(Some Hours Ago)
Twenty-five men guard the shelter. Fatigue clings to them—eyelids flickering, postures slack—as most of them doze on the stairs, heads drooping in weariness.
Their muttered curses and murmurs, aimed at the rumbling catastrophe that's torn through their homeland, blend with the distant uproar still shaking the countryside.
Rhett stands at the foot of the stairs—by the wall, arms folded, his face grim.
"Mr. Lei, are you not sleepy?" asks a man, eyeing his alert composure.
Rhett lazily turns toward him. It's Jason—Mr. Barlowe's eldest son—standing beside him, swaying slightly with exhaustion.
Jayden, seated near the bottom of the stairs, lifts his head to glance at his brother.
Rhett looks away, his siren eyes locked on the entrance door. "No," he replies, curt.
Jason frowns. He doesn't enjoy being brushed off—this man is difficult to talk to. He shrugs at Jayden, who keeps watching him in silence.
"I am aware her divine powers are great. We owe her our lives," a middle-aged man says to his longtime friend, seated beside him on the steps.
"I know… It is a shame she couldn't change the tragic fate of her family." His voice lowers with a sigh, the memory of that day still haunting him.
According to the countryside folk, Gracie Adams is their saviour. Gifted with prophetic dreams.
But her husband and three of her children died in a brutal house fire. Loved by all, she's become family to everyone.
She dreamt of this approaching doom. Those who believed her rushed to the country church's shelter.
The unfortunate—those unreachable or dismissive of the warnings of an aging woman—were left behind to be swept away by bloodshed.
"My Ma tried to warn you. But the call wouldn't go through," Jayden says, looking at Rhett.
Rhett glances his way, and Jayden continues, guilt painting his face, "We were told a little later. I went to your house, but it was locked."
"It's fine," Rhett replies flatly, not wanting to say more.
Jayden nods, and silence settles once more.
The country folk aren't familiar with Neva or Rhett. At most, Neva had spoken to the Barlowes and Anna.
They might've heard of the quiet couple living in the cottage near the woods, but they didn't really know them.
Still, they whisper in curiosity about the man who evaded death, protecting his heavily pregnant wife while exposed to the chaos.
How did he survive the catastrophe out there?
"Are all the people left outside… dead?" a low, weary voice asks.
Everyone slowly turns from the middle-aged man toward Rhett.
He recognizes the voice—it's Mr. Fodor, the gruff man who once accused the Barlowe brothers of treachery.
"I can't be sure," Rhett replies. Defeated sighs follow.
"Are you familiar with their temperament? Why are they here?" Rhett asks.
Mr. Fodor shakes his head. "It must be the exiled. Indolent robbers, banished for their merciless ways."
He swallows, voice tight. "They must have gathered and come for our land."
The men who were half-asleep begin to stir, lamenting this nightmare. How had these exiled criminals—once cast out—armed themselves with such violent power? How did they ash their homes so completely?
"How can anyone be this inhumane?" a young man cries out. "We do not even have weapons!"
"Snakes! They attacked in secret!" growls a tanned, muscular man in his thirties.
"Hell shall have a special torment for them!" bellows Mr. Ronan—the same man Rhett once held at gunpoint.
"How did the exiled get ammunition?" Jason asks aloud, voicing everyone's thoughts.
His family barely escaped during the onslaught.
The invaders looked like barbaric thugs—how could they possibly wield military-grade weapons?
"There are two groups of raiders.
Different goals," Rhett says, catching everyone off guard.
"What did you see?" Mr. Fodor asks.
"The exiled wore ordinary clothes, trained only recently for combat. But the ones surrounding the church were different—better dressed, highly skilled." Rhett's voice is steady, but the weight of what he's saying unsettles the room.
Two enemies?
"Did they find the shelter?" Mr. Fodor asks anxiously.
"Unlikely," Rhett answers.
Yet his brows knit together in hesitation.
If they knew… wouldn't everyone inside already be dead?
But what if they had different plans for the people hidden in the bunkers?
"Have they… joined forces?" Jayden ventures, his voice low.
"It's possible," Rhett admits.
"What? Haven't we suffered enough?!" cries a young man.
"Do not fear. We will be saved!" declares an elderly man with firm faith.
"Is there something valuable in the church?" Rhett asks quietly, eyes narrowed.
He's piecing it together. Two separate groups attacking on the same day—it reeks of coordination. A plotted invasion.
If the exiled are here for plunder, what would the second group—elegant, precise, and dangerous—want from a poor farming region?
Why patrol specifically around the church?
Is the shelter still safe?
Mr. Fodor furrows his brows, deep in thought, but shakes his head. "Nothing I know of."
"Maybe there is a treasure buried under the church," Jason jokes, attempting to lighten the mood—but it falls flat.
The elder men glare. Jayden just sighs at his foolish brother.
If the church truly holds something precious, this shelter may no longer be the haven they thought.
The exiled could be mere pawns—sacrificial bait for something bigger.
Rhett sighs. He just wants the tremors to stop. It's a delicate time for Neva. Will they have to move again?
He had always prepared for that eventuality, to abandon whatever temporary peace they carved out.
But for a while—for a fleeting stretch of weeks—it had felt real.
Life had settled.
And now… the world betrays even the most desperate prayers.