Screams pierce the night, a purplish-blue sky drowned beneath billows of black smoke, grey ashes swirling through the air while the earth trembles under the war unfolding around her.
She watches the volunteer guards press toward the burning village under Rhett's command, their movements practiced and silent despite the burden of armor, steel glinting in their hands.
A sharp flick of his finger clicks the safety off. "Stay here."
He lifts the pistol, his gaze locking onto hers.
"Don't step into the mess. No matter what."
"Tell any villagers you find to gather here," Neva replies, her voice steady, coherent.
Rhett's gaze hardens in silent disagreement, but he turns to Sky instead. "Keep her safe."
"Of course," Sky says, low and even.
Neva clutches the shawl to her chest, her fingers shaking as she watches him slip into the shadows, into the burning blaze consuming the village.
Flames claw at him as he passes a burning cottage, the heat of violence prickling his bones—
a guard wrenching a screaming woman from the charred shell she once called home, another driving a spear through a man's heart, laughing as the raised hand drops into death.
The laughter cuts short as his comrade hits the ground with a thud, blood spraying from the cleaved nape where steel finds no guard.
He turns to find the shadow, blood still dripping from the dagger in his hand. The armor rings—then gives. Dust and ash lift as the ground shudders under his fall.
Flames cast Rhett in gold as he steps toward the bruised woman on the floor, the pale smoke from the Glock 19 ebbing into the grey swirl drawn upward by the heat.
"Toward the forest," he orders. The woman only stares.
"Go!"
She startles, then breaks into a frantic run through the burning cottages.
Rhett keeps moving. Orders are shouted, formations break, fire blinds them—his rebel guards driving the innocent cries into frantic screams, chaos consuming its own.
A guard faces him, a dead coldness in his widened eyes—a commander, distinguished by the refined patterns etched into his armor and the black feather trembling in his helm.
Rhett's jaw twitches as the commander charges, screaming, steel flashing with the horror of blood and violence.
He fires. The silencer dulls the report. Confusion flashes in the commander's eyes, then terror spreads as the burly body drops at his feet.
Night, smoke, flames shroud him. The guards surge like hyenas, loud, cruel, heedless—then quiet claims them, warm blood darkening the ash-strewn ground.
Smoke stings his lungs, ashes grit his mouth. Blood swallows the moment as the guard screams, the blade cutting clean through the arm before him.
A sharp cut severs his arm. A blow to the back of his knees sends him sprawling to the floor. His screams die as Rhett finishes him with the guard's own blade.
Blood splashes his face. Another mark on his soul, another burden to carry in silence, another debt to redeem in prayer.
He draws in a sharp breath, heart slowing, aiming the gun at the guard with the colored feather, sword poised over the rebel writhing beneath him.
And fires.
The soldier drops over the rebel, shoved aside instantly.
The guard without the feather rises, sword in hand, nodding silently at Rhett.
"Gather the villagers in the woods. We move now!"
The guards scattered around him nod, shadowed beneath curling smoke, breaths ragged, the only ones with bare hilts.
The metallic sting of blood overwhelms the acrid smoke. His eyes burn as he searches through the blur of night and flames.
"What of the wounded, Leader?" a guard asks, coughing.
"Mercy if it's too late," Rhett says, calm, cold, moving among the corpses—from the innocent to the guilty.
Villagers with lighter injuries receive quick aid; those worse off are eased into calm, their shallow breathing fading.
Some thirty souls,
injured and uninjured, are guided into the shadowed woods while the fire consumes what remained—cottages, corpses, and all.
Screams hush into whimpers, the hiss of fire softened by rustling leaves, a baby's cries quieted by her gentle coos, as he steps carefully through the bushes ahead of him.
A sword clangs against his dagger.
"It's just me," he snaps, forcing it back.
"Apologies, Boss," Jeremiah says, head bowed, sword retreating.
Sky lowers her pistol. "Could've given us five workdays' notice," she says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
He ignores her, his eyes meeting Neva's worried gaze while she gently rocks the baby against her chest, then looks down at the woman leaning against the tree.
"Are you hurt?" she asks softly.
"I'm fine," Rhett answers. "Come on. We need to move."
"Sky, help her." He nods toward the woman half-lost in the darkness—probably the baby's mother.
"Copy that," Sky replies, easing her pistol into her waistband before lifting the groaning woman to her feet.
"What about the villagers?" Neva asks, her hand gentle on the baby's head.
"They'll follow with the guards," Rhett says, his touch settling at her lower back as Jeremiah turns on a flashlight, guiding them onward.
Twigs crunch beneath their feet as they push through the forest's untouched gaps, moonlight dulled by the stark glow of the flashlight guiding them safely on.
As the flashlight catches the Aston Martin, hidden beneath green bushes and branches heavy with leaves, the woman mumbles, dazed.
"My husband... my husband," she whispers, whimpering as she leans against Sky, eyes glassy. "Please—save him. My David."
Neva's mouth turns dry, her chest aching with helplessness, unable to offer hope—afraid it would only sharpen the woman's devastation when her husband wouldn't be among the villagers.
"Get in," Rhett says. Jeremiah clears the final twigs from the Aston Martin.
Sky helps the whimpering woman into the back seat and sinks back with a tired sigh.
"Come in," Sky murmurs, making room. Neva nods, easing herself inside with the baby asleep against her chest, his breathing calm and steady.
Neva shuts the door softly as Rhett slips into the driver's seat, Jeremiah settled in the passenger seat.
The ride home is silent but for the hum of the car, the forest drifting past as the heater warms their frozen bodies.
Neva watches silhouettes blur past the window, headlights glinting on silver armor—villagers led by guards on foot and on slowed horses toward the mountains.
The narrow, winding road to the mountain stretches ahead, lonely on the journey to the Door beneath a baleful winter moon,
until lanterns paint the paths in amber, guards patrol, and villagers gather or move quietly among the bonfires.
Moriah had been a vibrant village until tragedy struck months before, just as it had in the village they'd escaped.
Now, surrounded by mountains capped in ivory snow, the ghostly settlement shelters thousands of believers.
The Aston Martin eases to a stop before a worn cottage, amber light streaming through broken panes.
"What do we do with her?" Sky asks, gesturing to the young woman leaning against the window, her gaze empty.
"Get her in Saimon's place. His wife can handle her," Rhett says.
Jeremiah steps out, the door thudding shut, the engine ticking as it cools.
"I'll take care of her," Neva murmurs, just as Jeremiah opens the woman's side. "Nana's got her hands full," she adds. Sky steps out, Jeremiah holding the injured woman steady.
"You can't carry everyone's weight, Neva," Rhett says, calm yet taut.
Neva presses her lips together. As he looks at her, she clenches her fingers around the handle, pulls the door, and steps forward.
She shivers, goosebumps blooming on her skin as the frosty January wind curls around her. She cradles the baby closer, her shawl now cocooning him.
"Mama!" the voice calls, just as Rhean appears from the cottage, dashing toward her before collapsing into her legs.
"Did you miss me?" Neva asks, smiling softly as she brushes his curls, the baby snug against her chest.
"Asshole!" Sky snaps.
Ace groans in pain as a solid thud echoes, flesh slamming into flesh.
The agent scoffs at Ace and marches toward the cottage, but Neva's attention falls to Rhean as a whimper escapes him, his little arms wrapped tight around her legs.
"What's wrong, baby?" Neva asks, concern creasing her brows.
Rhett steps closer, frowning as his eyes flick from his son to Ace approaching them.
"Did something happen?" he asks quietly.
Ace shrugs. "He seemed fine a moment ago."
"Give him the baby," Rhett says, nodding toward Ace. "He needs checking."
Neva meets Rhett's gaze. His jacket is gone, yet the sharp scent of blood still eclipses the leather and musk clinging to him.
She merely nods and gently helps Ace take the baby.
He cradles the small bundle wrapped in her shawl, hesitation flickering over his face.
"Prepare for aid and shelter," Rhett orfers. ''Thirty villagers are on their way."
"Roger," Ace replies, heading to another tattered cottage in the clearing between the mountains and woods, the ghost village now serving as a temporary home.
Rhett lingers, eyes on Neva as she makes her way to their makeshift cottage, their son cradled in her arms.
He falls in step behind her, pale smoke rising with each deep breath into the cold air.