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The fire burned low, just embers now.
Pope knelt in front of it, murmuring scripture fragments that no longer resembled verses. His hand hovered over the heat, calloused fingers drawing invisible symbols in the rising smoke.
Behind him, the seven remaining Reapers sat in a semicircle, silent and watchful. No one dared interrupt Pope when he prayed.
They had all seen what happened to those who did.
The camp was set on a ridge of shale and dry pine needles, overlooking a narrow valley that curved westward. Below, the faint outlines of The Right Arm's outer patrol routes could be seen—if you knew where to look.
Pope had watched them for three days.
He knew their shifts. Their paths. Their blind spots.
"Judgment," he whispered, "comes not when you expect it… but when the light grows complacent."
Pope stood slowly, dusted ash from his knees, and turned toward his people.
His mask hung at his hip, revealing the weathered skin beneath—lined by time, fire, and faith.
"We left them a message," he said. "But they didn't listen."
He turned to Boone, the tallest of the remaining Reapers. "Tell them what the boy's eyes looked like."
Boone's jaw twitched. "Wet. Wide. Like he didn't understand what was happening."
Pope smiled faintly. "Because he didn't. Because they don't understand us."
He picked up a curved blade from the weapons crate and held it aloft.
"They think we're madmen. Fanatics. Broken men clinging to ghosts."
He raised the blade higher. "But we are the gospel. We are the fire meant to cleanse the last sins from the bones of this world."
After the gathering dispersed, Pope walked the ridge with Washington, his second-in-command. The moon cast long shadows through the trees, and pine needles crunched softly under their boots.
"She's still in your head," Washington said.
Pope didn't stop walking. "Leah made her choice."
"She was always your hammer. Now she's someone else's shield."
Pope turned to him. "Do you doubt the flame, Brother?"
Washington didn't blink. "No. But I doubt the silence in your eyes."
Pope stared at him for a moment, then continued walking.
He whispered more to himself than anyone else: "We lose only the weak."
Back at the center of camp, Pope unfurled a weathered map stolen from a caravan. It was outdated, but he'd marked every known survivor settlement, roadblock, and fuel depot in a thirty-mile radius.
His finger landed on a blue dot scribbled with ink.
"They get water from a natural spring," he muttered. "Feeds three cisterns. One major tap line. If we poison it, or torch it—"
"They'll turn on each other," Boone finished.
Pope looked at him.
"They're not strong," Pope said. "They're gathered. That's different. Anyone can gather. But when thirst comes? When children scream in the dark and the fires flicker low—then they remember what survival truly means."
He looked at his circle of remaining loyalists—Boone, Washington, Cortez, Mancia, Carver, and the twins Reece and Remy.
"This is not a battle," Pope said. "This is scripture. And we write it in blood."
They packed fast.
Canteens. Throwing knives. Rebreathers. Rations they wouldn't eat. Arrows blackened at the tips, ready for poison or fire.
Each of them wore their black armor with pride. The Reaper sigils had been darkened to crimson red.
Washington approached Pope at the supply bin. "After this, what then?"
Pope's eyes narrowed. "Then we send a final message."
"What kind?"
Pope smiled, slow and eerie. "We nail the flame to their gate."
That night, Reece and Remy stood watch along the outer ridge. The twins rarely spoke when others were near, but now they were alone.
Reece whispered, "Do you think Leah was right?"
Remy didn't answer at first.
"Rick's place… it sounds like something we used to believe in. Before the burn."
Reece exhaled. "Pope will never forgive them."
Remy looked at him. "Maybe he's not meant to lead anymore."
Then silence.
Because even doubt could kill.
They moved before sunrise.
Eight Reapers.
One gospel.
Their mission: reach the reservoir tap that fed The Right Arm's water line and poison it using contaminated animal blood and chemical solvents.
If they succeeded, hundreds could fall sick. A slow death. An internal collapse. No siege necessary.
Just rot.
Pope led them himself, crossbow slung, machete on his hip. He recited fragments and Revelation as they moved—twisting scripture into his own version of divine vengeance.
Boone followed in silence. So did Washington.
Only Cortez looked uncertain.
The air was cold.
Like the breath before a storm
At The Right Arm, Rick stood on the outer watchtower, staring into the early light. He felt something in his bones. A pressure.
He looked to Leah, who had joined him in silence, arms crossed, rifle slung.
"You feel it too?" she asked.
Rick nodded. "He's not done."
"No," Leah said. "He's just beginning."
Rick turned to her. "When he comes—"
She cut him off: "We finish it."
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If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Ptreon for early access, exclusive chapters, and more:
15 Advanced Chapters on Patreon
patreon.com/HighKingdom