Barnaby frowned. “Where are the others?”
“Ethan sent them out earlier,” Corey snapped. “A fucking supply run, yes it was Routine. But now—” He gestured toward the screens on the wall showing flickering surveillance feeds. “Now they’re out there, right when The Lucent are closing in.”
Ethan raised his head. “They know the terrain. If they’re not back, it’s because they’ve stayed hidden. They’ll be watching from the outskirts. Covering us from the rear. Trust me.”
Byron nodded. “They’re Doves. They’ll do their part.”
“They’d better,” Corey said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because right now, it’s us against two hundred. Two fucking hundred.”
A grim silence followed. The low hum of the monitors filled the space.
Byron looked to Barnaby who was eyeing up the weapons. “You’re not fighting,” he said firmly. “When this starts, you stay with Mary and Erin.”
Barnaby’s mouth opened to argue, but Byron’s tone left no room for debate. Still, before Byron could walk away, Barnaby shook his head. “No,” he said. “If everyone is fighting, I have to fight with you.”
Corey turned on him, frustration flashing in his eyes. “Fight with what, Barnaby? Your brain is your weapon. That’s what you use. You know damn well you’re not made for a brawl.”
Barnaby flinched but said nothing. His shoulders tightened as Corey grabbed him gently by both arms. “Listen. I’ll give you a gun. If it gets bad and youhaveto use it, then use it. But under no circumstances do you leave the house. Understand?”
Barnaby’s voice was quiet, almost breaking. “I get it. I’ll just get in your way.”
He turned, eyes glistening. Corey’s tone softened. “I just need you safe Barnaby.”
Barnaby nodded weakly, then walked out, his steps slower than usual.
The kitchen was quiet when he entered, too quiet for a house preparing for war. He went straight for the counter, pulling out a cup from the shelf. The habit was muscle memory now: a scoop of powder, water, shake, stir, it was his usual bubble tea ritual.
Only this time, he didn’t drink it.
He stared down at the swirling liquid, watching the pearls rise and sink like drifting thoughts. His throat felt tight. The smell of sweet syrup made his stomach turn.
“Maybe this is why they still treat me like a kid,” he whispered bitterly. “Because I can’t even fight.”
He tossed the cup across the room. It hit the wall with a dullcrack, spilling across the tiles. Barnaby slumped down against the cabinets, running his hands through his hair, anger and helplessness twisting together in his chest.
Footsteps approached. He didn’t even look up until he heard her voice.
“Son,” Mary said gently, kneeling beside him. “Why the sad face?”
Barnaby tried to speak, but it came out as a half-sob. “I don’t want to be useless, Mum. Not when they need me most. Lucy’s asleep, half the Doves are trapped outside, there’s—” He took abreath, his voice cracking. “There’s only a small amount of us here against two hundred, and I can’t doanything.”
Mary’s eyes softened. A single tear rolled down her cheek, though her smile stayed calm. “Barnaby… have I ever let anything happen to you? Or to your brothers and sisters?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Then don’t expect me to start now,” she said simply.
Her voice was so certain, so quiet, that it silenced his shaking. He looked up at her, confused. “So, if it gets bad… you’ll step in? How?”
Mary smiled, not in amusement, but in that knowing, motherly way that made the room feel warmer. “Ah,” she said softly, “and there he is — my son again. Thinking. My job is done.”
Barnaby blinked. “Wait. Step in how?”
But Mary had already risen to her feet, dusting off her hands. “Go on,” she said, turning toward the counter, ignoring his words.
She began preparing a meal, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables filling the silence between them.
“Barnaby,” she said without looking back, “go check on Nick, would you? He’s been quiet lately. Too quiet. I think he’s withering away.”
