The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the shack, casting faint golden lines across the floor. Rowan sat on the edge of his cot, his hands clasped tightly together, his mind still racing from the night's events.
The image of the watchers lingered in his thoughts—their stillness, their unnatural precision. They weren't just guards; they were something else. Something worse.
He glanced over at Elias, who was still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His younger brother looked peaceful, his face free of the pain and exhaustion that had haunted him for so long. But there was something different about him now, something that made Rowan's stomach churn.
Elias had changed since they arrived at the camp. He was stronger, yes, but there was a distance in his eyes, a quiet acceptance of this place that felt wrong.
Rowan couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his hair. The camp would be waking soon, and he needed to figure out his next move. He couldn't stay here, not with the watchers always watching, not with Father Gideon's honeyed words pulling Elias further into his orbit. But leaving wouldn't be easy. The camp was a maze, and the watchers were always close, always alert.
Rowan took a deep breath and stood, his legs stiff from sitting for so long. He crossed the small shack and knelt beside Elias's cot, gently shaking his shoulder. "Elias," he whispered. "Wake up."
Elias stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at Rowan, his expression soft and sleepy. "Rowan? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Rowan said, forcing a small smile. "Just wanted to talk before the day starts."
Elias sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Okay. What about?"
Rowan hesitated, his mind racing. He needed to tread carefully. Elias was still recovering, and he didn't want to push him too hard. But he also couldn't let his brother fall completely under Father Gideon's spell.
"How are you feeling?" Rowan asked, sitting back on his heels.
"Better," Elias said, stretching his arms above his head. "Stronger. Father Gideon says I'll be back to normal soon."
Rowan's jaw tightened at the mention of Father Gideon, but he kept his voice calm. "That's good. I'm glad you're feeling better."
Elias nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. He's been really nice to me. He even offered to teach me how to read."
Rowan's chest tightened. "He did?"
"Yeah," Elias said, his eyes lighting up. "He says it's important for us to learn, to understand the world better. He says knowledge is power."
Rowan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He didn't like the sound of that. Father Gideon was getting too close, too involved. He was weaving himself into Elias's life, making himself indispensable. And Elias, young and trusting, was falling for it.
"Elias," Rowan said carefully, "you need to be careful with him. He's not… he's not what he seems."
Elias frowned, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean? He's been nothing but kind to us. He gave us a place to stay, food, medicine. He saved my life, Rowan."
"I know," Rowan said, his voice low. "But that doesn't mean we can trust him. People like him… they always want something in return."
Elias shook his head, his expression hardening. "You're wrong. Father Gideon isn't like that. He cares about us. He says we're special, that we belong here."
Rowan's stomach churned. _Special._ The word felt like a trap, a snare designed to pull them in and never let them go. He wanted to argue, to shake Elias until he saw the truth, but he knew it wouldn't work. Elias was too far gone, too caught up in Father Gideon's promises.
"Just… be careful," Rowan said finally, his voice heavy with worry. "Please."
Elias nodded, but his eyes were distant, his mind already elsewhere. "I will. But you should give him a chance, Rowan. He's not the enemy."
Rowan didn't respond. He couldn't. Because deep down, he knew that Father Gideon _was_ the enemy. He just didn't know how to make Elias see it.
The camp was already coming to life when Rowan stepped outside. The air was crisp, the faint scent of smoke and herbs lingering in the air.
People moved about with purpose, their faces blank but their movements precise. It was almost like a machine, each person a cog in some grand design. Rowan hated it.
He made his way to the fire pit, where a group of older men were preparing the day's food. They were in their thirties, their faces weathered and lined with the kind of weariness that came from years of hardship.
Rowan recognized a few of them from the slums—men who had been scavengers or beggars, their lives as bleak and hopeless as his own. But here, they seemed different. Their movements were steady, their expressions calm, almost serene. It was unsettling.
Rowan approached cautiously, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Need any help?" he asked, his voice low.
One of the men, a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a scar running down his cheek, glanced up and nodded. "Sure. Grab that pot over there and fill it with water."
Rowan did as he was told, his mind racing as he worked. He needed information—about the camp, about the watchers, about Father Gideon. But he had to be careful. Asking too many questions would make him suspicious, and he couldn't afford that.
"So," Rowan said casually as he set the pot down near the fire, "how long have you been here?"
The man with the scar—Rowan thought his name was Garret—shrugged. "Few months, maybe. Hard to keep track of time in a place like this."
Rowan nodded, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. "It's… different here. Not like the slums."
Garret chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "That's one way to put it. It's quiet. Peaceful. No one's trying to stab you in the back for a crust of bread."
"Yeah," Rowan said, his voice careful. "But it's strange, too. The way everyone acts… it's like they're all part of something bigger."
Garret's expression darkened slightly, and he glanced around before leaning in closer. "You're new here, kid. Best not to ask too many questions. Just do your chores, keep your head down, and you'll be fine."
Rowan frowned, his grip tightening on the spoon. "But don't you wonder? About Father Gideon, about the Risen? What they're really after?"
Garret's eyes narrowed, and he grabbed Rowan's arm, his grip firm. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You don't want to go down that road. I've seen what happens to people who ask too many questions. They disappear. You understand?"
Rowan's heart pounded, but he nodded. "Yeah. I understand."
Garret released him, his expression softening. "Good. Just go with the flow, kid. It's easier that way."
Rowan didn't respond. He couldn't. Because going with the flow wasn't an option—not when Elias was slipping further away, not when the watchers were always watching, not when the camp felt less like a sanctuary and more like a prison.
But he couldn't say that. Not here. Not now.
He finished his chores in silence, his mind racing. The men around him worked steadily, their movements mechanical, their faces blank.
They were like puppets, their strings pulled by some unseen force. And Rowan couldn't shake the feeling that he was next.
As he walked away from the fire pit, his hands still smelling of smoke and herbs, he glanced toward the edge of the camp. The watchers were there, as always, their hoods pulled low, their eyes scanning the camp. They didn't move, didn't speak. They just watched.
Rowan's chest tightened. He needed to find a way out—for himself, for Elias. But with the watchers always close, always alert, he wasn't sure how.
He made his way toward the quieter parts of the camp, intent on gathering more information, but before he could get far, a familiar voice called out.
"Oi, Rowan!"
Rowan turned to see Tobias leaning against a wooden post, a sly grin on his face. "Shouldn't you be checking up on your little brother? I swear I've seen him getting all lovey-dovey with Father Gideon."
Rowan shot him a glare. "Tobias, shut up."
Tobias smirked but didn't back down. "I'm just saying, kid spends a lot of time with the guy. You don't find that weird?"
Rowan crossed his arms. "He's trying to help Elias."
Tobias scoffed. "Right. Because creepy cult leaders are always just looking out for sick kids." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I'll tell you what I think. I think Father Gideon definitely bangs kids."
Rowan's stomach turned. His hands clenched into fists before he could stop them. "Shut the fuck up, Tobias."
Tobias laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Don't kill the messenger. But you can't tell me you don't feel it too. Something's off about him."
Rowan's anger simmered, but deep down, he knew Tobias had a point. Something was off. He just didn't know what yet.
Tobias tilted his head, studying Rowan's expression. "You're not planning on staying here forever, are you?"
Rowan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "No. But I need to figure out how to get Elias out of here first."
Tobias nodded, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "Good. Because if you're smart, you'll get out before it's too late."
Rowan didn't reply. He couldn't. Because part of him already feared it might be too late.