The winter noon sun spills through the window, casting a golden warmth across the cottage parlor.
On the carpet, Neva sits before a low coffee table, carefully folding her sun-dried laundry.
Beside her rests the quiet fireplace, swept clean and left with nothing but the pale shadow of ashes.
"Mama," a soft voice calls, followed by the patter of small feet across the wooden floor.
Neva looks up to see her son rubbing his eyes as he toddles toward her. "You're awake?" she asks gently, placing the freshly folded garment atop the neat stack on the coffee table.
Rhean nods, still a little drowsy from his afternoon nap. When he reaches his mother, he slips his arms around her neck, hugging her from behind.
"Mama, oranges."
"Hm?" Neva glances back at him, her hands pausing mid–fold over a shirt.
"I want to eat oranges," he says, leaning against his mother, his now bright eyes fixed on the wicker basket overflowing with smooth-skinned oranges beside a blue notebook and pen on the coffee table.
"But you said you had a sore throat this morning," she replies, her hands moving steadily as she folds the laundry. A small pile still waits in the basket nearby.
"But I wanna eat them. Please, Mama..." Rhean declares, his lips curving into a small, sulky pout.
"You mustn't eat them if you feel a cold coming," Neva replies gently.
"But I feel fine now," he insists, lifting his face to her with wide, pleading puppy eyes.
Neva furrows her brows in mock suspicion, but he only meets her with a sweet, mischievous smile.
"You cheeky boy," she murmurs, rubbing her cheek against his soft, warm one before pressing a kiss there, drawing a stream of bright giggles from her son.
"Only one, alright?" she says, folding a towel with steady hands.
Rhean's face lights up in a grin. "Thank you, Mama!" He plants a quick kiss on her cheek before lunging eagerly for an orange.
Neva sighs, a faint smile playing on her lips. The boy plops down beside her, tiny fingers struggling to pry the skin from a large orange.
She sets the last of the laundry onto the second tidy stack of clothes.
"Give it to me," she says, reaching out when she sees him mangling the peel.
Rhean obediently places the fruit in her hand.
"If you peel it like this," Neva murmurs, her fingers working with practiced ease, "it doesn't get so messy." She coaxes the rind away in smooth petals, her gentle hands turning the simple act into a small wonder.
Rhean gasps in awe, clapping his hands as the peel comes off in a perfect flower, so much neater than when he had torn it into little pieces. "It's a flower!" he exclaims.
Neva chuckles lightly, handing him the flower-shaped orange peel. "You can put the seeds there," she says, gently peeling away the stubborn albedo strands from the fruit until its surface is smooth.
She offers it to him, and Rhean, who had been admiring the peel, eagerly takes the fruit from her.
"You want some, Mama?" he asks, carefully dividing it into two halves.
She shakes her head, murmuring, "You have it, baby."
"Okay," the boy replies, taking a bite of his snack.
Neva rests her elbow on the table, her cheek cradled in her palm, watching her son with loving eyes.
"Is it sweet?" she asks.
Rhean nods, his eyes crinkling with delight, mouth and hands full of oranges.
Neva smiles as she reaches for the notebook and pen.
When Rhean finishes swallowing, he looks up at her. "When will Dada come back?"
"He should be back anytime now," Neva replies, opening the notebook.
Her eyes settle on the mostly blank page, where only a single paragraph of her upcoming sermon have been written so far.
She sighs, twirling the pen between her fingers, her cheek cradled in her palm. After the sermon at the Valley of Samaria, she needed to prepare another, for the people still hungered for the Word long denied to them.
Yet she could not move past that single paragraph—her mind a mayhem, mirroring the turmoil of Miraeth, and of the world.
The situation now is sensitive—the king's followers are coiled like riled serpents.
A whisper of gathering could risk a major conflict.
The laws of Miraeth had been repelled, and while the believers rose in defiance, the blind followers struck back, sinking venomous fangs into any they could ensnare. Yet, if the day of decision were to come, the message would pass among the faithful in quiet, elusive ways.
The dimmed faith in the people's hearts had been rekindled, and believers across the land are now gathered to fight for freedom.
Today, another meeting is being held in the village of Ephrath, in the house of the village head.
There the elders assembled, along with others who are willing—all drawn to partake in the struggle against the vile followers of Leviathan, prowling in the shadows, waiting to devour.
Her husband himself has gone to attend the meeting.
She had insisted on attending too, but he forbade her, saying he would ensure that only His will would be set into motion.
The people are rebelling against the injustice forced upon them, fearlessly spreading the Word—the message from the Lord that freedom will be theirs to claim.
This has stirred upheaval in the distant parts of the land, now creeping steadily toward the neighboring villages.
Believers are massacred, wounded, and taken prisoner, yet the violence only awakens the sleeping fire within them.
Because of the king's followers and their mad slaughter, it is decided that certain villages—including Ephrath—will house the believers.
Rations and shelter are to be provided, and able-bodied men volunteer to guard these villages until the day comes when they may escape from Miraeth.
But Jeriah did not tell her the exact day.
Jack and Ace have found prisoners from other lands as well, though they have not yet succeeded in rescuing them.
They have gone there for another reason too: Agent Hunter. A prisoner boy managed to escape—wounded. A guard patrolling Ephrath found him. He is now being cared for in the village elder's house.
It was this boy who, upon seeing Rhett's unusual attire—clothes not typically worn by the villagers—realized he was not from this place. He told them about a wounded man they had saved, washed ashore by the sea. His weapons and the clothes he wore confirmed he was from another land.
The boy said the soldiers soon discovered him, and their chief, seeing that Hunter could be of use, ordered that he be treated until he recovered, so they might profit from him later. They did not suspect him further—after all, it was not uncommon for strangers to be washed ashore in their land.
Her father, Neal Noe, had once been caught in a storm and washed ashore in this very same land.
He was saved by a young woman—Evara, her mother. That, Apphia told her, was how their story began.
Neva sighs, straightening as she clicks the cap onto her pen.
She leaves it resting on the page where she is stuck, then closes the notebook.
She glances beside her, finding her son with his head resting on his folded arms atop the table, watching her with a blend of wonder and worry.
"What is it?" Neva asks softly.
Rhean only shakes his head in response.
Neva smiles, gently ruffling his curls.
"I still need to fetch the laundry left out to dry. Will you help your Mama?" she asks, pressing her palms to the table as she begins to rise.
Rhean nods, his face brightening with a smile.
She chuckles, reaching for the laundry basket as he springs to his feet.
"Come," she whispers, taking his tiny hand in hers.
.
.
.
It's a warm afternoon today.
Snow from yesterday has melted away, and it hasn't showed today.
As Neva gathers the sun-dried garments from the string lines in the front yard, Rhean obediently follows, carrying the wicker basket in his hands.
But then Neva's hand stops mid-motion, her chest tightening as if someone is watching them. She gazes toward the nearly bare trees, a few orange and red leaves still clinging to their twigs.
Beyond them, the forest remains shadowy, evergreen trees looming around the cottage.
She brushes off the unease—perhaps it's only her imagination—and continues, grabbing a sun-dried cloth and placing it in the basket her son holds for her.
Neva flinches at the snap of a breaking twig. She glances down at her son, then at the guard standing by the entrance.
Did he not hear it? Was it an animal?
"What's wrong, Mama?" Rhean asks, tilting his head with concern.
She offers him a small smile. "It's nothing."
"Mama?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I go pee?"
Neva looks down at him, nodding gently. "Of course."
Rhean beams up at her. "I'll be right back!" He sets the basket on the grass and races toward the cottage entrance.
Neva chuckles lightly, he's still upto being her protector. Her own little soldier.
But her breath catches just as she glances toward the trees again.
She quickly averts her gaze, her heart picking up pace. She could swear she saw a silhouette moving between the trees.
She swallows nervously, her hands trembling, but dares to lift her gaze once more. The trees stand still, the forest tense in silent vigil, holding its breath, waiting to reveal something… or someone.
Neva takes a step forward, her breath shaky, legs slowly going numb as the trees casts a shadow over her.
"Madame, is something the matter?"
Neva doesn't turn to look at the guard. "No."
Her heart thuds against her ribs as she moves deeper into the forest. The evening chill stirs her hair, strands brushing against her warm cheeks, the cold biting at her skin beneath her thin, white dress.
She gasps as a hand clasps her wrist, slamming her against the rough tree trunk.
She yelps as a sharp pain shoots through her back.
"I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," Ishmael stammers, taking a cautious step back.
Neva shudders inside, her stomach coiling as she meets those dark, appallingly familiar eyes.
"What do you want from me?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ishmael swallows, his gaze dimming as he takes in the hollowness in her expression. He's a shadow—colder, darker than the winter forest, where rustling leaves and bare, creeping branches seem to chisel the grim sharpness of him.
Ishmael inhales sharply, lowering himself slowly to his knees on the decaying ground before her.
But Neva remains unmoving, her gaze fixed on him, her heart hollow and cold. His hair is longer now, tousled; his face pale, with a shadow of restlessness etched beneath his eyes.
His chapped lips twist, nearly blending with the pallor of his skin. "I've come for your forgiveness." He bows his head, fists pressing against his thighs. "I realize the pain I caused you," he murmurs, voice low and shaky. "Can you… please forgive me?"
Neva draws in a shallow breath, her lips parting as she whispers, "I forgive you."
Ishmael lifts his head, meeting her eyes, a faint flicker of hope igniting in them.
"Thank you, Neva," he sighs, closing his eyes for a beat. Then he asks, "Will you... come back to me?"
Neva's lips press into a slight frown.
He looks back up at her, his gaze softened. "I want you to know—the messenger appeared before me. He called me to stay by your side."
He reaches for her hands gently, cautiously.
A soft sigh escapes him as she does not pull away.
"You were right—He sees me. He forgives." He brings her hands to his forehead, pressing them to his cold skin. "That's why He granted me a chance to redeem myself to you. And I promise, after you have completed your cause, we'll go wherever you wish. Whatever you desire, we'll do."
"No. I can't be with you," Neva says, her voice gentle, but raw and cutting. "Please... from now on, do not appear before me."
Ishmael meets her eyes, his deep-black pupils glossy and trembling. "Why?" His voice cracks. "I promise—" he swallows thickly. "This time... I promise to love you the right way. He even helped me warn the villagers before the soldiers destroyed their homes."
He gives her hands a firm squeeze.
"See, Neva—it has always been you and me. I am called to stand with you."
Neva's knees wobble slightly as a sharp, sudden fear chills her nerves.
Goosebumps rise along her skin, a sensation so close, so vivid—like a blade digging slowly, agonizingly into her flesh.
Ishmael frowns as she slips her hands from his.
"I've found us a safe place, Neva," he says, his voice tinged with desperation beneath the thin veil of patience. "We need to leave before sunset."
Ishmael slowly pushes himself off the ground, his eyes darting toward the cottage.
"Where are Naya and Isaiah?" he asks, turning to glance at her.
"Can you go get them for me?"
"You can have them," Neva whispers, her chest tightening. "But I cannot live with you."
A ripple of grievance—an echoing darkness—flashes across Ishmael's face before confusion softens his eyes.
"Mama?" a small, familiar voice calls out from a distance.
Neva turns toward the cottage and sees her son alone in the front yard, searching for her.
"Mama, where are you?" Rhean calls again, his worried voice breaking through the cold evening breeze.
As Neva begins to walk toward him, Ishmael's hand grips her wrist, halting her mid-step.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Ishmael asks, his chin trembling as water gathers in his eyes.
Neva glances at him, but no words come.
Ishmael's face twists in pain. "Am I not your husband? Am I not your family?"
"I don't even know you," Neva replies, her brows creasing. "You're only a ghost of my past—one I pray to escape." She draws in a breath, voice trembling yet resolute.
"And the Ishmael I knew... he's long gone."
"Neva, please..." A tear slips down his pale cheek. He takes both her hands, clutching them as though he can mend the grey of their lives with a single drop of sorrow.
"You're my wife. My love. My life." His jaw trembles, voice breaking. "Everything I am is because of you. I have no one else but you."
Neva doesn't reply. She tries to pull her hands free, but Ishmael only tightens his grip.
"Don't do this to me," he cries.
"Don't punish me like this."
She struggles again, but he doesn't even flinch.
"Let me go," she worries through ragged breaths. Her heart thrums loudly against her chest, her skin crawling as his coldness—his sickening trace—seeps into her flesh.
The moment he releases her, Neva stumbles back.
She glances at Ishmael—horror flickering across her face. Then she whirls around, weaving her way through the shadowed trees with hurried, uneven steps.
Ishmael follows her halfway, almost reaching for her—but stops.
His hand clutches the rough trunk of a sycamore, his whole body trembling.
Then his shoulders slump. Tears fall like pearls onto the grass, where snow begins to feather and melt around them.
She's going away. Once again.
And all he can do is watch as she slips away, abandoning him in the gloomy forest—leaving him, and the fragile dream of the family he once built with her.
"You'll come back," he whispers under his breath.
"I know you will."