Page 87 of The Shadow Sanctum

Father tries to say something, but his voice falters. For a fleeting second, he sways. His hand clutches the edge of his shirt, his skin pale even in the sunlight.

There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow. A tremor in his fingers. He’s in shock, but not just that. He’s ill.

But the crowd doesn’t notice—not yet. They’re too busy erupting into panic. The words spread faster than the fire: The Dregs were dying. How soon before we die too?

Shouts break into demands. “What will you do?” “How do we protect our families?” “How do we get water?”

The sound builds, frenzied, teeth-rattling.

Father lifts a hand, but his authority is weakened. His gaze darts, haunted. For the first time in my life, I see horror in his eyes. True horror. He steps back, turns away. Then—like a coward—he flees, and I lose him behind the crowd.

A few people follow, but most remain. And in his absence, hundreds of gazes swing to me.

I stand rooted in the snow, cold seeping through my boots, my breath trapped in my lungs. They stare at me like I’m the last barrier between them and the void. Waiting. Demanding.

I force my chin high and step onto the stage. “All is as it’s supposed to be.”

The words land like stones. A wave of anger breaks against me—jeers, cries, accusations. Mothers scream. Keepers who are also parents clench their fists. The crowd threatens to tip into a riot.

I try again, sharper. “It does us no good to panic or mourn. The Shadow Sanctum is strong because we endure. We will endure.”

Someone throws a shoe that I barely dodge. Instead of deja vu, it feels like bitter irony.

I never imagined things could get even worse.

“They need a doctor!” someone suggests. Which is brave.

“We are above the evils of Western⁠—”

“Ye of little faith,” a voice breaks through the crowd. Smooth. Confident. Measured.

Sawyer.

My eyes implore him as he steps onto the stage, but he doesn’t cast a glance my way. With a sweep of his leg, he kicks the thrown shoe off the stage and steps in front of me.

“You’ve collectively deemed the Dregs too weak for the Sanctum, and yet, you immediately draw the conclusion that their death is some sort of prophecy.”

The yells quiet into a low murmur while people’s attention latches onto Sawyer. His shoulders are squared, his tone commanding but warm, like he’s handing out reassurance instead of a terminal prognosis.

It works. His presence fills the square with a calm I couldn’t conjure if I tried.

“Your children aren’t weak,” he continues, steady as stone. “And neither is your Head Keeper. It’s highly unlikely that the wells are contaminated, but Luna has already put together a plan to test the water. The food is next, and she will not sleep until she finds the source.”

The noise softens. People lean closer, desperate to hear.

“The mines are destroyed, which means your wealth is destroyed. We will secure everything needed to ensure the children's safety, but it’ll require both your patience and your faith. Regardless of money, the true wealth of the Sanctum is here.” He sweeps his arm across the crowd. “In you. In your strength. You’ve endured childbirth. You’ve endured grief. You’ll endure this.”

He doesn’t falter. “I swear on my life, your children will be protected. Your families will be cared for. You will have water, food, and order. This is not the end of the Shadow Sanctum—it is only a test. And you’ve passed every test before.”

The mob exhales. Murmurs rise, but softer now, calmer, no longer edged with violence.

Sawyer nods once, like he’s sealed a pact. “Return to your homes. Trust your Keepers. Order will be restored.”

Hundreds of people seem to exchange looks all at once. There’s a low rumble before the back of the crowd loses its first few people. Then a few more.

The crowd, still buzzing with fear, disperses in small batches. Parents pull their children close. Nurturers herd them away. The danger isn’t gone, but the panic has been stemmed—for now.

I stand frozen, my body taut with relief. And shock.