Page 60 of The Monster You Made

One night, scouts bring word that freezes the camp. Declan himself marches with a smaller force, swift and silent, striking villages that once cheered us. He does not need armies. His lies break walls faster than steel. And wherever he walks, chains follow.

The rebels look to Lucian. To Elira. To me. And I feel the satchel heavy in my hands, heavier than ever. Marta dreamed that words could shatter empires. But now, only steel seems to hold them back. I wonder if we are betraying her, even as we carry her fire.

That night, when all sleep, I sit with Lucian beneath the pines. “Do you ever wonder,” I whisper, “if fire only consumes, never frees?”

His silence stretches long. At last, he answers, voice low. “If it consumes him, it is enough.”

And I think of Marta, of Abigail, of the villagers whose names already blur with ash. I hold his hand tight, though my heart trembles.

Because I know fire consumes more than enemies. It consumes all who carry it.

Chapter 27 - Lucian

The forest feels smaller now. Every branch a shadow, every rustle a whisper of pursuit. Declan moves somewhere near, not with the thunder of armies but with silence. Silence spreads fear faster than soldiers ever could. Villages that once raised banners for us now watch from behind shuttered windows. Trust thins. Hope falters. I feel it in the way the rebels’ laughter grows shorter, in the way their eyes linger on the dark beyond the fires.

Yet still they look to me.

The Wolf, they call me. Breaker of Chains. They do not see the chains still coiled in my marrow. They do not hear his voice still echoing, whispering that I am his. They see only the blade I raise, the victories we carve. They believe because they must. And belief is heavier than iron.

***

Elira does not waver. Her breaching axe gleams each morning as she drills the new recruits, her scarred face unflinching as she bellows orders. To the rebels, she is a mountain and a shield. To me, she is a reminder that steel endures, even when hearts falter.

Rourke grumbles more now, drink clinging to his breath, but his eyes see sharper than most. “He’s baiting us,” he mutters one night as we crouch over the maps. “Striking soft targets, dragging us where he wants us. You know it as well as I do.”

I nod. “Yes.”

“And you’ll still go?”

My silence is answer enough.

***

The choice comes days later. Scouts return, breathless, saying Declan marches with a small band through the marshlands west. Villages burn in his wake, their people vanishing into chains. If we move swift, we can intercept him. If we wait, he cuts deeper.

Elira slams her fist into the table. “We strike. End him before he coils tighter.”

Some rebels cheer, hungry for vengeance. Others pale, whispering of suicide. I study the map, the routes, the marshes. He wants us to come. He lays bait. And yet, I cannot let him pass. Not again. Not when I still feel his grip on my throat, his words like poison in my ear.

I raise my head. “We march.”

***

The marshlands reek of rot and stagnant water. Fog clings to reeds, muffling every step. Our boots sink in muck, our breaths quicken, nerves stretched taut. The rebels move in silence, blades drawn, eyes darting. Somewhere in this mire, Declan waits.

By dusk, we find them.

His soldiers crouch in the mist, rifles gleaming faintly in the lantern light. Their formation is too neat, their stance toorigid. A trap, plain as fire. I lift my hand, halting the rebels. My heart hammers, my blades ache to strike. But then,

His voice cuts the fog. Calm. Certain. “Lucian.”

It freezes me. He steps forward from the mist, cloak gray, eyes gleaming like a wolf’s. Behind him, soldiers shift but do not fire. His smile is cold. “Still chasing ghosts. Still mistaking leash for freedom.”

The rebels stir, murmurs sharp, fear biting. I raise my blades, forcing my voice steady. “You bleed. They saw it. They know now you are no god.”

His smile widens, cruel. “And yet here you kneel in my marsh.”

***