Page 77 of The Monster You Made
Elira bares her teeth in a grin. Rourke mutters curses, but he does not argue. The rebels nod, some relieved, some afraid. Vera watches me, her eyes burning through the shadow I carry. She does not speak, but I feel her words press against me:Don’t let him win.
***
We dig into the cliffs. Rocks are pried loose to tumble on soldiers’ heads. Fires are snuffed, smoke hidden. Arrows are strung, blades sharpened. The rebels work with grim resolve, their fear buried beneath duty. Even the freed lift stones, carry water, clutch sticks like weapons.
I patrol the ridges, sword on my back, cloak whipping in the wind. The storm has passed, but the cold is sharper, biting deep. My breath fogs. My steps echo. In the silence between, I hear him.
They’ll die for you. Do you feel proud? Or does it hollow you out, knowing each grave is dug with your hands?Declan’s laugh rolls like thunder.Fight, Wolf. Bleed. Feed me with their screams.
My grip tightens on the sword. The urge to howl rises in my throat. I choke it down, forcing silence instead. If I unleash it, I fear it will not be mine.
***
By nightfall, the first horns sound. Echoes bounce off cliffs, sharp and cruel. The rebels stiffen, clutching weapons. Thefreed cry out, hushed by Elira’s bark. Light flares in the distance, winding like a serpent through the snow. The Crown comes.
We wait. Hearts pound. Breath fogs. Every sound is too loud: the scrape of boots, the creak of bows, the rattle of chains inside my chest. I feel Vera’s eyes on me, steady, anchoring. I hold her gaze across the shadows. Her lips move in silent words:You are not his.
The horns sound again, closer now. The soldiers march into the gorge. Their banners whip in the wind, their armor glints like teeth. Declan is not among them, but his presence coils in their steps. He does not need to be here. His shadow is enough.
***
The first stones fall. Elira roars, her breaching axe flashing as she hews down the lead riders. Arrows hiss, striking from the cliffs. Rebels surge from hiding, blades flashing, cries echoing against rock. The Crown soldiers falter, shields raised, horns blaring. Blood spatters the snow.
I leap into the fray, sword a storm in my hands. I carve through shields, bones, flesh. Each strike is heavy, desperate, mine, and yet not mine. Declan whispers with every swing.Yes. Kill. Spill. Break them until you are only what we made you.
My rage builds. My vision blurs red. For a heartbeat, I lose myself. My blade rises to strike down a soldier already broken, kneeling, begging. My hand does not falter until Vera’s voice cuts through the storm.
“Lucian!”
Her cry sears me. My hand trembles. The blade halts, inches from the man’s throat. His eyes widen, terror raw. I slam the hilt into his skull instead. He crumples, blood pooling in the snow. My breath heaves. My chest burns. I cling to her voice like a lifeline.
***
The battle rages long into the night. The rebels fight like wolves, teeth bared, claws sharp. The Crown soldiers falter beneath stone and steel, their horns blaring retreat. Bodies litter the gorge, blood soaking into snow. When silence falls at last, it is heavy and jagged.
The rebels cheer weakly, voices hoarse. Elira raises her breaching axe, her grin feral. Rourke slumps against a rock, flask in hand, blood on his sleeve. The freed sob, some in relief, some in grief.
I stand apart, my sword dripping, my body trembling. Declan’s laughter still echoes, even in victory.You fought well, Wolf. But every swing was mine. And every cheer they give you is mine too.
I close my eyes, fighting the pull. Vera’s hand finds mine, steady, grounding. I open my eyes, meeting hers. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is louder than his whispers.
***
The gorge is silent when the horns fade. Only the crackle of dying lights and the low moans of the wounded remain. The snow is red beneath us, steaming in the night air. The rebels move slowly among the fallen, dragging their own to fires,leaving the enemy where they fell. Death weighs heavy, but survival weighs heavier.
I stand in the shadows of the cliffs, sword heavy in my grip. The blood on it feels endless. It drips onto the snow, each drop an accusation. My chest heaves. My hands shake. Cassian's whispers coil in the quiet.How many were mine, Lucian? How many blows struck for me instead of you?
Vera approaches, her cloak torn, blood on her cheek that isn’t hers. Her eyes lock on me, fierce, unyielding. “You didn’t yield.”
I want to believe her. But inside, I feel the chains tightening. I hear his laughter louder than the rebels’ cheer. I sheath my sword without answering. If I speak, I fear my voice will not be my own.
***
The council gathers near the fires, faces gaunt in the glow. Elira’s jaw is set, her breaching axe still dripping. “We held. We can hold again.”
Rourke spits blood, clutching a flask in one hand, pressing cloth to a wound with the other. “Held? Barely. That was a taste, not the feast. They’ll be back with more, and we’ll be buried.”
Murmurs ripple through the rebels, fear rising with the smoke. Their eyes turn to me. Always to me. My silence stretches like the gorge itself, deep, endless. I see their hope flicker, waiting for my word to stoke or snuff it.
