Days slipped past, and Verin grew colder. Not openly — his words still smooth, his steps still unhurried — but something in the air between them felt taut, like a rope slowly fraying. Silas could feel it.
He was buying vegetables when he saw the man.
Barefoot.
Dragging a wooden cross so large it bit into the dirt, nails driven through the beam and into his neck. Every step ripped the skin, dark blood dripping onto the earth in slow, wet marks.
The sound of wood scraping stone was joined by a swell of voices. The villagers began chanting prayers — slow and rhythmic, as if the man's agony was part of the service.
Silas stood still, the smell of raw onions and river mud mixing in the air. The man's legs buckled. The cross crushed him. His head lolled forward — neck punctured, breath gone — yet the chanting didn't falter.
Silas shook his head, handed over coins for his vegetables, and walked home. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Only tired.
---
Two days later, the river screamed.
He heard it before he saw it — shouts, splashing, the brittle edge of panic in a child's voice.
By the time he reached the bank, the crowd had gathered. A girl — no older than ten — was strapped to a wooden chair at the end of a pole. Her hair clung wet to her face. They plunged her into the river again and again, the icy current swallowing her cries.
Her crime: refusing to marry an old man.
Silas's throat tightened. He stepped into the current. The cold hit him like a wall, clawing at his bones. His boots filled, his clothes dragged him down. He searched the dark swirl until his fingers closed around a small arm.
He pulled her toward shore. She clung to his leg, nails scraping against his skin through the wet fabric, coughing and sobbing.
And then — he saw him.
Verin stood on the bank. No expression. No hurry. Just watching.
"So beautiful and kind," Verin said softly, "trying to help a sinner."
Silas scoffed, water dripping from his hair. "We both know who the real sinner is."
The girl's trembling grew violent. Verin's gaze slid from her to Silas — slow, deliberate.
"What should we do now?" he asked the villagers, though his eyes never left Silas.
"Put Silas in the silent cell," a man said. "Throw the girl back in the river."
Verin nodded once. The girl's mouth opened soundlessly before she was dragged away. Silas didn't look.
---
The church basement was a box of airless dark.
Verin shoved him inside. The smell of damp stone and stale ash wrapped around him. Verin lit a cigarette, the orange glow briefly catching in his eyes.
He crouched, cupping Silas's face with one hand, the smoke curling between them. The warmth of his palm felt out of place in the cold room.
"Let's see how you help others now," Verin murmured. His fingers tightened, forcing Silas's head aside. His mouth was at Silas's neck before he could move.
Teeth sank into skin — a quick, sharp break of flesh. Silas gasped, the sound catching halfway in his throat. Blood welled hot under Verin's tongue. He licked it away, voice low.
"Stay here until the mark is gone."
The door shut. The lock clicked.
---
The month dragged.
Bread, water, silence.
No sky, only the narrow window bleeding pale light onto the floor. The air was heavy with mildew. At night, the stones sweated cold. He learned the shape of the darkness by heart.
When the door opened, the light felt wrong. Verin stepped in, tilting his head to inspect the wound. The mark was pale now, barely visible.
"Even after a month without bathing," he said, "you smell… nice."
Silas rolled his eyes, brushed the hand away.
"Your time is up. Go see the world again."
---
Silas bathed until the water cooled to ice. Clean clothes. Bare feet in the dirt of his backyard. His crops stood alive, green against the dry wind. He stayed there a long time, listening to the leaves.
When he stepped inside, Verin was already there, lounging on the couch as though he'd always been part of the furniture. Silas sat far away.
"Your crops aren't dead," Verin said.
Silas nodded.
A silence stretched between them.
"How do you feel after not seeing the world for a month?"
"I was happy I didn't have to see your face."
Verin chuckled softly. "Of course you were."
Silas's eyes sharpened. "What about the little girl?"
"Oh, her?" Verin's tone was almost bored. "She died. Couldn't swim."
Silas looked at him, the air between them turning to glass. Verin leaned back on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the side.
"Funny thing about rivers," he murmured. "They remember the ones who fought the current."
His gaze found Silas's. "But they never bring them back."
- To be continued -