"You need to leave." The words slice the fog in her mind—thin, shaky with urgency, just as fingers close hard around her wrist.
She's dragged the opposite way, away from the cavern's throat where voices echo, cold, distorted, and chimerical, along the stone.
"I can't leave them," she murmurs as they reach the rocky incline, the ground rising beneath them until the steep cliff evens out into a narrow, diminished ledge, the pale mist blinding everything beyond.
He doesn't heed her, and neither does her body—moving forward against her will, against the frantic heart pounding loud with its desperate cry to shield the believers left behind, trapped beneath the erupting coils of deadly manipulation.
"Cut the line," he mutters into the receiver, just as the forest's dark silhouettes rise, sharp branches like claws reaching out of a nightmare.
Her feet freeze, blades of chill skimming through the clouded air and straight into her skull.
"What's wrong?" he asks, the coldness in his face aligning with the look he levels at her.
She gently pulls her wrist from his grip, the pressure of his hand leaving a faint, flushed burn against her skin.
She doesn't like this version of him. This Rhett—who feels less like her husband and more like Agent Czar, carved for the hostile fields she always feared he belonged to.
Just as Neva turns on her heels, the distant screech of tires tearing against the earth slices through the stiffened air, followed by a shattering crash that rings in her ear.
He reaches for her hand again, but she keeps walking, down the path they'd just taken—now closing in with curling fog.
She hears hurried footsteps humming against the trembling earth—
the screams, the crack of violence beyond the blinding air that stings her numb face, her hands, her lungs.
A faint, pungent reek of gasoline and gunpowder fills her senses—then, the scent of flower meadows… sweet, fresh, blooming under sunlight, warming her whole being.
She feels her head reel, the ground tilting—then she's falling, feather-light, drifting into a trance.
Golden sunrays seep through the clouded heavens, warming her—her being here, her spirit elsewhere.
Find the Door.
The breeze carries the voice in a whisper, a calmness unheard of, elusive in its depth, mighty in its divination.
Her legs lose their strength the moment cold paleness coils around her again—
and just as she's about to collapse, a desperate voice breaks through, followed by a familiar warmth catching her.
Strong arms wrap around her, and she closes her eyes,
resting her head against his chest, her breath heavy—her heart pounding, dizziness drowning her consciousness.
The scent of flowers—of spring—tingles her senses, and she slowly lifts her head.
A soft circlet of tiny flowers blooms around them. She spins, her gaze sweeping outward—only to meet the yellow-green grasses blanketing the cliff's terrain.
"Are you alright? What happened?" Rhett asks, worry and confusion clouding his gaze.
"You were right here… then you weren't."
"Did you hear the voice?" Neva asks, her voice frail yet tinged with enlightenment and hope—the relief of being seen and protected rising like goosebumps along her skin.
"What voice?" he asks, frowning.
A smile blooms across her face. "There's a way," she says, turning to walk down the rocky incline they'd just climbed.
"Another way—other than the ocean."
A sudden, tightened grip on her wrist seizes her steps.
She glances at him, a confused frown etched between her brows.
"Don't you understand," he says, his voice low, thick with agitation.
"We've wasted enough time."
"You don't believe me," she whispers, the truth settling in her tone as she searches for the softness—the faith—veiled beneath eyes sharpened by responsibility.
His jaw hardens, carved by the weight he refuses to voice.
"Let go of me," she says, her eyes turning ice-cold.
When he doesn't, she pries his fingers away with her other hand.
He exhales hard as she walks away, his fingers brushing the inside of his collar as he presses the micro‑PTT hidden in the seam. The line clicks open.
"Hold until my call. Keep eyes on."
"Roger that." Sky's voice slips through before the feed cuts out.
Footsteps thud behind Neva again, her own swallowed by the rising wind,
the distant clamor, and the squish of slip-on flats pressing into wet sand.
The click of a firearm being cocked reaches her ears just before a thunderous explosion shudders the terrain. A shiver races down her spine, but she pushes on, trembling bones carrying her toward the cave where screams rattle along the cold stone.
"Stay close to me," he says, gripping his firearm tight as he moves ahead, each breath stirring the tense air,
the sounds of dread pressing close, clawing at their senses.
A line of volunteer soldiers holds at the cave's mouth, rigid and watchful, swords raised, every muscle poised to strike.
"Make way," Rhett commands, his presence snapping every gaze toward them.
As the soldiers move back, Neva steps into the cave, facing the gathered crowd. The air thickens; murmurs of anticipation ripple through them, heated gazes burning into her. This lingering sensation on her skin isn't fear—but a sharp disappointment—as she sees Ishmael held at gunpoint by Knight.
Ace stands behind Pastor Gideon, pistol aimed at him. He meets her eyes for a moment, and she sees the flash of shame and guilt before he hardens his expression into cold detachment.
"Ah, the prophetess has arrived," Knight mutters, a faint, teasing smile curling at the corner of his lips.
"Neva," Ishmael murmurs. Her gaze finds his, softened and heavy with relief.
"You whore!" a voice shouts. Before Neva can register it, she stumbles as Rhett spins around her, arms locking her close.
A loud thud—rock striking flesh—jerks his body against hers, the world narrowing to sharp, shocked gasps of impact.
"You swine! You horrid woman!" she screams, and more curses flare around her, voices of soldiers clashing in an attempt to silence her and force her down.
"Silence!" Knight shouts, followed by the sharp, deafening crack of a gunshot echoing through the chaos like a thunderclap.
The crowd erupts in terrified shrieks, babies wailing, as fragments of stone rain from the cave's roof.
The acrid scent of gunpowder hangs in the the air, and a shiver of violence courses through Neva, leaving her legs quivering.
"Nobody speak or move! Hands where we can see them!" Knight barks, the command cutting through the panic‑stricken crowd like a blade.
"Are you alright?" Rhett whispers, his gaze scanning her face with concern before dropping down her body.
"I'm fine," she replies, her face rigid with tension as she steps into the light, revealing herself to the waiting crowd.
Neva parts her lips to speak, but only a shallow breath escapes—
a sharp pang catching her tongue as thorns pierce through her throat.
She clenches her fists, words failing her.
"You," Knight says, pressing the muzzle to the back of Ishmael's head. "Identify every man wearing a charge—now."
Ishmael's jaw tightens, eyes darkening as he lifts his hands higher. "I have none."
Knight fists the back of Ishmael's coarse robe and yanks him off balance. A firm shove between the shoulder blades hauls him downward,
forcing him hard onto his knees.
Knight seizes a fistful of his hair and jerks his head up, pressing the muzzle hard beneath Ishmael's chin. "I might as well end you here," Knight murmurs, his grip steady.
"Do not harm him," Pastor Gideon mumbles, his raised hands trembling, pale eyes glazed with tears. "I beg you."
Rhett flicks a hand toward Ace, signaling him to lower his pistol and step back.
"And why is that, Pastor?" Rhett asks, his voice low and controlled as he steps toward him.
"The sea shall not open to us, nor will the king's men relent till they have washed themselves in our blood," Pastor Gideon says, his teeth clenched.
"The prophetess has sorely grieved the Lord," Pastor Gideon goes on, his voice trembling, breath dragging heavy—as though under a weight he cannot lift.
"She turned her face from Him—abandoned the role of her marriage, witheld mercy from the man who sought redemption, and left him to writhe in his own despair," his eyes dim, bordering between fear and remorse.
"And now we all bear the consequence. For she has cast aside the union God ordained to guard us, to guide us, and to lead us unto deliverance."
Rhett stands before Pastor Gideon, his cold gaze sweeping over the man's face—tracking every twitch,
every spasm that ripples through the rugged lines of the elder's frame.
"You may lower your hands," Rhett says.
Knight reaches beneath the vest pocket of his jacket and produces a small, black, square remote—
red numbers pulsing on its display, a single red button waiting like a trigger, a green light flickering in Ishmael's line of sight.
"You know," Knight says, amusement glinting across his face, "I might've grown a little too curious about that stuffed toy your daughter never seemed to part with."
He watches the way Ishmael's eyes widen,
horror swallowing the last of his defiance.
A corner of his lips curls, savoring the precise moment when the devil might finally crack.
Neva stands there, her body locked and breath stilled, her entire being gone stone-cold.
"Don't you dare," Ishmael growls,
the sound rumbling low—anger flaring, fear leaking through the cracks.
Knight lets out a low chuckle.
"Look at them," he says, lifting the detonator toward the sea of believers.
"I figured a man with your heart wouldn't mind—since you don't even blink before blowing a few thousand of them."
"We have a very simple bargain," Knight says, holding the detonator with a languid ease as he drives the muzzle harder into Ishmael's skull. "I let your kids walk out alive—and you order every one of your human IEDs to step forward."
"Tell your men to fall back," Knight adds, watching with a calm, predatory stillness as Ishmael's eyes squeeze shut and a wavering breath escapes him.
Faces in the crowd wear their smiles—familiar and unfamiliar alike—eyes gleaming with annoyance, disgust, and hatred.
And there, in the center of the gathered believers wedged into the throat of the cave, sits satan in the moon-round face of a man grinning wide.
He nudges shoulders, whispers spreading like rot, the murmurs low and eager as they relish the spectacle—her skin metaphorically torn open, her thawing soul laid bare, mourning, decaying, turning to ash before them.
"Give me courage," she whispers, breath unsteady as she folds into herself, the coarse wool of her cardigan gathering beneath her trembling grip, threads darkening where her nails bite into her own skin. "Give me strength, Father."
She lifts her head, arms falling to her sides, her senses opening to the believers shrouded in darkness—bodies pressed together in trembling clusters, golden threads of muffled sobs and whispered prayers weaving through the multitude.
"Protection, shelter, and freedom are not ours to give, but the Father's," Neva says—her voice wavering at first, then steadying, rising like wind.
"Remain, if you believe you can forgive your captor, your nemesis, your assaulter—and still walk forward with the purpose carved from your trial.
But if you will not honor yourself, nor the Lord who sustained you—even when you starved—then walk away. Go and eat the fruit of evil until the end times and let your legacy rot beneath the sin you chose."
The crowd falls into a hush, yet the gazes—each carrying its own meaning, its own judgment, its own warped belief—so far from the truth she carries, claw at her heart.
"Let him go," Rhett says, and Knight's head snaps toward him instantly.
"What?" Knight manages.
"You heard me," Rhett replies, expression unflinching—revealing nothing.
"Tsk." Knight scowls, straightening to his full height.
"Hand it to me," Rhett says, extending a steady hand toward the detonator.
Knight's gaze sharpens, darkening with a quiet warning.
Rhett meets it with cold detachment—unyielding, unmoved.
Knight clenches his jaw but hands the remote over anyway.
Rhett slips the device into the inner vest pocket of his coat, then lifts his gaze to Pastor Gideon.
"Guide their way, Pastor."
"Follow them out,'' he orders the soldiers stationed at the entryway, their faces still marked with confusion and unease.
And so the sea of shadows glides away, like foaming tides brightened with a hope imaginary.
The old and broken,
the weary and wounded, the young and unshaken, the children with their fragile innocence—all drift past her, carving a hollow through Neva's heart.
This moment is an abyss she tumbles through, the ache of abandonment bleeding into forever—bubbling, bursting, drifting, and sinking all at once.
Yet she musters a smile for the few who approach, their familiar warmth gently sticthing the hollow blooming inside her.
"I want my children back," Ishmael says, facing her across the space.
Hunter stands a pace behind him and to the side, gun lowered but ready—the agent's concealment among the crowd discarded the moment he chose to linger.
Neva doesn't reply, nor does she let her gaze so much as waver in his direction.
Tiny footsteps echo—small, patter of beats cutting through the stillness while a cold chill snakes through the emptied cavern.
"Papa!"
"Papa!"
The sweet chorus of familiar voices rings out, their footsteps tapping sharp and urgent against the stone as they rush into their father's arms—
melancholy cries, joyful cries, relieved cries tangled into one trembling breath of home.
She shrinks further into the shadows,
lifting her gaze to the few companions near her, their faces gentle with sympathy. "If you have finished gathering your belongings, please, follow me."
Neva walks on, Rhett falling into step beside her, his palm brushing softly along her back. A quiet reassurance, a lingering warmth of togetherness,
in this cavern that once sheltered thousands—now shrunken,
pressing close, narrowed to the abundance of the whole world she leaves behind.