screams echoing inside my skull. When I close my eyes, I see faces pressed to fences, hear locks snapping, hear Declan’s laugh threading through it all. Victory, they call it. To me, it feels like a leash tightening.
***
We march north. The road winds through valleys where frost clings stubbornly to stone, where the trees stand bare like skeletal witnesses. The freed captives shuffle among us, weak but stubborn, their eyes bright with something between gratitude and terror. Every village we pass swells our ranks. Farmers, smiths, and children with blades too heavy for their hands join us because they believe we are winning.
Their belief weighs heavier than chains.
At night, the campfire glows across countless faces. They sing until their throats crack, songs of freedom, of chains broken, of the Wolf who hunts the Crown. Their chants rise with my name until I want to tear my ears from my skull. Vera sits near the fire, Marta’s satchel clutched in her lap, reading truths to those who will listen. She believes in words as fiercely as I once believed in silence.
I sit apart, steel in hand, sharpening. Every drag of the whetstone whispers Declan’s laughter back to me.
***
One evening, Elira stomps through the camp, barking drills even as dusk settles. “Form ranks! Shields high, blades steady!” She is relentless, her breaching axe flashing in the light, her voice louder than fatigue. Men and women stumble through her commands, their bodies stiff with exhaustion, but they follow her because she gives them no choice. She thrives where others falter.
Rourke drinks as he trains them, sloshing from his flask between barks of advice. “Don’t grip like cowards! Swing as if your life depends on it, because it does!” He laughs, but his eyes linger on the trees, suspicious of every shadow. He knows, as I do, that Declan’s silence is the most dangerous sound of all.
Abigail plays near the supply trucks, her doll tied across her back like armor. She mimics the rebels, swinging a stick in clumsy arcs, grinning when anyone notices. Their cheers for her sting worse than scars. They don’t understand. War will not spare her for her innocence.
***
Scouts return with news: a convoy moves east, heavier guarded than the prison. Supplies, weapons, perhaps gold. Elira demands we strike. Rourke argues it’s bait. The council looks to me. Their voices hammer like rain, but all I hear is Declan’s voice whispering from the smoke:Come find me. Dance where I lead.
I raise my hand, and silence falls. “No,” I say. “We won’t bite at his leash.”
Elira slams her fist on the table. “Then what? Let him starve us? Let his soldiers march unchallenged?”
Rourke chuckles darkly. “Better to starve than choke on his hook.”
I drag my finger across the map to a cluster of marks Vera highlighted weeks ago. “We don’t strike his soldiers. We strike his silence. We take the truth where he cannot bury it.”
Vera’s eyes meet mine. For a moment, the firelight softens her exhaustion. She nods, fierce and sure. “Yes. Spread the truth faster than he spreads lies.”
The decision is made. We move not toward battle, but toward witness.
***
The march turns heavier. We cut through hills where snow begins to fall, the world hushed except for boots crunching frost. The freed struggle, but they keep moving. Some collapse; others carry them. Every step is a test of faith. The air is sharp, biting. My breath fogs, mingling with the murmurs of those who still whisper songs.
At night, sleep brings no rest. Cassian finds me in dreams, his voice, his laughter, his chains. I wake with fists clenched, nails carving blood into my palms. Vera is always there, her hand steady on mine, her voice reminding me I am more than his leash. I want to believe her. But belief is fragile in the dark.
***
On the fifth night, the storm breaks. Snow lashes the camp, fires sputter, tents collapse. Men curse, women weep, children huddle in supply trucks. Elira shouts through the gale, dragging rebels back to their feet. Rourke curses the skies, half-drunk, half-furious. I stand in the storm, letting the snow sting my face, because it is nothing compared to the weight inside me.
Through the white blur, I see him. For an instant, I swear Declan stands among us, smiling, unbothered, untouched by the storm. I stagger forward, hand reaching for my sword. He fades into snow before steel clears its sheath. My breath rips from me, sharp and panicked.
