"Don't open the door," Rhett says, looking up from his phone as he slips it back into the pocket of his trousers.
"What?" the guard frowns.
Neva watches as Rhett rises and fishes a key from the back pocket of his trousers, her brows drawn in confusion.
"Go tell him not to open the door," Rhett says again, this time more firmly.
The guard nods and hurries off.
"But it's Nana, Rhett," Neva says, her voice soft with uncertainty.
Rhett moves to the cabinet beside the door.
"I didn't get any alert from the security cameras," he murmurs, voice low, almost distracted. He unlocks the cabinet with a quiet click. Inside, he retrieves the Sig Sauer—already loaded—but he racks it anyway, quick, quiet. Reflex. Ritual.
Just then, distinct knocks echo through the rain—soft, deliberate.
"How?" Neva whispers, worried, as she slowly rises to her feet.
There are hidden surveillance cameras set up around the cottage—part of a motion detection system.
When someone approaches, the system sends real-time alerts to Rhett's and Ace's phones, and to the laptops.
But if it hasn't notified Rhett of Apphia's arrival, it can only mean one of two things: the system's been broken—or bypassed.
Or... there is no Apphia at all.
Neva's heart sinks—goosebumps arising on her skin.
Another series of knocks—louder this time. Sharper. More insistent.
"Stay here," Rhett says gently.
Neva's eyes flick to him, her terrified gaze meeting his—firm, unshaken.
Then her gaze drops to the cold steel of the pistol in his grip, catching the faint reflection of the hearth's glow.
He may trust the surveillance cameras he brought from Erriador—but never this island, ruled by a strange king who has lived for hundreds of years.
As Rhett walks out of the room, Neva follows and quickly grabs his arm, halting him.
"I have a bad feeling about this," she mutters, her face pale.
His eyes soften. But just as he parts his lips to answer, Ace opens the door to his room—the one closest to the hallway, on the same side as the parlor.
"What's happening?" Ace asks, standing at the door in his T-shirt and joggers, his sharp gaze shifting from the couple to the door—now guarded by two tall, sturdy men.
The knocking has stopped.
Rain. Breath. Silence. Then a glance between the guards—uneasy. One of them bends to the peephole.
"Get your gun—"
Before Rhett can finish, the door explodes inward—wood splintering—slamming down onto the guards with a bone-jarring crash.
Neva screams, and Rhett's arm immediately wraps around her trembling frame,
his other hand lifting the pistol—aimed at the tall silhouette standing in the doorway, draped in black robes, head bowed, shadow clinging to his frame like smoke.
Quiet drip–drop of rain on the thatched roof and creaks and coughs reverberate through the cottage.
But Neva hears only the thudding of her own heart against her ribs—and her labored breaths, muffling out everything else.
She slowly lifts her gaze from Rhett's chest.
One of the guards groans, raising the shattered door off his body, struggling to rise.
But the other lies limp—motionless on the floor.
Ace stands frozen, rooted to the ground, a pistol gripped tightly in his hands—aimed at the shadow that swallows their entrance in darkness.
Neva's breath catches.
Her fingers fist Rhett's shirt as her knees begin to give way.
Then, from beyond the wreckage—a silence shrouded in the grip of grave, a knock sounds. And a familiar voice follows: "Neva, is everything alright?"
Ishmael.
But Neva's gaze remains fixed on the figure before her.
The silhouette lifts his head—
and a lightning bolt flashes, stripping away the blur, revealing the face pale as ash—eyes gleaming with ruin. Not a man. Not anymore.
A rebel.
A fallen.
Neva gasps, a shiver crawling down her spine.
A deafening rumble of thunder follows,
echoing from the deepest abyss.
"Why do you keep him caged?" The voice asks—low, groggy, baritone.
Spellbinding.
Rhett clenches his jaw. "What do you want?"
The figure begins to step forward.
"O Father," Neva yelps, not in prayer, but panic. She clings to Rhett, her breathing ragged.
A whisper flickers through her mind, half-forgotten: 'Though I walk through the valley of shadows...'
"Not another step!" Ace warns, moving in front of the figure in a flash, gun raised.
One of the guards draws his sword, stepping beside Ace—ready.
The figure halts.
Ishmael bangs on the door again—harshly.
"Open the door!" he calls out, his voice muffled, laced with worry.
The figure now stands beneath the lantern glow in the hallway—though the golden light barely washes the darkness etched into every inch of him.
He turns his head toward Ishmael's room,
just as another frantic bang echoes from behind the door.
Then—
the lock snaps.
Ishmael stumbles out.
He straightens at once, wide eyes scanning the hallway—startled.
Clearly unprepared for what he sees.
"Good to see you again," the stranger says with a smile. "My friend."
Friends? They know each other?
Neva glances at Ishmael—and sees his expression harden. Her frown deepens.
Rhett clenches his jaw, his grip on the pistol tightening.
Did he get fooled again?
Did he fail to protect his family—again?
His gaze is cold and bleak, his chest burning in revulsion—toward himself.
He senses Ishmael approaching.
"Stay where you are," he warns—his voice low, guttural, edged with fury.
Ishmael halts mid–step, jaw clenched, eyes darkening as he watches Neva cling to Rhett—as if her life depends on him.
"Impressive," says the same strange, baritone voice.
Neva draws in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself.
Once her legs stop trembling, once she's sure she won't collapse, she gently pulls away from Rhett.
He pulls her behind him—his touch tender, despite the war brewing in his chest.
"It's good to finally meet you, Neva," the stranger says, smooth and deliberate.
"I've been looking for you everywhere."
"Get out," Rhett says, voice low and lethal, eyes shadowed as he studies the tall figure before him.
"You have five seconds to turn around and leave."
The man's complexion is beyond pale—as though the blood in his veins has frozen over.
His eyes are grim, mysterious, darker than anything Rhett has ever seen. But it's not the color that unsettles him—it's the storm whirling behind them.
A storm not of wind or rain... but of ruin—that will wound more than the one that just swept across his home.
Even under the hood of his cloak, Rhett sees—he has no hair.
No eyebrows.
His body—unnaturally still.
And though masculine in build, something about him feels eerily genderless. Uncanny. Wrong.
Strangest of all:
He's been standing in the rain, and not a single thread of his cloak is wet.
The stranger smirks faintly.
Rhett's skin crawls—not from fear, but from calculation. Instinct, sharpened by years in the shadows murmurs to him: he's not what he seems.
Every detail he's assessed in the last few minutes defies pattern, logic, profile. This man—whatever he is—doesn't fit the mold of any threat he's faced. Not warlords with blood on their tongues.
Not syndicate heads who commands armies with a look. Not even the hollow–eyed psychotics locked in blacksite cells.
"I'm just here for a visit," the man says, a strange smile curling on his lips—one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Calm. Knowing.
Then his eyes blackens, his face tightening like a stone. "And how dare you tell me to leave from my own land?"
Rhett doesn't flinch. His eyes don't flicker.
"Isaac, son of Ibneiah and Serecca," he says coldly, a gut-churning smile twitching at his lips.
Neva frowns, her heart pounding. She looks up at Rhett—stiffened, unmoving.
What does it mean?
Is it what she's thinking?
Her gaze trails to Ishmael behind her—motionless.
Pale as a ghost.
Neva's breath hitches as the realization hits.
It can't be.
"What rubbish is this?" Rhett snaps. "How do you know my mother's name?"
"Twin brother of Ishmael," the man says, delight shimmering in those ink-dark eyes.
His smile widens—tattooed across his lips like a curse.
"The fuck?" Ace mutters, face contorted in disbelief.
Twin.
Twin brother of Ishmael.
The words don't compute. Don't belong.
It's as if the ground collapses beneath Rhett's feet.
As if a cliff is giving way—
And the sea rises to swallow him whole.
And now he's drowning.
Drowning in this nightmare.
He can't breathe.
He can't breathe while that man laughs like a madman—
mocking him, ridiculing everything he's believed, repelling everything he is.
And in that moment, he doesn't feel Neva's grip tightening on his arm.
Doesn't reach the warmth of her presence trying to pull him to the surface.
If he's to breathe again,
he must shatter this illusion—
silence that laughter.
His eyes redden. His body trembles.
With a sharp exhale of fury, he pulls the trigger—and fires.
Rhett widens his eyes.
The laughter doesn't die.
It echoes—unbroken, unnatural—through the rain-drenched silence.
His face twitches. Jaw clenched, he pulls the trigger again.
And again.
Click.
Click.
Nothing.
He exhales—shaken. Disbelieving.
The SIG Sauer lowers in his hand.
His trusted weapon—has never failed him. Until now.
"Rhett," Neva whispers, her voice trembling, her heart clenching.
His hollow gaze meets hers.
Red veins creep like cracks through those once-familiar eyes.
"Come back," she whispers, her hand rising to his face—gently caressing his cheek.
"Come back to me."
As if her breath drifts through the black haze clouding his gaze, his eyes begin to clear.
And then—he sees her.
Truly sees her.
Sees himself… reflected in her eyes—
those warm, passionate eyes of his wife.
Neva lowers her hand to his arm, her gaze snapping toward the man—sharp, unwavering.
Ace tries his pistol, too.
Click.
Nothing.
And then she speaks—voice rising, raw and resolute. "Get away from my home, Satan."
"You can't hurt us anymore."
The words strike something deep.
The laughter stops.
A stillness falls—heavy, unnatural.
"I… I can't feel my hands," the guard whispers, horror thick in his voice.
His sword drops, its tip scraping uselessly against the floor.
Ace, standing closest to the man, feels it pressing in—thick, suffocating dread.
It coils around him like smoke, tightening his throat. He swallows hard. He takes a cautious step back. Then another.
"The chosen one," the man says, bending slightly in mock reverence.
His gaze remains fixed on Neva—
who stands firm beside Rhett, unflinching.
"How many believers will you free from Miraeth,
than you have already killed?" he asks with a sly smirk.
"I'm no worse. You're all sinners. All of you have blood on your hands."
As Neva stumbles, she lets out a long, eerie gasp—
as if the air has been yanked from her lungs.
Her eyes widen, round as saucers.
Her world is collapsing inward, crushing her beneath its weight.
Her mind unravels—
dizzy, drowning in the black shadows of the present.
Of memory. The haunt spill like floodwaters.
The blood in the ocean.
The deaths. Hundreds of deaths.
Because of her.
Noah—his limp body in her arms, his blood on her hands.
The cries.
The screams.
Ishmael.
Her battered body beneath him.
The drowning.
The carmine wedding.
The hatred for the unborn.
The fall.
The erasure of her memory.
And then—his voice. Ghastly. Echoing. Etched into her soul:
"When you're awaken, you'll reborn. You'll find me in every bit and piece of you. So breathe through me.'
''Only I shall live in you.''
A baptism in the blood of hundreds.
Innocents.
The white of her dress—soaked in carmine.
Her body is drenched, painted in red.
The blood of hundreds pools around her feet—innocents, nameless, countless.
The line between past, present, and future blurs here.
All time collapses into this one moment.
"Neva!" A voice calls.
"Neva," again—closer, urgent. She's being shaken gently. "Gather yourself!''
A hand cups her face, steadying her—and she meets those familiar cocoa eyes, wide and laced in worry.
Her brow creases. Tears stream down her cheeks, hot and silent.His other arm wraps around herwaist, keeping her from falling away.
And in those eyes—those steady, burning eyes—she searches for his faith.
His belief in the Father.
Her own belief in the Father.
Something to anchor her.
A sickening chuckle carves through the deafening silence.
"Humans are so dramatic," he sneers—
then bursts into laughter.
Loud. Maniacal. Unhinged.
"Enough!" Ishmael snaps, voice tight with warning. "What do you want here, Leviathan?"
"My friend," he says with a tilt of his head, mock hurt glinting in his dark eyes. "Why speak to me so harshly?"
Ishmael clenches his jaw and steps closer, slow and dangerous.
"Remember how we walked shoulder to shoulder all these years?" he says, voice low, grim. "From the moment you came to me—asking about her.
Scheming perfectly to get your little sweetheart back."
He pauses, a bitter breath caught in his throat.
"But what then? No matter what you've done, the chosen one never really loved you. Not you. Not your child—" He breaks off with a harsh, crackling laugh, head thrown back as if he's just told the grandest joke of all.
Ishmael's fists tighten at his sides, knuckles white. His eyes blaze.
Burning in hatred. Shame. Impotence.
Disgusted by the king of Miraeth.
Leviathan straightens, eyes gleaming.
"No matter what you do, she was made to love her spy. And their son."
His chin tilts down. His voice drops lower—taunting, acidic.
"You're nothing, Ishmael. Nothing without me."
Then his arms open, his chin raised:
"So come, tell me—what do you need? You want her back?"
A grin curls on his lips. "I can give her to you. But what will you offer me… now?"
Ishmael's knuckles turn bone-white, his jaw trembling with rage—barely restraining the urge to drive his fist into Leviathan's face.
Neva lifts her gaze to Leviathan. Morose. Blurred. Distant.
Leviathan stares back at her—sharp, evil.
"You won't overcome this. Your Father doesn't care. Look where He's left you."
He gestures lazily to the space around them, as if the ruin is her proof.
"You're no chosen one. You're a curse," he says. His tone careful, almost as if he wants to soften the blow.
Neva doesn't speak. She's numb from the cold and darkness in her soul. Her lips are parched. Throat warped in thorns.
She is cracking from the inside.
A curse.
A curse.
She has known it along that she's a curse.
"You're destined to lose everything. These world, this people—none of it is worth your devotion.
But I can give you everything."
With a lover's smile too gentle to be anything but twisted, he turns toward the door.
"I'll always have my eyes on you, my mourning dove.
You'll know where to find me."
Then, standing at the broken threshold, his black cloak nearly melting into the night—
"Remember," he says, "your Father does not care. He does not love you."
But the lanterns in the hallway still flicker gold.
Neva's voice cuts through the silence. Barely a whisper.
Revealing the conflicting dark within him, with the light—still alive within her.
"My Father died for me."
Leviathan halts.
Tears stream down her cheeks, unstoppable.
"Can you do that for me?" she says. "Can you come back to life for me?"
Her chin lifts. Her knees tremble, but Rhett holds her steady—anchoring her by the holy light still alive in her spirit.
"We will not be caged in the chains of your illusions anymore. His hands are on us.
You cannot even pull a strand of our hair—unless He allows it."
Leviathan turns to face her.
Quiet fury burns in those black eyes. Then, a smirk.
"He has allowed nothing but pain and suffering." Then he scowls. "You are a fool."
Neva grits her teeth.
"He may have given me more than I can bear… but never more than He can bear through me."
His face twitches. He turns again, and the final flicker of his black cloak disappears into the darkening night.
The air lightens.
And suddenly—Neva looks around. Frantic.
Rhett immediately wraps his arms around Neva, pulling her close—her head resting against the fast rhythm of his heart.
"Breathe, Angel." he murmurs, kissing the crown of her head. "Breathe... He's gone."
"We'll be alright."
Neva's chin quivers before she finally breaks—heart-wrenching sobs pouring out of her.
Her fists clutch at his shirt, and his arms tighten around her, holding her through the storm.
Ace kneels beside the fallen guard, placing two fingers beneath his nose.
"I think he'll be alright," he murmurs, then glances up at the brute guard still standing—pale, shaken.
"What the fuck just happened?" Ace mutters, eyes fixed on Rhett—searching him for answers no one's ready to give.
Then he looks at Neva—not with pity, but with the weight of knowing she's witnessed something unspeakable.
Rhett doesn't answer. He shifts slightly, resting his chin atop Neva's head, cradling her as she cries silently into his chest.
God knows the storm inside her—more brutal than the one raging within him.
Isaac.
That's his birth name?
Ibneiah... is the name of his biological father?
Even if it is, it doesn't matter.
And yet, he cannot silence the burn in his chest, the churn in his gut.
Revulsion coils within him—at himself.
Behind them, Ishmael turns and walks toward his room, each step heavy, his breath shallow, his eyes hollow.
A mountain presses down on his bleeding chest—too massive to carry, too late to set down.