The Watchers

The camp is quiet in the early hours of the morning, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath. I slip out of the shack, careful not to wake Elias. He's been sleeping more lately, his body still recovering from the sickness that nearly took him. I tell myself it's a good sign, that he's getting stronger.

But the way he talks about Father Gideon, the way his eyes light up when he mentions the Risen—it makes my stomach churn.

I can't shake the feeling that we're running out of time.

The sky is still dark, the faintest hint of dawn barely touching the horizon. The camp is bathed in shadows, the flickering light of the torches casting long, jagged shapes across the ground. I move quickly, keeping to the edges of the shacks, my footsteps light and deliberate.

I've learned to move silently in the slums, to blend into the shadows. It's a skill that's kept me alive this long. I hope it'll keep me alive a little longer.

My goal is simple: find a way out.

I've been here for days now, long enough to know that the camp is a maze of shacks and tents, all arranged in a way that feels deliberate, like it's designed to confuse anyone who doesn't know their way around. But I've been paying attention.

I've memorized the layout, the paths that lead to the center of the camp, the ones that branch off into the darkness. What I need now is to find the exits—and figure out how to get past the guards.

Because there are guards. I've seen them, though they try to blend in with the rest of the Risen. They stand at the edges of the camp, their faces obscured by hoods, their movements slow and deliberate. They don't look like guards, not in the traditional sense.

They don't carry weapons, at least not openly. But there's something about the way they stand, the way their eyes scan the camp, that sets them apart. They're watching. Always watching.

I move cautiously, keeping to the shadows as I make my way toward the eastern edge of the camp. The shacks here are smaller, more spread out, and the paths between them are narrow and winding. It's the perfect place to slip away unnoticed—or so I hope.

As I round a corner, I spot one of the watchers. He's standing near a cluster of tents, his back to me, his hood pulled low over his face. He's not doing anything suspicious, just standing there, his arms crossed over his chest.

But there's something about the way he's positioned, the way he's angled toward the path that leads out of the camp, that makes my skin crawl.

I crouch low, pressing myself against the side of a shack, and watch him for a moment. He doesn't move, doesn't even shift his weight. He just stands there, like a statue, his eyes scanning the camp. I wait, my breath held, until I'm sure he hasn't noticed me. Then I slip past him, moving quickly and quietly, my heart pounding in my chest.

The path ahead is narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The shacks on either side are dark and silent, their windows shuttered, their doors closed. I move quickly, my eyes darting from side to side, scanning for any signs of movement.

The camp is still asleep, but I know that won't last. Soon, the others will wake, and the camp will come alive with activity. I need to be back inside before that happens.

As I near the edge of the camp, I spot another watcher. This one is standing near a large tree, his hood pulled low over his face. He's not looking in my direction, but I can tell he's aware of his surroundings.

His head tilts slightly, as if he's listening for something, and his hands are clasped in front of him, his fingers twitching slightly.

Rowan freezes, pressing himself against the rough wooden wall of a nearby shack. He watches as the watcher remains still, his posture eerily rigid, his presence a quiet but undeniable threat. Rowan doesn't know if he's been seen or if the watcher is just waiting. He swallows hard, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Then, movement—too quick, too sudden. Another watcher steps into view from the opposite direction, moving in a slow, deliberate pace. Rowan barely has time to react. His body tenses, instincts screaming at him to move, to disappear into the shadows before it's too late.

With careful precision, he lowers himself to the ground, slipping behind a pile of wooden crates stacked near one of the shacks. His breathing is shallow, controlled. The second watcher passes within arm's length of his hiding spot.

Rowan stays still. Too still. He doesn't dare shift, doesn't dare breathe too loud. He watches the watcher's hands, the slow, rhythmic way his fingers curl and uncurl as he moves. It's unnatural, like he's counting something in his mind.

Then, the watcher stops.

Rowan's stomach clenches.

For a moment, there is only silence. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across the ground. Then, without warning, the watcher moves on, disappearing into the maze of shacks.

Did he see me? Or is he just pretending not to? The question lingers, heavy and suffocating.

It's too dangerous to continue. Rowan clenches his jaw, knowing he's pushed his luck far enough for one night. He turns, slipping back the way he came, moving as quickly and quietly as possible.

When he finally reaches the shack, he presses a hand against the doorframe, taking a moment to steady himself. His heart still pounds, his thoughts tangled in everything he's just seen. He slips inside, closing the door behind him.

Elias is still asleep, his breath slow and steady.

Rowan exhales softly, sinking onto his cot. He doesn't know if the watchers saw him. He doesn't know if they're waiting for him to slip up again.

But one thing is clear—

They're always watching.

And time is running out.

Rowan stares at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing heavy on his body. He knows he should rest, but his mind refuses to quiet. He replays the night's events, every movement, every flicker of the watchers' presence. He needs a plan. He needs to find a way out. But for now, he can do nothing except wait and hope that when the time comes, he will be ready.

Rowan's thoughts churn like a storm, refusing to settle. He closes his eyes, but the image of the watchers lingers—their stillness, their unnatural precision. They're not just guards; they're something else. Something worse. He wonders if they're even human.

The way they move, the way they seem to sense things before they happen—it's as if the camp itself is alive, and they're its eyes and ears.

He thinks about Elias, about how much he's changed since they arrived. The sickness had nearly taken him, but now he's different. Not just stronger, but... distant.

Like he's already halfway gone, pulled into the orbit of Father Gideon and the Risen. Rowan can't blame him. The man has a way with words, a way of making you feel like you belong, like you're part of something greater. But Rowan knows better. 

He's seen what happens to people who give themselves over completely. They stop being themselves. They become something else—something hollow.

He turns onto his side, staring at the wall of the shack. The wood is rough and splintered, the gaps between the planks letting in thin slivers of light from the torches outside. 

He thinks about the slums, about the life they left behind. It wasn't much, but it was theirs. They were free. Here, they're prisoners, even if Elias doesn't see it yet.

Rowan's mind drifts to the edges of the camp, to the paths he's been mapping in his head. There has to be a way out. There has to be a weak spot, a gap in the watchers' vigilance. He thinks about the eastern edge, where the shacks thin out and the trees grow dense.

If he can make it that far, he might have a chance. But he'll need supplies—food, water, something to defend himself with. And he'll need to move fast, before the watchers close in.

He thinks about Elias again. Can he convince him to leave? Or has he already made his choice? The thought of leaving without him twists something deep in Rowan's chest, but he knows he can't stay. Not if it means losing himself.

The first light of dawn begins to creep through the cracks in the shack, casting faint lines of gold across the floor. Rowan sits up, running a hand through his hair. He feels the weight of the night pressing down on him, but there's no time to rest. The camp will be waking soon.

He glances at Elias, still asleep, his face peaceful in the dim light. For a moment, Rowan allows himself to hope—that they'll find a way out, that they'll make it through this. But the hope is fleeting, chased away by the memory of the watchers' cold, unblinking gaze.