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.
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 as a whisper falls off her lips, "Inaya..."
Utter blackness greets her, everything spinning in a dizzying blur until a flicker of lantern light ripples into view.
She closes her eyes against the dull pounding in her temple, bile rising in her throat.
Her sleep has been fitful, nightmares threading themselves through the labyrinth of memory and reality.
Even as exhaustion seeps into her bones, she refuses to surrender to it.
No, she can't afford to lose control… not in a place like this.
She eases Isaiah's fingers from her nightdress, the boy still clinging to her even in his sleep.
She gently pulls his head away from her chest, and he shifts onto his back,
a small swallow rippling through his throat.
Her unbound curls cascade over her face like a veil as she kneels in prayer.
Bracing a hand against the mattress, she leans back, watching as her son breathes soft and steadily.
From the moment he saw her, Isaiah refused to let her out of sight.
She barely managed to soothe him enough for a quick bath before dressing in one of the nightdresses his father had set aside for her, certain she would return.
She tilts her head, struck by how much Isaiah resembles his father.
If someone said that these months in Miraeth had all been a dream, she thinks 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 Ephrath and the cave captivity, before the rebels found them and brought them to the ghost village of Moriah.
If she returns back to her husband, will he still take her back, or turn her away at last.
She had promised to be back before midnight, with the twins, with the believers.
He trusted her... enough to let her go.
Yet, here she is, in the shadow of the man who has unraveled everything good she had... everything she could have given him.
She does not know how long this can go on.
There is only so much he can endure...
and all she can do is pray, for him,
for their son, that they are given a good life, even if it must be without her.
Her thoughts drifts toward that endless ocean of darkness again.
She draws her knees close, arms wrapped tight as she buries her face against them.
No, she cannot let herself be lost again.
A knock pulls her gaze to the locked door.
A chair and desk are wedged tight against it, everything she could move, save for the heavy wardrobe, stacked into a barricade.
Another knock breaks the silence... followed by his voice.
She pretends not to hear him. She owes him no wifely duty.
She would sooner die than let him touch her like that again.
"Neva," his voice comes low and muffled. "I just want to talk."
"Go away!" she spits.
Oh... she shouldn't have answered. Should have let him believe she was sleeping.
But she's so... so tired of this endless game of pretense she's played for as long as she can remember with him.
"I just..." He trails off, his voice strained and brittle. "Please, just hear me out."
She says nothing. As the silence stretches, she slides a hand beneath her pillow, fingers closing around the dagger.
"You can't shut me out of my own room." Another knock comes, harder. "Open the door."
She pulls a shawl around herself and steps toward the door.
There's no use resisting. He always finds a way to bend things to his will.
After dragging the furniture aside, she draws in a steady breath. Her grip tightens on the knob, then she pulls the door open.
"What is it?" Her gaze settles on his raw and red-rimmed eyes.
"Love..." Ishmael moves a step closer.
She turns toward the bed, tightening her grip on the dagger tucked in her shawl.
His presence close in behind her.
And she prays and prays that this night will not haunt her memory, another moment she will one day shudder to remember.
She sits on the edge of the bed while his gaze drifts to Isaiah, sleeping soundly.
"What would it take for you to stay?" he asks.
She stays quiet, staring at the floor by his bare feet.
A heavy quiet settles between them, until he lowers himself to sit on the floor next to her.
He rests his head in her lap, a soft sigh escaping him as her fingers trace through his dark, tousled hair.
"You didn't even ask about Naya," he says, pressing his face into her dress. "What made your heart so hard?"
She drifts into herself, emotions melting somewhere deep inside, until his rough, warm fingers glide up her ankle.
"Tell me love..." His fingers move in slow circles along her calf, making her skin prickle in unease.
"We'll leave all these hard times behind."
Her heart pounds as her mind fixates on his breath brushing through the fabric,
his fingers creeping upward,
each touch igniting a blaze of fear and smothering agitation.
"Then we'll go back home once Naya's health improves..."
"Stop killing those children!" she blurts out, unable to hold back.
He lifts his eyes to hers.
"If... if you don't stop," she says, clutching her dress as her fingers tremble, "we'll lose our daughter."
"Do you remember all the times you tried to kill my children while pregnant?" He frowns. "Don't act like you care."
A lump lodges in her throat.
"What makes you so much better than me, hmm?" His thumb circles her knuckles as he presses a soft kiss to them.
She jerks away, springing to her feet. "I'm not!" she snaps.
Her fists clench and unclench as she moves toward the door.
"But through my Father, I try…"
A low chuckle escapes him. "Leave this… your Father… when it's about us."
She stops, turning to face him.
"Where I'm concerned, my Father will be." Her voice hardens. "And there's no us."
"Whatever you say, love." His smile softens.
"For me, there's no such thing so vain."
Her voice dies in her throat.
He steps closer, eyes unwavering.
"You've strayed entirely from God's truth," she murmurs. "...You'll never let healing in."
He lets his knuckles graze her cheek, sliding a loose curl behind her ear.
"If you let this continue," she says, frowning. "You'll completely destroy yourself."
He cups her face, his smile warm and tender. "I love it when you play prophetess," he says, leaning closer.
"Your sermons captivate me."
Her breath hitches as she stumbles back.
"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!"
He watches her quietly, his expression earnest... thoughtful.
"Repent, while there's still time, Ishmael," she murmurs. "Release the believers."
"Persuade me." He closes the distance, breath warm against her skin.
"Use 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. "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 harden, 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, would you?"
She presses the dagger deeper into his stomach.
He grips her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Go on," he murmurs, breath scorching her ear. "You excite me, my love."
Her fingers shake against the dagger,
tears of rage and sorrow streaking her cheeks.
"My God," he murmurs, eyes 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. His jaw tightens. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Ishmael frowns. "What's the matter?"
"What happens when a sick child's—" Jacob's words falters as Ishmael rushes out.
Jacob meets her gaze, shakes his head, and walks away.
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 remains frozen, while waves of guilt and fear shatter the ground beneath her.