Page 101 of The Monster You Made

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That night, the camp is heavy. Rebels speak low, voices raw with grief and triumph twined. Elira sharpens her breaching axe in silence, her grin gone. Rourke drinks deep, his curses sharp, his hands shaking. The freed whisper Marta’s words, clutching them like prayers.

Vera finds me at the edge of camp. Her eyes burn in the firelight, fierce and steady. “You led them through,” she says, voice low but strong. “You broke chains again.”

I shake my head, shadows pressing tight. “And I bled them again. Every strike feels like his game. Every victory, his laughter.”

She grips my hand, grounding me. “Then let him laugh. We will outlast it. We will burn chains faster than he can forge them.”

Her fire steadies me.

But when I close my eyes, I still hear the horns. I still hear his laughter.

And I know this storm is far from over.

Chapter 50 - Vera

Blood lingers on the snow long after the compound vanishes behind us. The sledges creak beneath the weight of grain and weapons, but no cheer rises this time. Rebels march in silence, their eyes hollow, their breaths ragged. The freed stumble, clutching one another, some still dragging lengths of broken chain. Every step forward feels bought with blood.

I read Marta’s words aloud as we march, voice steady though my throat aches. “Truth endures. Chains break. Silence shatters.”

The freed whisper them back, a litany against despair. But even as I speak, I feel the silence pressing heavier than the words.

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By dusk, we find shelter in a rocky hollow, the wind howling through the trees above. Fires are struck, smoke rising thin into the night. Rebels huddle close, eating bread with hands still trembling from the fight. Elira paces like a caged wolf, her breaching axe never leaving her grip. Rourke drinks in silence, his flask shaking with each swallow.

Lucian stands apart. He watches the forest, his face carved from shadow, the carved wooden wolf clutched in his hand. Children peer at him with wide eyes, but none approach this time. His silence is heavier than the storm.

I go to him, Marta’s satchel heavy against my ribs. “They look to you still,” I say softly. “Even when silence weighs.”

He shakes his head, voice hoarse. “They look, but they do not see me. Only what he makes of me.”

I reach for his hand. “Then let them see us both. If he twists your shadow, I’ll burn it brighter.”

For a moment, his eyes soften. But then the scouts return, breathless, faces pale.

“Crown columns march,” one gasps. “South and east. Thousands.”

A ripple of fear runs through the camp. Elira snarls, pacing. “Let them come. We’ll bleed them like we bled the compound.”

Rourke slams his flask down, voice rough. “Bleed them? They’ll crush us under boots before we touch a blade. We can’t fight thousands. Not yet.”

The rebels argue, voices sharp, fraying. The freed shrink back, eyes wide, clutching children close. The camp teeters between fire and fear.

Lucian steps forward, his shadow stretching across the flames. His voice cuts through the chaos. “We move north. Faster. We take what we can, free who we can, but we do not stand and break ourselves for him. Not yet.”

The rebels fall quiet. Fear remains, but the decision stands.

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That night, I gather the freed and rebels around the fire. Marta’s words spill from my lips, carried on the crackle of flames. “Chains rust. Truth endures.”

I make them chant it until their voices rise strong, until even Abigailren shout it into the dark. Sparks whirl into the night like stars.

Yet when I look at Lucian, standing beyond the circle, his eyes are still fixed on shadows only he can see.

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