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“That wasn’t instinct.” Her voice drops, like saying it too loud might make the woods answer. “They stopped like they were listening for permission.”

“No.”

“That was recognition.”

“Yes.”

She waits. I let the silence stretch long enough to decide whether I’m going to lie.

I don’t.

“There are zones,” I say. “Not borders. Pressure. You don’t cross a line and know you’ve crossed it. You feel it start weighing on your bones.”

I look toward the dark beyond the fire.

“The closer you get to the center, the heavier it gets.”

She tilts her head, listening, and the fire catches in her indigo eyes until they look almost violet at the edges. Loose strands of black hair drift across her pale cheek, and my gaze follows them before settling on her mouth, on the soft part of her lower lip, on the stubborn angle of her chin.

There is nothing soft about Selah Crow except the places she refuses to let the world take from her.

That’s what makes looking at her dangerous.

Not because I want to ruin her.

Because she makes ruin look like something a man could kneel in front of and call holy.

“The Sanctified Circle sits highest,” I continue. “Closest to what they call holy ground. Chapel ruins. Blood pit altar. That’s where power rots richest.”

Her mouth tightens.

“The High Revelation lives there.” I keep my eyes on the fire. Easier than looking toward the hill. “Gutted double-wide at the top. Faceless angels in the yard. Crosses wired shut so nothing holy can come down without permission.”

I pause.

“He only speaks during blood sermons.”

“And when he doesn’t?” she asks.

“He lets someone else enjoy it.”

Her gaze sharpens. “The Red Sermon.”

“Yes.”

I don’t soften it.

“He wasn’t just an archive.” My voice stays flat. “He was appetite. The Gospel’s mouth when scripture wanted blood on its tongue.”

The words sit heavy.

“He rewrote scripture while people were still screaming. Changed language mid-cut so whatever happened next would count as holy. He branded heretics slow—not to mark them, but to see how long it took before they begged him to stop writing.”

Selah’s fingers curl into the dirt hard enough to grind grit into her skin.

“He invented sins just to name them.” I keep my eyes on the fire. “Decided who got remembered and who got reduced to a warning.”

A beat.