Nine-year-old Neva turns toward the smoldering village as a cry rips through the darkening sky.
"Hurry, Neva." Grandpa's voice comes out ragged as he yanks at Neva's arm.
"I heard someone call for me."
Neva's eyes lingers as the orange flames engulf the thatched cottages and spread ravenously into the woods.
From their vantage near Tintern Lake, the soldiers appear as ghostly whispers, driving villagers from their homes and slaughtering children in their path.
"You heard wrong," Grandpa snaps, taking Neva's arm with a force that makes her stumble toward the dock.
Sweat glistens on Grandpa's brow as he quickly works the ropes from the cleats with practiced precision. Pain etches deep lines across his wrinkled face as he straightens.
He arches his back as he straightens,
Her silver-haired Grandpa had long struggled with a weak back, and the thought of rowing the boat across the lake alone makes Neva's chest tighten with fear.
Grandpa flings their luggage aboard, then steadies Neva as she steps onto the swaying wooden deck, wobbling with each movement.
Grandpa settles across from her and immediately drives the oars through the water.
A wave of panic washes over Neva as the boat tilts precariously, slicing through the black expanse of the lake.
Neva clings to the gunwale, twisting to take one last look.
The roaring flames and curling smoke devour the cottages, villagers, and animals, fading into the growing distance.
Still, the August wind stirs the water reeds, carrying with it the desperate cry of a girl.
"I hear her!" Her heart hammers in her ears as her eyes dart to Grandpa. "We have to turn back!"
"You are good as dead if we turn back!" Grandpa's voice cracks like a whip. "Do not move an inch!"
Neva's lips tremble as tears blur her vision. "Ishmael will die too! We can't leave him behind!"
"He cannot come with us," Grandpa's voice comes softer now. "I have told you—only children your age are at risk. He'll be fine."
"But why?!" Neva's voice cracks as tears spill freely down her cheeks.
Grandpa lets out a weary sigh. "All in due time, you shall know, my child."
"You're lying!" Her body trembles with rage. "You're wrong! I have to take her with us!"
"There is no one to take!" Grandpa barks—then his voice falls to a hush. "They have long since gone silent."
Neva shakes her head, desperation clawing at her. How can Grandpa lie so easily?
The girl's cry winds sharply through the splash of oars, the whisper of wind, and the restless chirp of crickets.
"She's hurting!" Neva clutches at her hair. "She's calling for me!"
"Child, what is it?" Grandpa releases the oar, reaching for her as the boat rocks unsteadily. "Who do you hear?"
Grandpa sinks to his knees before her, clasping her trembling hands. "Come, daughter… pray with me."
Neva shakes her head, tears burning as they stream down her cheeks. "She—she's scared…" A sob rips through her.
"Neva," Grandpa says. "There is no one out here."
He's lying! He's lying!
She can see her clearly—a little girl crouched inside a burning cottage, her hands blistered and bloodied as she cries for her mother.
A scream shatters from her as the blazing ceiling collapses in a fiery roar upon her.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅ ⑅
Neva jerks awake, a whisper falling from her lips, "Inaya..."
Her fingers dig into her temple as she swallows past the dryness in her mouth.
Her sleep has been fitful, nightmares threading themselves through the weave of memory and reality.
Even in her exhaustion, she cannot afford to lose control of herself in a space like this.
She slowly pries Isaiah's warm fingers from her nightdress, the boy still clinging to her in his sleep.
She gently draws his head from her chest, and he turns onto his back, a small swallow rippling through his throat.
Her unbound curls cascade like a veil over her face as she kneels on the bed, and prays.
She presses a hand into the mattress and leans back, her gaze lingering on her son as he breathes softly.
From the moment he saw her, Isaiah had refused to let her out of his sight.
She barely managed to soothe him enough for a brief bath before dressing in one of the nightdresses his father had set aside for her, certain she would return.
She tilts her head slightly, struck by how much Isaiah resembles him.
If someone whispered that these months in Miraeth were nothing but a dream, she might believe them.
For this moment is a thread, weaving a tapestry of a beautiful lie, one that unravels the dying life of the past four years she has so desperately tried to erase.
She rests a hand over her still-flat belly, as if she could feel the tiny life within, the one they discovered after her missed bleeding, confirmed by the apothecary.
It was during those weeks of homelessness after the invasion of Eprath and the cave hostage situation,
before the rebels found them and brought them to the ghost village of Moriah.
If she returns to her husband, will he still take her back—or turn her away at last?
She had promised she would be back before midnight, with the twins, and the believers.
He trusted her enough to let her go.
And yet, here she is, in the shadow of the man who has undone everything good she could have given him.
She does not know how long this will last. There is only so much he can bear…
and all she can do is pray, for him, for their son, that they are granted a beautiful life, even if it must be without her.
She's losing her train of thought again.
She wraps her arms around her knees, burying her face against them.
She cannot afford it—losing her way again.
A knock draws her gaze to the locked door, where a wooden desk and chair stand wedged against it. Every piece of furniture she could find, save for the wardrobe, piled into a makeshift barricade.
Another knock sounds—then his voice.
She pretends she doesn't hear it.
She owes him no wifely duty.
She would sooner die than let him touch her like that again.
"Neva," his voice is low and muffled. "Please… I just want to talk."
"Go away!" she snaps.
Oh... she shouldn't have answered. Should have let him believe she was asleep.
But she is so, so tired of this game of pretense she has played for as long as she can remember with him.
"I just..." He trails off, his voice thin and brittle. "Hear me out, please."
She says nothing, and as the silence stretches, she slips a hand beneath her pillow, fingers closing around the concealed dagger.
"You can't shut me out of my own room." A soft rap follows. "Open the door."
She pulls a shawl around herself and moves toward the door. There's no use resisting. He always finds a way to bend things to his will.
Once the furniture is dragged aside, she inhales deeply, fingers tightening on the doorknob—then opens it.
"What is it?" Her gaze fixes on his raw, red-rimmed eyes.
"Love." Ishmael moves a step closer.
She turns toward the bed, her grip tightening around the dagger concealed in her shawl.
Footsteps close in behind her, and she prays and prays that this night will not stain her memory, another moment she will one day shudder to remember.
She sits at the edge of the bed while his gaze drifts to Isaiah, lost to sound dreams.
"What would it take for you to stay?" he asks softly.
She remains silent, her eyes fixed on the floor by his bare feet.
"You didn't even ask to see Naya again," he says. "What happened to make your heart so hard?"
He slides down to sit on the floor beside her.
"Tell me, love…" He leans his head into her lap, his fingers curling around her calf.
A soft sigh escapes him as her fingers trace through his dark, tousled hair.
"Let's leave these hard times behind."
He buries his face in her dress, words muffled against her. "We'll go home once Naya's health improves."
"Stop killing those children," she says.
"You know I can't." His fingers move in slow circles along her calf.
"If you don't stop this," she whispers. "We'll lose our daughter."
He lifts his eyes to hers.
"I had a dream," she murmurs, eyes fixed on his. "And we lost her."
"Are you cursing her?"
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
"Do you remember how many times you tried to kill them while you were pregnant?"
"I… I regret it." She clutches her dress as her fingers tremble. "I shouldn't have done that."
He takes her hand, pressing his lips to her palm before she jerks it away.
A frown creases his brow as she rises. "Did I do something wrong?"
"You can rest." Her throat tightens as she swallows hard. "I'll go be with Naya."
"Do I disgust you?" He lowers his gaze.
"Yes… yes, you do." She steps toward the door, fists clenching and unclenching.
A chuckle escapes him. "What makes you so much better?"
"I'm not," she says sharply. "But through my Father, I try to be."
"Leave Him out of this," he says quietly. "This is about us."
She halts, turning to face him. "Where I am concerned, my Father will be."
Her voice hardens. "And there's no 'us'."
"Whatever you say, love." His smile softens. "For me, what hurts doesn't exist."
She parts her lips as if to speak, but the words catch, and nothing escapes.
He moves closer, his gaze unflinching.
"You've entirely turned from God's truth," she whispers. "You'll never let healing in."
He lets the back of his hand graze her cheek as he tucks a strand of curl behind her ear.
"If you let this continue," she says, frowning, "it will destroy you."
He cups her face, his smile warm and tender. "I love hearing you play prophetess… your sermons captivate me."
She stumbles back, breath hitching as he leans closer.
"I can't even kiss you now?"
His shrug is exaggerated. "I missed you. I miss you like hell."
"Stop treating me like a puppet." Tears sting her eyes.
"You have no right to toy with our lives!"
"Repent while you still can," she says. "Or let your spirit burn... and be lost forever."
He watches her quietly, his expression earnest and thoughtful.
"Release the believers, Ishmael," she murmurs. "Let me and the children go."
"Persuade me." He steps closer, leaning in, his warm breath grazing her cheek.
"With your body… like you made those agents into your guard dogs."
She stiffens, a shiver of disgust crawling down her spine.
Her hand lashes out on its own—but he seizes her wrist before it hits his cheek.
"Don't you dare!" he growls, yanking her against him.
"I pity you! I pity you!" She bares her teeth, her heart hammering. "You're utterly lost… with no true connection to another soul."
His jaw quivers with barely contained fury. "Don't make me regret this, Neva."
She writhes against his grip, but he pins her relentlessly. "You may break my body," she says, tipping her chin to meet his gaze. "But my soul is no longer yours to claim."
His eyes hardens, his breath growing heavier.
"Get your hands off me." She glares, daring him.
He smirks. "You wouldn't ask me to strip you with that knife in my direction, would you?"
She drives the dagger deeper against his abdomen.
He seizes her waist, pressing close. "Go on," he murmurs, breath hot against her ear. "You excite me, my love."
Her fingers shake against the dagger,
tears of fury and despair carving paths down her face.
"My God," he murmurs, his gaze tracing her features, "you're perfect for me."
A sob rips from her throat, when footsteps thunder down the hall.
A muffled clamor echoes from the next room, and suddenly their door flies open.
She recoils as his grip finally loosens.
Jacob appears in the doorway,
hair messy, eyes taking in the scene as if he's just awakened.
Jacob's jaw twitches as he glares at them. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Ishmael frowns. "What's the matter?"
"Tell you what happens when a sick child's left alone—"
Jacob never finishes his words as Ishmael storms out.
Jacob meets her gaze, shakes his head, and disappears down the hall.
The dagger clatters to the floor.
"Mumma," a soft voice calls.
Half-dazed, she turns to see Isaiah sitting up, rubbing his eye with a tiny fist.
"Is Naya okay?" Isaiah asks worriedly. "I had a really bad dream."
She stands frozen, heart hammering, as waves of guilt and fear shatters the ground beneath her.