Malachi's eyes dart between us, the color draining from his face. “You said?—”
“We lied.” The words taste like vindication on my tongue. “Just like you lied to us every day for years. About God. About purpose. About love.”
I move closer to where he's strapped to the chair, studying the man who created me, who tortured me, who shaped me into what I am today. He looks so small now. So ordinary.
“Elias.” My voice carries years of barely contained rage. “I believe it's time.”
“Please,” Malachi whispers. “I told you everything. The locations, the names, the accounts?—”
“And we're grateful for the information.” Logan steps forward, cracking his knuckles. “But gratitude doesn't erase twelve years of hell.”
“Or little Zach bleeding out in my brother’s arms,” Rowe adds quietly, his scarred forearms catching the light as he traces the raised tissue.
I feel that familiar fire building in my chest—the one that's burned there since I was a kid, watching this monster select children for his sick games. But this time, instead of swallowing it down or channeling it into escape plans and survival, I let it consume me.
“You want to know what I remember most about the Sanctum?” I ask, circling his chair. “The way you made us thank you after each punishment.Thank you, Prophet, for teaching us humility. Remember that phrase?”
Malachi's lips move soundlessly.
“I said, do you remember?”
“Yes,” he gasps.
“Good. Because you're going to have plenty of opportunities to thank us tonight.”
Elias produces a leather kit from beneath the makeshift altar—the same type Malachi used to keep his “teaching tools” in during our childhood. The sight of it makes my hands shake with anticipation rather than fear for the first time in my life.
“Logan,” Elias says, “would you like to start? I believe Father owes you an apology for burning your hands on the ceremonial brazier.”
Logan's grin is feral as he approaches. “With pleasure, brother.”
The first blow lands across Malachi's face with a wet crack. Blood immediately streams from his nose, but Logan's just getting started. He grabs Malachi's left hand and bends his fingers back until I hear the distinct snap of breaking bone.
Malachi's scream fills the trailer, like music to my dark soul.
“Thank you,” Logan snarls, “for teaching me that fire purifies everything. Including garbage like you.”
He steps back, flexing his scarred hands. Rowe moves forward next, silent as death. Where Logan was explosive, Rowe is methodical. He produces a thin blade.
“You remember Samuel Harlan, don't you?” Rowe's voice is barely audible. “Your favorite Prophet. The one you gave me to when I turned ten.”
Malachi's eyes widen in recognition and terror.
Rowe draws the blade across Malachi's forearm—not deep enough to be fatal, but enough to open a line of red that immediately begins to weep. “He liked to cut too. Said it helped him see the truth beneath the skin.”
Another cut, parallel to the first. Malachi writhes against his restraints.
“What's the truth about you?” Rowe asks, adding a third line. “Are you a prophet? Or just a sick old man who liked hurting children?”
“Please—”
The blade flicks across his other arm. “Answer me.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was sick, I was?—”
“Wrong answer.” Rowe's blade finds the soft flesh of Malachi's inner thigh.
Jonah steps forward as Rowe retreats, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he examines Malachi's injuries. “You know what you taught me about strength?” he asks conversationally. “That it should be used to protect those who can't protect themselves.”
