“The question is,” she says, “what are you going to do about it?”
“About what?”
“About us. About this.” Her hand spreads across my chest, over my racing heart. “About the fact that you're never going to be able to go back to who you were before.”
The truth of it settles over me like a lead coat. She's right. Whatever happens next, I can't unknow what I've learned about myself. Can't unfeel the way they make my blood sing.
“I came here to investigate you,” I sigh. “To gather evidence about the missing men, about what you're doing to the Prophets.”
“We know,” Silas says calmly. “Question is, what are you going to do with that evidence?”
I think about Malachi Voss's terrified face, about the files on the Sanctum of Ash, about children failed by a system that should have protected them. About the man who hurt Nova, still walking free. About justice.
“I started questioning the law when I saw what happened with the case that brought me here,” I say slowly. “When I realized how deep the corruption goes, how many people in power helped cover up what happened to survivors. When I saw how the system failed you.”
Silas goes very still. Then he takes a deep breath.
“You want the truth about what made us?” His voice is quieter now, careful. “About why we hunt monsters in the night?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I was born in a Sanctum of Ash religious commune,” he begins, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on my skin. “Itwasn't a church, despite the name. It was a compound. Hidden away in the mountains, isolated from the outside world.”
Nova shifts beside us, her hand finding mine and squeezing gently. She's heard this before, I realize.
“As you know, the men who ran it called themselves Prophets,” Silas continues, his voice taking on a mechanical quality, like he’s reciting facts to avoid feeling them. “Malachi Voss was their leader. My father. Elias’s father too, though we had different mothers.”
The casual way he mentions paternity makes my stomach turn. “Different mothers?”
“Women in the Sanctum weren't people. They were breeding stock.” His jaw tightens. “Vessels to produce the next generation of the faithful. My mother died not long after I was born. She'd served her purpose.”
Nova's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the tension radiating from both of them.
“The Prophets had this theory,” Silas says, his gaze distant. “That pain purifies the soul. That children needed to be broken down completely before they could be rebuilt in God's image.”
My throat constricts. “What kind of pain?”
Silas's laugh is hollow, brittle. “Every kind you can imagine. And some you probably can't.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “They had special rooms. Punishment chambers. Places where screaming was expected, encouraged even.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.
“He wasn't there,” Silas says with bitter humor. “Trust me, we looked for him.”
Nova makes a soft sound of comfort, shifting closer until she's pressed against both of us. The contact seems to anchor Silas, pulling him back from whatever dark memories he was drowning in.
“The Prophets justified everything through scripture,” he continues. “'Spare the rod, spoil the child.' 'Blessed are those who suffer for righteousness' sake.' They had verses for every atrocity, chapter and verse to excuse the inexcusable.”
I think about the children who lived in that compound, about tiny voices raised in prayer and pain. “How many of you were there?”
“Dozens. Maybe more.” Silas's hand finds Nova's, linking the three of us together. “Boys and girls, ranging from infants to teenagers. We lived in dormitories, slept on thin mattresses, ate watery gruel and stale bread. But the worst part wasn't the physical conditions.”
“What was the worst part?” I ask, dreading the answer.
His eyes meet mine, and I see twenty years of nightmares reflected there. “The way they made us complicit in each other's suffering. The way they turned love into a weapon against us.”
Nova speaks for the first time since he started, her voice barely a whisper. “Tell him about the choosing ceremonies.”
Silas flinches like she's struck him. “Every week, we'd gather in the main hall. The Prophets would select children forspecial instruction. Sometimes it was religious education. Sometimes it was manual labor in the gardens or workshops.” He pauses, his breathing shallow. “And sometimes it was other things. Things that left marks on your soul instead of your skin.”
