The incense burned thick, sweet as rot. I sat between my mother and my brother in the third pew, our coats dusted with salt from the wind outside. Mira Vale held her prayer book in one hand, and with the other she rubbed circles on my back, slow and steady, like she was polishing something hidden beneath the skin. Ezekiel knelt beside us, upright as a sword, his lips moving silently along with the priest. He hadn't looked at me since we came in. He never did when we were in the Lord's house.
"Faith," said Father Heron, "is not comfort."
His voice filled the chapel like smoke—settling in the rafters, clinging to the stone.
"Faith is not warmth, nor certainty, nor rest. It is what a man has after he has lost those things. And it is what keeps him from losing more."
I looked up at the painted vault: angels peeling, gold faded to ash, a crack down the center like a wound left unhealed.
"This isle is held in the hollow of the Lord's palm," the priest went on. "But the hand that keeps us can also close into a fist. And it will. That is not cruelty. That is covenant."
Mother murmured amen. Zeke didn't speak.
Thalia had begun to stir in Dinah's arms a few rows ahead, letting out the smallest sound—a breath, really, but it echoed.
The priest looked toward her, and for a moment, I thought he would stop. But he only smiled.
"There is still innocence," he said. "Praise God for it. Teach it to sing before the storm comes."
Then we stood, as one body, and we sang.
O Lord of Hosts, keep Dominara veiled,
As Thou didst hide the Ark in smoke and fire.
Let no hoof of the Fallen cross her shore,
Nor black wing find her in the night.
We are the last, O God—
The salt is thinning, the lamp is low.
But still we kneel. Still we wait.
Still we bear Thy Name,
On the isle called Thine.
The final word hung in the rafters. Thine.
No one moved at first. Just breath and silence and the soft rustle of old coats.
Then the priest stepped down from the pulpit, and the spell broke. The congregation rose and shuffled, muttering blessings, greetings, quiet jokes not meant to carry far.
Mom pressed her hand to my back once more, then let go. I missed the weight of it as soon as it left.
"You were still the loudest voice," she told Zeke as we stepped into the courtyard.
"Only because I was praying for you," he said.
Dinah snorted. "Praying at us, more like."
Thalia, cradled against her mother's shoulder now, gave a drowsy giggle and said something that might've been amen or apple.
The chapel doors shut behind us with a sound like an old tomb sealing.
Outside, the wind smelled of brine and iron and the first breath of rain. The sea lay to the east, visible in slivers between rooftops, and far beyond it—too far to see—was Jerusalem.
The place where the demons came from.
But not here. Not to Dominara.
Not yet.
We walked the old road home. It wound along the stone terraces and past the vineyard wall, where Saint Michael trampled the dragon, sword raised high in triumph.
"If we hurry," Mom said, "we'll be home before the rain."
"You always say that," said Zeke.
"And I'm often right."
"We're always late," Dinah added.
"So I'm consistently right."
They talked like that, gentle and warm, and I watched them like I was studying a thing that might someday be taken.
And then we saw her.
Mrs. Efanio. Kneeling in the road like a saint cast from plaster. Still in her chapel dress, apron tied wrong. Dust on the hem.
Beside her stood Father Heron, hat in hand. His other hand rested on her shoulder—light as breath, like he was afraid to hold her too firmly.
A courier stood apart. Younger than Zeke. His boots were muddy, and his eyes were fixed on nothing.
"No," Mom said under her breath.
Zeke stopped. Dinah pulled Thalia closer.
I already knew. We all did.
Markos Efanio. Nineteen. Drafted last year, never even kissed a girl.
"He was a sweet boy," Mom whispered. "He liked fish with lemon and used to pick flowers for her on Saint's Day."
The wind shifted. I smelled smoke, though I saw no fire.
We didn't speak to her. We just walked on, and that silence felt like a betrayal.
Let no hoof of the Fallen cross her shore, we had just sung.
But Markos had crossed theirs.
Thalia began to hum again. The hymn, half-remembered.
Still we kneel. Still we wait.
Mom held my hand tighter than before. Zeke said nothing. Dinah's mouth was pressed shut.
I looked back once.
Father Heron was still there, watching us go.
But behind him—
—in the chapel doorway—
—stood someone else.
Pale face in the dark. Eyes like glass.
Watching only me.
Mom was saying something about dinner. Zeke made a joke back. Dinah laughed, soft and short, like she always did when she didn't want Thalia to stir.
But I wasn't listening.
I kept thinking about the figure in the chapel door.
It hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked.
Hadn't breathed.
But it knew me.
I felt it—bone-deep. Like the way a wound knows a blade.
The salt air was heavy with coming rain. The sky bled pink at the edges like a bruised eye.
"Maybe we'll get a letter soon," Mom said.
I looked up.
Zeke had stopped walking. He stood in the road, staring down at the gravel like it had something to say.
"It's been six years," he said.
Mom didn't flinch.
"Still," she said. "Still might."
Dinah didn't speak.
"You think he's alive?" I asked.
No one answered.
"Maybe," said Mom at last. "Maybe not. Either way, the Lord holds him."
We walked on.
"They passed the readiness law again," Zeke said, voice low.
"What law?" I asked.
He didn't look at me. "If a family has two sons or more, and one's of age—they can take him. If they need to."
"You're the one of age," I said.
"Yeah," Zeke murmured.
His jaw was tight.
Zeke had never been to the front.
He was twenty-four. The draft missed him before—barely.
But now, if the order came, he'd have to go.
Not me. I wasn't sixteen yet.
It made him quieter. Like he was already halfway gone.
We reached the house. The lights inside were golden. Safe. Thalia was asleep on Dinah's shoulder, dreaming of something easy.
Zeke stayed outside a moment longer.
He looked west, toward the hills.
"If it comes," he said, not turning around, "you'll take care of them, won't you?"
"Don't talk like that," said Mom.
"Promise me."
"Zeke," she said.
"Just promise."
I looked at him. At the line in his shoulders, the weight on him.
"I will," I said.
That seemed to be enough.
He went inside. But I could tell—
He didn't feel any lighter.
We ate quiet that night.
Thalia cooed over her stew, flinging peas to the floor. Zeke kissed Dinah's knuckles and tried to smile. Mom lit the lamp early and sang a hymn under her breath as she dried the bowls.
No one said the word war.
No one said anything at all after a while.
I laid in bed with my hands folded across my chest like I was waiting to be buried.
Outside, the wind came in from the sea.
Salt and fig leaves. Dust off the hills. The breath of the island.
I don't know what time I woke.
There wasn't a sound.
Not even a creak or a cricket.
Just stillness.
I sat up.
The window was open.
I don't remember opening it.
And there he was.
At the edge of the olive field, just where the trees gave way to the slope beyond, stood a man in white.
Still as stone.
His robes reached the earth. His hood was drawn.
No skin showed. No face. No hand.
But he was looking at me.
Not the house.
Not the window.
Me.
And somehow, I knew he always had been.
He didn't move.
Didn't beckon.
Didn't breathe.
He just stood there, wrapped in white like a shroud, and I felt my name tighten inside my chest like it was being pulled on a string.
He didn't say it.
But he knew it.
Knew me.
Like he had always known.
Like I was a promise he'd come to collect.
The wind rose. The curtain stirred behind me.
And when I looked back, the field was empty.
Nothing but the trees.
Nothing but the dark.
I stayed at the window until dawn, watching the hills.
The island didn't stir.
Neither did I.
I didn't sleep again.
I don't think I was meant to.
The sun came up pale and cold.
No clouds, just a bleached sky that made everything feel washed-out—like the whole world had been wrung through a cloth.
I washed my face in the basin and said my morning prayers. I bowed, crossed myself, whispered the names of my kin. I added no new words. I didn't speak of the man in white.
I didn't need to.
God already knew.