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. 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 aims.
And 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 rises despite his limp, 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."
"Help her." He nods toward the woman half-lost in the darkness—
probably the baby's mother.
Sky eases her pistol into her holster before lifting the groaning woman to her feet.
"What about the villagers?" Neva asks as he moves to her side.
"They'll follow with the guards," Rhett murmurs, his touch grounding at her lower back as Jeremiah turns on a flashlight and guides them onward.
Into the deepening forest they take the veiled path, twigs crunching beneath their feet as they push through untouched gaps, moonlight dulled by the stark glow of the flashlight guiding them on.
Silver flashes in the beam—an Aston Martin layered beneath green bushes and branches heavy with leaves.
"My husband… my husband…" the woman mumbles, dazed, whimpering as she leans against Sky. "Please—save him. My David."
Neva swallows, her mouth dry with helplessness. She offers no hope—afraid it would only sharpen the woman's devastation when her husband would not be among the villagers.
Rhett tells them to get in. Jeremiah tosses the final twigs aside and helps Sky settle the whimpering woman into the back seat.
Only after Neva settles beside Sky does Rhett ease into the driver's seat, the door closing with a muted thud as Jeremiah climbs in last.
Through the night, along converging paths, they ride home in silence, the forest drifting past to the low hum of the car as the heater warms their frozen bodies.
Silhouettes blur past the window, headlights glinting on silver armor—villagers led by guards on foot and slowed horses, moving toward the mountains.
The winding road narrows into the mountains beneath a baleful winter moon—lonely, until lanterns paint the paths in amber, guards patrol, and villagers gather or move quietly among the bonfires.
Moriah, a ghostly settlement ringed by forest and mountains capped in ivory snow, once vibrant before tragedy struck, now offers shelter to thousands of believers.
A worn cottage edges into view, amber light glowing through broken panes as the Aston Martin eases its speed.
"What do we do with her?" Sky asks in a hush.
Neva frowns at the young woman leaning against the window, her eyes empty, looking nowhere at all.
"Get her to Simon's place. His wife will know," Rhett replies as Jeremiah steps out, the engine ticking quietly as it cools.
"I'll take care of her," Neva murmurs. The seat shifts as Sky steps out, Jeremiah steadying the woman. "Nana's got her hands full," she adds, catching him in the rearview mirror.
"You can't carry everyone's weight, Angel," Rhett says softly. Neva presses her lips together. His gaze meets hers as she grips the handle and opens the door.
Goosebumps prick her skin in the frosty January wind. Cradling the baby closer, she draws her shawl tighter around him.
"Mama!"
She hears her son's voice, before he bursts from the cottage. A smile curls her lips as the child collapses into her legs.
"Did you miss me?" she murmurs, brushing his curls.
"Asshole!" Sky snaps.
Ace groans as a heavy thud echoes—flesh slamming into flesh.
Sky scoffs at Ace, marching toward the cottage. Neva's attention falls to Rhean as a whimper escapes him, tiny arms tightening around her legs.
"What's wrong, baby?" Neva whispers, Rhett's warmth pressed beside her, his gaze moving between their son and Ace.
"Did something happen?" he murmurs, watching Ace approach.
Ace shrugs, a frown tugging at his brows. "He seemed fine a moment ago."
Neva feels the baby stir in her arms, patting his back to quiet him, torn between consoling her own son.
"Give him the baby," Rhett says, meeting her eyes. "He needs checking." His jacket is gone, yet the sharp sting of blood still eclipses the familiar leather and musk.
After helping Ace with the baby, she cradles her son in her arms. Ace hesitates as a tiny whimper escapes the baby, bundled safely in the warmth of Neva's shawl.
"Prepare for aid and shelter. Thirty villagers are on their way." Rhett's voice trails behind her as she moves to the cottage with her son.