Chapter 36 - Vera
The mountains close around us like jaws.
The passes narrow, the cliffs lean in, and the wind carries whispers that are not only Declan’s.
Superstition clings to these ridges, tales of wolves that never die, of spirits bound in ice, of chains buried beneath the snow.
The freed mutter prayers with each step, their voices shaking, their bodies bent beneath hunger.
Even the rebels march quieter, as though fearing to wake whatever stirs in the peaks.
I walk among them, Marta’s satchel heavy against my ribs.
The words inside are a fire I keep stoking, though it feels smaller each day.
The spark in the first village still burns in me, but the rejection of the second, the stones hurled, the doors slammed, that wound bleeds slow and deep.
Every time I open the pages to read, I fear they will sound hollow.
But the freed beg for the words, their eyes too starved for truth to care how thin it rings.
So I give them Marta’s voice, again and again, until my throat cracks.
***
We camp in the shelter of a narrow gorge.
The fires are small, hidden against the wind.
The rebels huddle in cloaks patched with frost, sharing scraps of meat boiled to gristle.
Elira sharpens her breaching axe with steady, angry strokes.
Rourke drinks openly, his breath steaming in the cold.
Lucian patrols the edges, his shadow long, his silence heavier than the cliffs themselves.
The council gathers near one of the fires, their faces hollow in the glow. Elira slams the flat of her blade into the snow. “We cannot keep stumbling like this. We need ground worth defending, or these mountains will kill us before the Crown ever can.”
Rourke swigs from his flask, grimacing. “And what then? We dig in, they surround us, and Declan starves us out. These passes are tombs waiting to close.”
Their argument churns like the storm winds. The rebels listen, restless. Their eyes flicker to Lucian, but he does not come closer. His gaze stays fixed on the dark ridges, as though he sees something none of us can. Fear coils in my chest, fear that he does.
***
Later, when the fires burn low, I seek him out. He stands on a ledge above the camp, cloak whipping in the wind, sword across his back. His breath fogs, but his stance is rigid, as though the cold cannot touch him.
“You can’t keep carrying it all alone,” I say, climbing to stand beside him.
He does not look at me. His eyes are fixed on the dark beyond. “If I let go, he takes me.”
I reach for his hand. His fingers are stiff, cold, but they curl around mine slowly, like a man waking from a nightmare. “Then don’t let go. Not to him. To me.”
His jaw tightens. For a moment, I see the struggle in his eyes, the wolf against the chains, the man against the shadow. Then he exhales, long and ragged, and I feel the tremor ease. Only a little, but enough.
***
The next day, the mountains remind us they are as cruel as the Crown.
A rockslide roars down a slope, stones shattering like thunder.
The rebels scatter, screaming. A supply truck tips, spilling supplies into the gorge.
When the dust settles, three of the freed lie crushed, their bodies broken.
The rebels bury them beneath the snow, no songs, no prayers. Only silence.
I stand over the graves, Marta’s satchel pressed to my chest. Words choke in my throat. I want to tell them their deaths are not in vain. I want to say their freedom was worth the price. But the lies will not pass my lips. My silence feels like betrayal, yet my voice feels worse.
Lucian stands beside me, his face stone. His hand brushes mine briefly, a ghost of comfort. But his eyes are far away, fixed on something I cannot see.
***
By dusk, scouts return. Their faces are pale, their breaths ragged. “Tracks,” they report. “Large force, following. Days behind, maybe less.”
The council erupts. Elira demands to turn and fight, her breaching axe gleaming in the firelight. Rourke curses, insisting on hiding in the passes. The freed weep, clutching one another, begging not to be abandoned.
All eyes turn to Lucian. His silence stretches. The rebels shift, restless, desperate. I feel the weight of their hope pressing against him like chains. At last, he says, voice low, “We keep moving. North. Always north.”
The rebels nod, some relieved, some doubtful. Elira snarls but does not argue. Rourke spits into the snow. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, fear hollowing me. North feels less like a direction and more like doom.
***
That night, I dream of chains. They wrap around the mountains, binding the peaks, stretching across the valleys.
At their center stands Declan, his laughter shaking the world.
Lucian kneels before him, his hands bound, his head bowed.
I run to him, screaming, but the chains rise like serpents, dragging me back.
Marta’s pages burn in my hands. The flames lick higher, until even my voice turns to ash.
I wake with a scream lodged in my throat, sweat freezing on my skin. The camp stirs, whispers spreading. Lucian kneels beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes dark with something between fear and fury.
“What did you see?” he demands.
I clutch his wrist, trembling. “Chains. Everywhere. And you, ” My voice cracks. I cannot finish.
His jaw tightens. He pulls me into his arms, fierce, as though holding me can banish shadows. For a moment, warmth breaks through the cold. For a moment, I believe it might be enough.
His arms are a cage around me, his scent, sweat, leather, and something raw, filling my lungs.
My heart pounds, the nightmare’s claws still digging into my mind, but his touch is an anchor, grounding me.
I hate how much I need it, how his strength makes the fear recede.
I shove against his chest, not hard, just enough to feel the resistance, to remind myself I’m not weak.
His grip tightens, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel the shift, the moment his concern turns to something darker, hungrier.
“Don’t fight me,” he growls, his voice low, a warning that sends a shiver down my spine.
My body betrays me, heat pooling between my thighs, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my shirt.
I want to snap at him, to push him away, but the nightmare’s weight lingers, and his presence is the only thing keeping it at bay.
I lean into him, just a fraction, and it’s enough to ignite the spark between us.
His hand slides up my back, fisting in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.
I gasp, the sting sharp and thrilling, and his lips find my pulse, not kissing but biting, his teeth grazing my skin.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice rough, accusing, but there’s a tremor in it, a need that mirrors mine.
I hate him for seeing it, for knowing how much I crave this, crave him.
The camp is silent now, the whispers faded, but the danger of being heard only fuels the fire in my blood. His body looms over mine, massive, imposing, and I feel small, exposed, but not afraid, never afraid with him.
He rips my shirt open, the fabric tearing with a sound that cuts through the night.
My breasts spill free, the cold air biting my skin, but his hands are fire, rough and possessive as they knead my flesh.
His thumbs brush my nipples, hard and aching, and I arch, cursing him under my breath.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat, just watches me, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my cunt throb.
I want to fight him, to make him earn this, but my body’s screaming for him, wet and ready.
“Your fears are mine,” he says, his voice a low growl, and I shake my head, defiant, even as my hips lift, seeking him.
His hand slides down, tearing at my pants, yanking them off with a violence that makes my pulse race.
I’m bare now, vulnerable, but the way he looks at me, like I’m his to break, his to claim, makes me feel powerful, dangerous.
His fingers find my cunt, spreading me open, and I moan, loud and reckless, unable to stop myself.
“Now about those juices,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust, and I flush, humiliated and aroused.
His fingers thrust inside, thick and unyielding, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.
I claw at the bedroll, my nails scraping the fabric, and he watches, his eyes burning as he fucks me with his hand, slow and deliberate, drawing it out until I’m trembling.
I try to push him away, to regain control, but he grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand, his body pressing me into the ground.
“Don’t,” he warns, his lips brushing mine, and I bite him, hard, tasting blood.
He groans, a raw, animal sound, and retaliates, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s all teeth and fury.
I fight back, my tongue battling his, but my hips grind against his hand, desperate for more.
He pulls his fingers out, and I whimper, hating myself for the sound, but before I can protest, he’s unbuckling his pants, freeing his thick, heavy cock, the head glistening, and the sight of it makes my mouth water, even as I curse him.
He just lines up and thrusts, filling me up in one stroke.
I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder, my cunt stretching to take him.
He’s relentless, each thrust deep, his hands gripping my hips, fingers bruising my skin.
I meet him, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, challenging him to break me.
The bedroll shifts beneath us, the ground cold and hard, but all I feel is him, his cock driving into me, his breath hot against my neck.