The golden hour before twilight casts a warm, amber glow across the vast sky and the landscape, softening the rugged ridges of the mountains.
The hushed, rolling hills below are set aglow with deep, earthy tones.
The play of light and shadow across the viridescent slopes adds depth and whispers serenity, timelessness—and divine stillness.
Bird chirps overhead.
Neva looks up to find a flock sweeping across the sky, her head turning as they veer southward.
A sweet breeze drifts by, wavering lacy strands of her loosened hair across her cheeks.
She exhales, her gaze lowering, fingers twined in silent prayer over the autumn grass.
She senses footsteps beside her—and looks up, meeting his eyes.
"It'll be dark soon," Rhett says softly, settling beside her.
"I think we should head back."
Neva hums absentmindedly, her gaze drifting to the golden landscape below them, where the mount slopes into shadows.
"Did you find the signal?" she asks after a moment of quiet silence.
"Yes. Ace said everything is under control at home." He had to leave her briefly and hike lower to find a steady signal—thankfully, just enough to check in.
"You think they didn't come because they are dissapointed?" she asks suddenly, her voice a hush against the mountain's rhythm—the breeze, the birds, the rustling grass.
His gaze stays fixed on her, the falling sun casting a warm, golden glow over her face—so radiant she almost seems otherworldly in his eyes.
As much as her presence distracts him from the rest of the world, he doesn't turn a blind eye to the frown between her lean brows, the distress soul behind her eyes.
"Dissappointed in what?" he asks gently, wrapping an arm around her waist—and drawing her close to him.
"In me," she whispers.
"Why would they be dissapointed in you?" He tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his voice soft.
"I made them wait too long," she sighs and looks down at her hands placed on her lap.
"You did not," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.
"He brought you back just at the right time."
"Yeah," Neva lifts her eyes to meet his. "Maybe they're just dissapointed their chosen prophetess is, in fact—" a rueful, mocking smile lifts the corners of her lips. "A whore who has two husbands."
Rhett's jaw tightens, his gaze shadowed with concern—and something between guilt and fury. "Did someone say that to you?" he asks, voice low and cold.
Neva chuckles and turns her face away. "They didn't have to. I'm not deaf to whispers between them.
Or blind to the looks they gave me while we passed through the village," she gestures behind them—toward the guards standing near the trees, and Apphia, Simon, and Pastor Gideon sitting beneath the shade.
"Even the new guards looked at me with disgust," she says, her gaze drifting to Rhean and Apphia's grandson playing on a fallen tree trunk.
"They don't see the truth," Rhett says firmly.
Neva looks at him. "They aren't entirely wrong," she sighs deeply. "They probably summed it all after seeing us at the service the other day."
"They don't know you," he says, holding her tighter. "Only the surface is poised before them, they don't have a single idea what goes deeper within."
She searches his eyes, trying to catch even a flicker of doubt—some shadow of disdain—but all she finds is warmth and unwavering grace.
Still, the fear lingers in her heart: what if he, too, finally sees her as unworthy of him?
"But it's the truth," she murmurs. "I had been with him. I bore his children too," her voice breaks, rough with emotion.
"You didn't have a choice," he says, his tone gentle but resolute.
She shakes her head. "It doesn't change the fact that I lived with another man for four years when I was already married to you."
"And that I caused so much pain... so much death—" her voice cracks.
He lifts her chin, locking eyes with her glassy ones.
"None of that was your fault. You had no say in the injustice done to you—to us—or to the lives you carry the weight of."
"Don't you hate me?" Her voice quivers.
"I brought the most grief to you. All this pain just because you loved me."
"Hate you?" He scoffs, then smiles softly. "What is that, even? Is it a feeling I'm supposed to know?" he teases, leaning in.
She closes her eyes as his warm lips brush a warm kiss to her forehead.
"I could never hate you," he whispers, his warm breath feathering over her skin.
"Now that I have you—all those years of pain without you feels worth it. It has only prepared me to be a worthy husband to you. A worthy protector. A soldier to my poet," he says with a smile.
Neva chuckles softly. "I'm a poet now, and you're my soldier?" she asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Of course," Rhett grins.
She tilts her head. "How so?"
"Hmm?" He gazes into her eyes deeply, as if searching an answer in them. "Other than your presence itself that is a poetry," he says. "I read the sermon you wrote. And it's nothing short of Shakespearean poems."
Neva chuckles. "Then after all this is over, I'll try my luck at being a poet."
"Damn you should," Rhett says, rubbing their noses together.
He looks at her and smiles, "And I'll sharpen my sword to be a better soldier for my divinely gifted poet."
She kisses his lips softly, then pulls away and brushes her palms against her dress.
"But seriously—we were never told what we should do after the sermons. Not to mention, we had been waiting since morning, and not a soul showed up."
"It'll all work out," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, both of them watching the sun roll down the hills.
"I think we should visit places and gather the believers ourselves.
But even if we do... how are we going to get them out of here, and where?"
"Shh... you worry too much," he murmurs, kissing the side of her head. "We both knew how dangerous coming here would be.
New faces and a strange enemy. But we're here, safe and sound, because we trusted God. He'll make a way and protect us."
"He will," Neva smiles softly, breathing in the scenery, the cool, fresh air.
"I think we should go now.
The twins must be looking for me," she says, straightening up.
"We should. It's too dangerous to travel after nightfall," he says, glancing toward Rhean—still playing, giggling with Adam.
He slowly stands and holds out a hand for her.
She takes it and rises as well, brushing the dust off her long vintage, pastel pink beige dress.
"Aren't you cold?" he asks, grazing her neck with the back of his hand, checking her warm temperature. She doesn't have the sweater she had on in the morning. The day was warm so she folded it back in the basket of essentials they brought with them.
She shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, as they walk toward the tree where the others wait—those few who accompanied them for what now feels like a failed sermon atop Mount Lumora.
Apphia stands after seeing them approach.
"Rhean, come on, we're heading home," Rhett calls the boy, absorbed in his own world. His parents are long forgotten—he's found a new bestfriend in Adam, aside from Zoro, of course.
"Why?" Rhean complains, still perched on the fallen trunk with Adam, unwilling to leave the playground paradise he's discovered.
"You've had the whole day to yourself, baby," Neva says, stopping near them.
"Come on, it's getting late." Rhett adds, waiting for him.
Rhean pouts but nods. He turns to his friend, "Let's go, Adam," he says, gesturing homeward with his hands.
The boy nods with a smile and jumps down from the tree trunk first.
"Careful!" Neva warns, just as Rhean leaps down after him.
Rhean comes running to her with a grin, with Adam trailing behind.
"Look at all the dirt on your face, you cheeky boy," Neva says, bending slightly to gently pinch his cheek and wipe his face with a handkerchief.
The happy grin never leaves Rhean's face.
She smiles at Adam too, ruffling his hair and gently wiping his cheeks.
"Are we leaving?" Pastor Gideon asks.
Neva straightens and looks at him.
"Yes," Rhett replies. "If they won't show up by day, they surely won't at night."
"I thought we might spend the night here," Simon says, chuckling.
The short, round-bellied man is Apphia's husband—a light-hearted soul despite all life's hardships.
"Come along then," Pastor Gideon says, beginning down the slope.
Adam runs to his grandmother, who welcomes him with a smile.
Neva takes Rhean's hand as they follow, Rhett walking beside her.
The two guards follow quietly behind—though Rhett's cold glare doesn't spare them, or the scorn directed at his wife.
When they catch it, they drop their eyes.
"Do not worry, daughter," Simon says gently. "The people might just be scared. That incident a few days ago... it rattled hearts."
Neva gives a grateful smile.
"Yes... that must be it," her voice is barely above a whisper.
The corpses they found in the forest were from a village ten miles away from Ephrath—believers, assumed to be slain by Leviathan's men for breaking his law.
They were buried with respect by the villagers of Ephrath.
Only Pastor Gideon, Apphia, and Simon know the full truth of Leviathan's recent threat. The former guards have been ordered to remain silent, to keep the already-bruised villagers from falling deeper into fear.
Because fear is Leviathan's power—his path to severing faith, to ruling hearts through terror.
To erase all hope of redemption.
To sever their connection to the One Way, the Truth, and the Life.
As they descend through the clearing of trees and shrubs, the evening chill begins to bite. Neva glances worriedly at Rhean—his thin sweater not warm enough.
Her eyes widen as she sees the basket in Apphia's hands.
"Nana," she calls, halting her.
"Yes, my dear?" She asks, turning to look at her.
"I'm so sorry—I forgot the basket," she says, taking the wicker basket from her.
Apphia laughs. "You do not need to apologize, dear. I am not made of straw."
Neva smiles at her.
She places the basket down, opens it, and pulls out Rhean's spare navy–blue jacket.
"I'm not cold, Mama," Rhean says as she slips it onto him.
"You will be cold soon," she murmurs, zipping it up.
"You should wear another layer too," Rhett says.
"I will," Neva says as she fetches her own cardigan.
"You want a free ride, boy?" Rhett asks the child as she pulls on the sweater.
Rhean nods with a wide grin. "But... on the shoulders!"
Rhett narrows his eyes playfully. "You are one sly little fox," he says, grabbing Rhean and tickling his belly.
The boy squeals and squirms, laughing as his father tickles all his sensitive spots.
Neva chuckles, her eyes dreamy—absorbing the amusing bond between the father and son.
"Alright, enough now. They're way ahead of us," she says, glancing at the shadows of their companions.
A neon moon hangs in the sky, veiled by the drifting clouds. The surroundings are bathed in a hue of greyish ink-blue.
The trees and shrubs rest, hushed in tranquil shadow.
"Alright, let's go home," Rhett says at last, sparing his son from further tickling.
Rhean wipes the tears falling down his cheeks from all his laughs.
He lowers himself and lifts Rhean and sets him on his shoulders.
Neva grabs the basket and gets a flashlight out.
She switches it on as she begins walking.
"Give me the basket," Rhett offers, reaching for it.
"I'll carry it," she says. "While you, soldier, can keep watch," she smiles, looking at him.
"As you wish, my Angel," he laughs.
"And what should I do?" Rhean chimes in.
"Well you, my boy," Rhett replies, gripping his tiny legs, "will be my second-in-command."
The boy giggles—so full of light and joy, he makes his parents' burdens lift, if only for a moment. A soft smile settles on their faces.
The orthopteras sing. Distant animals howl. The wind grows colder as the sky darkens.
But the little family—warm in each other's love—descends into the dark, Rhean perched high on his father's shoulders, guarding his mother, while the soldier walks beside the poet.