I wake to the smell of burnt coffee.
The light in the cabin has shifted—soft and gray at the edges, bleeding through the cracks in the curtains like the morning isn’t sure it wants to arrive. My neck aches—I’ve fallen asleep half-curled on the couch, a throw blanket tucked around my legs.
Elias.
I sit up slowly, the couch creaking as I move. The cheap laminate table is littered with notes from the night before, maps I scratched out in pencil, a short list of supplies in Elias’s slanted print. I hear him walking around outside, boots on frost-stiffened grass, pacing. I brush a hand through my hair—darker than it used to be, the temporary dye clinging to the strands. I catch myself in the mirror and pause. Not me. This woman looks like she belongs on that fake profile we built. A little too tired, a little too clean. She could be anyone. A widow. A believer.
Perfect.
I wash my face with water that smells like copper and wipe it off with a paper towel. Then I pull on my boots, re-tie the laces too tight, and head out. Elias is crouched beside a pine trunk. He doesn’t look up right away.
“You didn’t sleep,” I say.
He smiles, faint. “Didn’t need to.”
“We’ve got six hours,” he continues, straightening. “The group’s been quiet online since the last post. No new location chatter. No member activity flagged. Kelsi thinks they’re prepping off-grid.”
I nod. “Then we’re on our own.”
He studies me. “You good?”
I shrug. “Good enough.”
It’s not a comfort, but it’s honest. We go over the plan again—simple and tight. No heroics. No improvisation unless absolutely necessary. If something goes wrong during infiltration, I’m to say the safe phrase—“vanilla ice cream”—and extract immediately. If I can’t, Elias pulls me out in ten minutes, no matter what. Period.
He agreed to it and I know he hates it.
I pull out the pamphlet from my hoodie, the one we took from Ridgepath. The Vessel Suffers For Our Salvation. My fingers trace the letters pressed into the paper. I wonder how many people read those words and felt saved. I wonder how many are still missing.
“You ever think,” I ask suddenly, “what it feels like to believe something this deeply?”
Elias doesn’t answer right away.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
I don’t ask what he means.
Above us, a bird shrieks—sharp and quick, lost in the wind. I close my eyes for just a moment, just long enough to hold the sound. I’m starting to feel nervous now. The buzzing hum beneath all this, the thing this group is building toward. And whatever happens next, I have to walk into it like I believe too.
We sit outside the cabin on the wooden steps for a little bit, side by side, wrapped in silence that doesn’t press too hard. Elias keeps his gaze on the trees. He hasn’t said anything in the last twenty minutes, but I can feel him thinking—feel it in the way his fingers twitch near his knee, in the way his foot taps a rhythm into the step. Restless, contained.
“They’ll be watching the road,” I say. “We go in from the ridge line.”
He nods, slow. “I checked the maps again. It’s a three-mile loop through the back trail. Rough terrain.”
“I’ll manage.”
I glance over. He’s already looking at me, and the weight of it hits low—something old and protective and complicated.
“You trust me?” I ask.
“More than anyone.”
I want to believe that should make this easier. It doesn’t.
I stand and move back inside. Time to get ready. The table’s covered in gear—burner phone, emergency comms, clothes for the persona I’ll wear tonight. A nondescript jacket. Loose-fit jeans. Worn sneakers with the laces stained just enough. Elias even aged the soles so they wouldn’t look new. I take the burner phone apart, check the SIM, reassemble it, then set it down next to my ID folder. One name. One face. One shot.
Behind me, I hear Elias’s boots on the porch. Then the door opens.
“Dalia?” His voice is just above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Come back in one piece.”
I close my eyes and smile at him.
“Always do.”
But I don’t know if that’s still true.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The woods look like they’ve been waiting for me. More likely, I’m just paranoid. It’s a thought I shouldn’t have, but can’t shake. The deeper I hike, the more the trees begin to feel posed—branches reaching out just a little too deliberately, trunks too evenly spaced, the path too clear despite the underbrush. I don’t want to admit to myself how anxious I actually am.
The sun’s long gone now, but the moon—bloated, silver—guides me through the undergrowth like an accomplice. Elias is nearby, I’m sure of it, but this part is mine. Mine to carry, mine to risk.
I’ve become her. The woman I built over the last week in front of monitors and mirrors and fake prayer circles. Bookish. Open-hearted. Hurting but hopeful. A threadbare single mother clinging to the promise of community. Hair dyed a warmer brown, ends uneven enough to pass for neglect. Minimal makeup. Nothing sharp or loud.
My thoughts beat louder than my footsteps. Every branch creak becomes a whisper, every rustle a warning. But I keep going forward, toward the firelight ahead.
When I crest the hill, I see them. Scattered figures moving in the clearing below, loose shapes in plain clothes, drifting through the trees like shadows in orbit. There is a soft murmur of easy chatter synchronized with the crackle of flames and the hush of pine needles shifting under their feet. Candles burn low in shallow bowls placed in a circle around a central fire. I count forty people, maybe fifty. It’s hard to tell. They don’t cluster, but drift like smoke.
I stop just inside the tree line, inhale once. A long, steady breath that doesn’t calm me.
This is it.
I step forward. One foot, then the other, until I break through the last of the pines and cross into a group of people. No one turns. They don’t sense the threat because I’m a part of them, another lost soul seeking redemption through whatever means. Belonging. I drop my chin and let the role settle deeper into my bones, relaxing a bit. The woman they’re expecting isn’t confident. She’s curious, fragile, still grieving. She walks like her hope might shatter if someone reaches for it too fast.
The smoke coils upward into the canopy, and I realize I can’t see the sky anymore, only branches stitched tight overhead, framing this place like a closed lid.
A man passes me without a word, carrying a bundle of rosemary in one hand, drops it into the fire as he goes. The smoke sharpens—herbal and bitter, makes my throat ache. Another woman kneels near one of the candle bowls, murmuring something too soft to hear. There’s no check-in, no one waiting with a list to strike your name through it. You show up, or you don’t. You belong, or you don’t. The line is invisible and that’s what makes it dangerous. I find a place near the edge of the circle, not too close to the fire and not too far from the trees. Close enough to run if I have to. I fold my hands in front of me and wait.
I wonder where Elias is. His presence, even though it’s invisible, calms me.
I clench my jaw and force my breathing to slow.
Jonas Vale hasn’t appeared yet, but the space is already shaped around him, the kind of power that doesn’t require presence. Someone begins humming, low and rhythmic. Then another joins in. Then another, until it becomes a web of sound, winding through the trees, vibrating in my teeth. The gathering has begun.
And I am one of them.
Suddenly, the humming stops all at once. It cuts off mid-breath, mid-note, like someone flipped a switch. The absence rings louder than the sound ever did. That’s when I see him. Jonas doesn’t stride into the clearing. He doesn’t announce himself or demand attention. He simply emerges—like the forest parted for him specifically. His coat is long, deep brown like tree bark, with an old-fashioned collar and cuffs that look handmade. He carries nothing. No book, no candle, no symbol of faith. He doesn’t need one. He is the symbol.
People part for him without speaking, eyes filled with reverence. The circle widens as if the fire itself leans back to make room.
I study his face. The photos online didn’t do him justice—not because he’s attractive, but because they missed the precision of him. How symmetrical he is, cheekbones and chin carved to invite trust. Brown hair too neat. Eyes too bright, too friendly. It’s all been smoothed into something palatable. Except for the smile.
It’s wrong. Uncanny. The corners of his mouth tug upward just enough to imply warmth, watching the crowd like a shepherd counts sheep before a slaughter.
He raises one hand.
“We are here,” he says. The voice is gentle, like a storybook narrator. Goosebumps rush over my body.
“We are ready,” The group responds in perfect synchrony, like breath. “We are the light.”
The cadence is rehearsed—repeated until memorized, until meaning is replaced by obedience. Vale lowers his hand. He walks the circle’s edge slowly, making eye contact with nearly every person there. When he passes me, I feel the brush of his gaze like a weight settling over my shoulders, even though I’m not front row. My body reacts instinctively—heart rate ticks higher, skin too tight—but I keep my expression soft. Open. I’ve worn this mask before, in grief.
Jonas pauses at the fire, crouches beside it. He picks up a bowl of something dark—ashes, maybe—and sprinkles a pinch into the flame. The fire flares, just slightly, and I swear the smoke shifts direction. He begins to speak.
“They will mock what they don’t understand. They always have.” His tone is calm, intimate, like he’s telling a secret to the whole group at once. “But we? We understand.”
Deep. I try not to make a face. A few murmurs rise around me, people nodding. Soft hums of agreement.
“The world demands blood for peace. We offer it freely. The vessel suffers for our salvation.”
I flinch, but only inside, my fingers twitching at the phrase. The slogan, the thread we followed here. And now, hearing it out loud, it sounds worse. Less like doctrine and more like prophecy. I wonder if Jonas speaks loud enough for Elias to hear, and whether he feels the same.
Someone across the fire—a woman, maybe mid-50s, in a pale shawl—lowers to her knees, arms open like she’s receiving something. A blessing. I don’t know. Jonas looks at her a beat too long, then returns his attention to the group.
“Tonight,” he says, “is not for questions.”
His gaze snags on someone—out of view, to my left. “Tonight is for surrender.”
This doesn’t sound particularly family-friendly.
From the trees behind him, two figures step forward. Both women, both in white. One carries a folded linen sheet, the other a brass bowl. I catch the glint of water so it’s not just a prop. One of the women sets the bowl at Jonas’s feet. The other holds the cloth out to him, reverent. He turns slowly, then speaks again.
“Who among you is ready?”
My throat dries. For a long moment, no one moves.
Then, a young man—barely out of his teens, I’m guessing—steps forward, fists clenched tight. His lip trembles, nodding once. The kind of nod you give yourself before jumping into something cold and irreversible.
Jonas beckons.
The boy kneels at the fire’s edge. One of the women wets the linen and presses it to his forehead. Then his temples. Then his mouth. Baptism through silence and anticipation.
He starts crying. Quietly, like a child trying not to wake a parent and no one comforts him. Jonas simply lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder, then moves on.
“Tonight,” he repeats, “is not for questions.”
The members are all folding themselves around him, leaning into his calm, his certainty. Vale lets the weight of the world do the work for him, and offers a way to carry it. I look around the circle. Every face is focused, every posture open. They want this, whatever this is. They want it enough to unmake themselves a little.
I lower my gaze and attempt to do the same. My thoughts are racing. Where’s the real power here? What’s being promised in secret? And where does it end?
Ruth Quinn. The unknown woman in the farmhouse, strung together like a doll. And who knows, how many other.
I ground myself, focusing on the ritual unfolding in front of me. The other woman in white lays the damp cloth across young boy’s shoulders like a mantle. His spine straightens. His mouth begins to move, whispering something I can’t hear. Over and over again.
“The Vessel suffers for our salvation.”
Then Jonas Vale looks at me. No words, no nod. Just a hand, extended toward me, palm up.
I freeze and I have to remind myself—I’m not Dalia here.
The circle parts for me as I step forward, all eyes suddenly trained on me. I hope I’m not shaking too hard. Jonas leads me in silence, fingers curling briefly around my shoulder, guiding me into the very center where the boy still kneels, now humming low under his breath.
I try to keep the rising panic at bay. This is a relatively small group of people, who know each other. Vale must have been the person who approved the fake Facebook account and because I’m the newest member, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I should have stood more at the back, should have focused on blending in more.
I got too curious.
Jonas doesn’t really acknowledge me. He starts speaking about devotion, about surrender, about shedding the names we were given for the truth we deserve.
The woman dips another cloth. The water drips as she lifts it. Forehead. Temples. Lips. It’s colder than I expect, and the scent is stronger this time—like something sweet rotting underneath. I keep my eyes down, shoulders still. A tremble runs the length of my spine, but I hold it in place.
She doesn’t place the cloth over my shoulders. Instead, she folds it into a perfect square and presses it into my palms. It’s damp. Heavier than it should be.
There’s suddenly a hand on my shoulder and it takes everything in me not to flinch. Jonas’s touch is almost weightless. Every cell in my body is screaming to pull away. He leans in.
“You carry grief well,” he murmurs, voice so low I feel it more than hear it.
This was a terrible fucking idea.
He turns back to the circle, leaving me with the boy and damp cloth. He is still crying and I have no clue what to do. I feel like I’m failing some weird initiation ceremony.
People drift outward, whispering and touching shoulders, murmuring thanks and phrases that sound like prayers. I stay, the cloth pressed against my palms, the ghost of Jonas’s hand still burning into my shoulder.
I think of Elias. Wherever he is—watching, waiting—I know he saw that. I know what he must’ve felt when they called me, when I stepped forward, when Jonas touched me. He would’ve wanted to move, but he didn’t.
Because he trusts me.
God, I want to see his face.
I slightly turn my position to look at Jonas again. The fire crackles behind him, casting his face in shifting orange. He lifts a thin silver chain from a bowl—a pendant attached at the end, spiral-shaped and gleaming. A low hum ripples through the crowd as the pendant is held over the flame, the metal darkening from silver to copper, copper to red.
Jonas turns towards the boy.
“Before the flame,” he says. “Speak the burden.”
The boy swallows. For a moment, he says nothing.
“I killed it.”
My fingertips press into the damp cloth.
“She was my sister’s. A birthday gift. Small and white and soft.”
The boy’s eyes flick up, meet Jonas’s, then drop.
“She cried when I said it escaped the hutch. But it didn’t. I took it behind the shed. I wanted to see what would happen if something that soft… stopped moving.”
Jonas steps forward, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And does it ache now?”
He nods.
“Do you still feel the blood on your hands?”
The nod again. Smaller. Jonas turns—to me.
“Then she will carry it.”
The pendant glows dull orange, its spiral burned into the air between us. I hand the wet cloth to one of them women in white and step forward before the hesitation can catch up, fingers closing around the chain, metal hot enough to sting through my calluses. I raise the pendant.
One second.
Two.
I press it just below the collarbone, where he is pointing. His breath catches but he stopped crying. The skin sizzles, the burn hissing like truth and when I pull back, the flesh is angry, raw, spiral rising like a brand. Jonas speaks above the chant beginning to stir behind us. “The burden now has shape. The shape now has pain. The pain now has meaning.”
The boy exhales like something has left him.
“Let it be witnessed. The vessel carries what we cannot. The vessel suffers for our salvation.”
The chant rises, low and unnatural. Voices folding over one another in a rhythm too steady for real prayer. I step back, releasing the pendant back into the held out bowl.
I find my place in the circle again, hands slick with sweat, breath caught in my chest. My fingers still burn faintly from the pendant, even though I let it go minutes ago. I keep my expression slack. Eyes low. Inside, I’m fraying at the edges.
“You have witnessed devotion,” Jonas continues his weird sermon. He paces the fire’s edge slowly, gaze passing over each of us—not long enough to challenge, just enough to make you feel seen. “Go now. Rest. Reflect.”
The crowd begins to move, loose lines of bodies dissolving into the trees, voices hushed, feet soft. No one talks. I hold back, waiting until the bodies thin, until the eyes move past me. Until the tension that’s stitched into the night finally starts to release. I curl my fingers into a fist and tuck them into my sleeves as I leave the glade.
I can feel Elias in the dark. I don’t look for him, just keep walking, back through the trees, each step a little faster than the last until the firelight is a memory and the clearing is behind me. The cold hits harder out here, wind threading through the trees like it’s chasing me.
I keep walking, making sure I’m the last person in the group so I can slip into the forest and disappear. I can’t stop hearing the boy’s voice.
I wanted to see what would happen if something that soft… stopped moving.
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