The Risen

The plaza hummed with a restless energy, a tangle of gaunt faces and hushed voices, the air heavy with the stench of decay and unwashed bodies. I kept Elias pressed close, his small hand trembling in mine, my eyes darting over the crowd.

Every stranger felt like a threat, every shadow too deep, too ready to hide masked men with cruel laughter. My nerves were raw, scraped thin by last night—the beast's yellow eyes, the woman's scream, the memory of Mother's broken body.

I couldn't let my guard down, not here, not anywhere. The slums never slept, and neither could I.

At the center of the plaza stood a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his hood casting a shadow over his face. His voice carried over the murmurs, smooth and commanding, a beacon in the gray dawn. "You have been abandoned," he said, his tone rich with promise, arms spread wide.

"Left to rot while the city feasts. But I offer you sanctuary. Food, shelter, purpose." His words were honeyed, dripping with hope, but they twisted in my gut like a blade. I'd heard promises before—Father's slurred lies, the masked men's laughter—and they always ended in blood.

The crowd leaned in, their hollow eyes flickering with something dangerous: hope. A woman near us whispered to her child, "Maybe he's telling the truth." A man spat into the mud, muttering, "Words don't mean shit." I pulled Elias back, my grip tightening.

I didn't trust this—didn't trust him. The scavenger's warning from last night echoed in my skull: Stay sharp, kids. Don't trust the hooded man. In the slums, hope was a trap, and I'd seen what happened when you stepped into one.

Elias tugged at my sleeve, his voice small but eager. "Rowan, he said food. And shelter. What if… what if it's real?" His sunken eyes shone with a flicker of belief, his cracked lips trembling in the cold.

Hunger had carved him hollow, his frail body shivering beneath his tattered shirt. I hated that look in his eyes—hope, the kind I'd lost years ago.

"It's not," I snapped, harsher than I meant. His face fell, and guilt clawed at my chest. But I couldn't let him believe—not in this. "We don't know him, Elias. People like that don't give for free. There's always a price." I knew prices.

I'd paid them in blood, in shame. I wouldn't let Elias pay one too.

"I am Father Gideon," the man announced, his voice swelling with authority. "And I welcome all who seek a place among the Risen." The name sent a chill down my spine. I'd heard whispers of the Risen in the slums—rumors of a group that promised salvation but left only ghosts.

People who joined them vanished, their names forgotten even by the desperate. I didn't trust Gideon's smile, hidden beneath that hood, or the way his words pulled at the crowd like a noose tightening.

Elias nodded, slow, but his gaze lingered on Gideon, that flicker of hope still burning. I yanked him away, weaving through the crowd, my heart pounding. Every step felt like a gamble, every face a potential threat. I couldn't let us get tangled in Gideon's web, whatever it was.

We slipped back into the alleys, the plaza's hum fading behind us. The mist hung thick, the air sharp with rot, the cold sinking deeper into our bones. Elias's steps dragged, his breaths shallow, his small body leaning heavily against me.

I tightened my grip, willing him to keep going. "Just a bit more," I muttered, scanning the ground for scraps. A moldy crust, a discarded rag—anything to keep us alive another day. But the slums were barren, picked clean by scavengers faster than us.

We moved through the narrow streets, my eyes darting into every shadowed corner, every crumbling doorway. I searched for anything—a frayed rope, a rusted nail, even a bone we could boil for broth.

But the alleys offered nothing, just broken fragments and the stench of decay, a reminder of how little the slums left for the weak. My stomach gnawed at itself, a deep ache that blurred my vision, but I pushed it down. Elias needed me sharp. I had to be strong, even if I felt like I was breaking.

"Rowan…" Elias's voice was a faint rasp, and then his hand slipped from mine. He crumpled, knees hitting the mud, his small body folding like a broken toy.

My heart stopped, panic surging through me. "Elias!" I dropped beside him, hands trembling as I pulled him into my arms. His eyes fluttered, half-open, his lips blue, his skin cold as frost. "Hey, stay with me—stay with me!" My voice cracked, raw with fear.

He was too light, too still, the hunger and cold eating him alive. I couldn't lose him. Not him. Not after everything.

My mind raced, the plaza's echoes clawing back. Father Gideon's promises—food, shelter, protection. I didn't trust them, but Elias wouldn't survive another night like this.

I had no choice. I scooped him up, his frail body limp against my chest, and turned back, legs burning as I ran. The crowd had thinned, but I followed their trail, the muddy path leading to the edge of the slum where the shacks gave way to open dirt.

The Risen's camp came into view, a sprawl of tents and shacks encircled by tall wooden walls, jagged and splintered, rising like a barrier between the slum and the nothing beyond. The walls were patched with rusted metal, sturdy but weathered, a cage dressed as protection.

A gate stood open, flanked by two men in tattered cloaks, their eyes hard and blank as they waved me through. I hesitated, my gut screaming to run, but Elias's shallow breaths pushed me forward. I stepped inside, the gate creaking shut behind me, sealing us in.

The camp buzzed with quiet order—people moving with eerie precision, their faces gaunt and hollow-eyed, as if they were sleepwalking through their tasks. They carried crates, mended tents, their movements mechanical, their gazes blank, offering no acknowledgment as I passed.

A fire crackled at the center, the faint scent of bread and broth twisting my empty stomach. I tightened my hold on Elias, my eyes darting for threats. Too many people, too many shadows.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something sharper—metallic, like blood. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to focus. Elias needed me. I couldn't falter now.

A shadow fell over us, and I froze, my breath catching. A woman stepped forward, tall and gaunt, her eyes sharp and calculating, her face framed by lank hair. She looked me over, her gaze lingering on Elias's limp form. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice cold.

"I… I need help," I stammered, my voice trembling. "My brother… he's sick. Father Gideon said he could help us."

Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded, gesturing for me to follow. "Come with me." I hesitated, every instinct screaming to turn back, but Elias's shallow breathing spurred me forward.

She led me through the camp, past the hollow-eyed figures moving with their eerie precision, toward a large shack at the center. The wooden walls loomed around us, a cage I couldn't escape, their jagged edges catching the torchlight like teeth.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and something metallic, like rust or blood. Father Gideon sat on a makeshift throne, his cloak brushing the ground, his face half-hidden in the hood's shade.

Up close, his presence was heavy, oppressive, like a storm about to break. His eyes glinted, dark and unblinking, locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "You've made the right decision joining us, Rowan…" he said, his voice low and smooth, but with an edge that slithered down my spine, cold and wrong.

His lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes—those eyes that seemed to see too much, peeling back my fear, my guilt, my rage.

My throat tightened, suspicion flaring. "How do you know my name?" I demanded, my voice sharp, my grip on Elias tightening.

Gideon's smile deepened, his gaze unyielding. "I know many things…" he murmured, his voice dropping lower, each word curling around me like smoke. "I can see your pain, child. Let us heal it."

Panic clawed up my chest. His words burrowed into me, stirring something I didn't want to feel—hope, maybe, or something darker. But I knew better.

Pretty words were lies, and his gaze held something cold, something hungry. I shook my head, stepping back. "Just help him," I said, voice hard. "That's all I want."

Gideon's smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something passing through them—amusement, or maybe irritation. "As you wish," he said, gesturing to the woman. "Take him to the healers."

She nodded, her cold gaze urging me forward, and I followed, carrying Elias into the shack, the camp's wooden walls closing in behind us.