Chapter 70

Chapter 70
The detention center had always been a hollow place—bare walls painted in gray, corridors that echoed with the footsteps of guards, a smell of disinfectant that clung to every surface like guilt. Nathan had grown used to it over the months, but that didn’t make the walk to Elijah’s room any easier. Every time he came here, he braced himself for the boy’s eyes: eyes too old for his face, eyes that had seen things most men never should.

Today, though, he wasn’t prepared for what awaited him.

Elijah sat at the metal desk, back hunched, hair falling into his face. His pencil scratched steadily across a sheet of lined paper. He didn’t look up when Nathan entered, didn’t acknowledge the scrape of the chair as Nathan pulled it close.

“Elijah,” Nathan said softly. “It’s me.”

No response. Only the sound of graphite biting into paper.

Nathan leaned forward, hands clasped. “I’ve been following up. Talking to people. I know your father wasn’t just—” He hesitated, careful not to let his anger seep into his tone. “I know he was part of something. And I know you saw more than anyone should’ve asked of you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Still nothing. Elijah’s hand moved in steady arcs, his breathing shallow, intent on the picture forming in front of him.

Nathan frowned. “You won’t even look at me?”

The boy’s silence was a wall. Not stubborn, not rebellious. Defensive. Wounded.

Nathan tried again, softer now. “Elijah, I can’t help if I don’t know. But I need you to trust me. Please.”

Finally, Elijah stopped. His pencil hovered. Slowly, he slid the page across the desk, keeping his eyes down.

Nathan hesitated before taking it. The drawing hit him like a gut punch.

A circle of figures, tall and faceless, their heads hidden beneath dark masks. They surrounded a massive tree, its branches clawing upward in flame. And at the center of the fire—so small it could’ve been missed if not for the detail—was a boy. His face hollow, his arms reaching upward, swallowed by fire.

Nathan’s chest tightened. “Jesus, Elijah…”

The boy said nothing, only picked up another sheet of paper and began again.

Nathan studied the drawing, every detail like a blade. The men’s masks weren’t random. They were patterned—shapes and symbols etched onto each, some geometric, others almost animalistic. He recognized them from the photographs in his brother’s metal case, from the artifacts pulled from the church bunker. This wasn’t imagination. It was memory.

“Elijah,” Nathan whispered, “did this happen? Did you see this?”

The boy’s pencil moved again, furious strokes forming a new image. Nathan forced himself to wait, though each passing second knotted his stomach tighter.

When Elijah finished, he slid the new page forward.

This one showed the same tree, blackened and skeletal now, its roots curling into the ground like claws. Around it, the masked figures again—but one stood apart, half in shadow, a torch in his hand. His mask was drawn darker, heavier, as if it mattered more.

Nathan tapped the paper. “Who’s this? The one with the torch?”

Elijah didn’t answer. His shoulders rose and fell, his face still hidden.

Nathan pressed. “Is this your father?”

The boy’s grip on the pencil tightened until his knuckles blanched. For a moment, Nathan thought he might snap it in two. Instead, Elijah just bent back over the page, refusing to meet his eyes.

The silence was worse than any words. Nathan felt himself fraying, not at Elijah’s refusal but at the weight of it. The boy wasn’t being difficult. He was protecting himself. Protecting the image of truth in his head, because saying it aloud might make it too real.

Nathan leaned back, rubbing his temples. “I know what it’s like to hold onto something that eats you alive. You think if you bury it, it dies. But it doesn’t. It just… spreads.” He glanced at the boy, desperate for a flicker of connection. “My brother tried to fight them too. He thought if he carried it alone, he’d win. But he didn’t. And now I’m standing where he stood. Looking at you.”

No answer.

Nathan swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Elijah, if you keep silent, they win. Whoever they are, whatever they want—you help them every day you don’t fight back. Do you understand me?”

The pencil scratched again. Nathan waited, pulse hammering, until Elijah turned the new page.

This one made his breath catch.

A boy again—but this time kneeling at the center of a chalk circle, hands tied, head bowed. The masked figures loomed above him, their hands raised. From their palms, jagged lines extended, like fire, like lightning, converging on the boy’s head. Above the scene, in uneven letters, Elijah had scrawled a single word:

Marlene’s Arrival

The door opened softly, and Marlene stepped in, her eyes weary from too many nights without sleep. She saw Nathan hunched over the desk, saw the drawings scattered like a crime scene.

“Elijah?” she said gently.

The boy’s shoulders stiffened. He didn’t look up.

Marlene approached slowly, kneeling beside him. “You don’t have to speak. But I need you to hear me. Whatever they did—whatever they made you see—it doesn’t own you. You’re not just their witness. You’re not their vessel.”

Elijah’s hand faltered, the pencil pausing mid-line. For the first time, his eyes flicked up, just a fraction, meeting Marlene’s before darting away.

Nathan caught it, the small crack in the wall of silence. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Marlene reached out, resting her hand lightly over his. “You’re stronger than them. I see it. Nathan sees it. They burned you, but you’re still here. Still breathing. That means you can fight.”

The boy’s lip trembled. For a second Nathan thought he might finally speak—but instead he ripped the paper in half, the image of the burning boy split down the middle. He pushed the torn halves away and buried his face in his arms.

Nathan gathered the scattered drawings, stacking them carefully. Each one was a map of terror, a breadcrumb trail to the truth. And Elijah was the key, whether he wanted to be or not.

Standing, Nathan looked at Marlene. “We need to get these to Emilia. If Jace’s Latin was liturgy, this—” He gestured to the drawings. “—this is the visual. Their playbook.”

Marlene nodded, though her eyes lingered on the boy. “And what about him?”

Nathan glanced back at Elijah, who was motionless at the desk, arms wrapped tight around himself. He looked impossibly small, swallowed by shadows.

“We don’t push him,” Nathan said finally. “Not yet. If we force it, he’ll break.” He exhaled, heavy with frustration and sorrow. “But he already told us enough. The fire. The circle. The boy. It’s all leading to the same place.”

Marlene’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The solstice.”

Nathan clenched his fists. Yes. And Elijah’s silence, as loud as any scream, had confirmed it.

As they left the room, Nathan glanced back one last time. Elijah was drawing again, head bent low, the pencil scratching in frantic rhythm.

The boy wasn’t giving them words. But his silence was speaking all the same. And every line of graphite was another piece of the nightmare the Civic Council meant to unleash.

Nathan felt it settle like lead in his chest: if he couldn’t stop them, Elijah wouldn’t just be a witness. He’d be their sacrifice.

And Nathan had sworn—he wasn’t burying another family member.