It's safe to say we've been traveling for a couple of hours. Way past the land I want to acquire.
The farther we go, the more evident it becomes—this community does not want to be found.
The road had long since turned from asphalt to cracked pavement, then to gravel, and finally to dirt. The path ahead is barely a road at all, more like a narrow trail winding through dense, untamed woods. Thick trees loom on either side, their gnarled branches twisting together, forming a natural barrier against prying eyes.
They do not want their location compromised.
They have gone to great lengths to ensure their secrecy.
That's the only reason they would be hidden this deep in the woods, far beyond radar, far from civilization.
Not out of my radar, though.
There is no one, no place, nothing that I cannot find.
What with my plethora of resources and men at my disposal.
I glance out the window as we drive deeper into the wilderness. The sky has dimmed, the thick canopy of trees blocking most of the sunlight. The air feels different here—heavier. The further we go, the more my instincts scream that we are entering enemy territory.
Sebastian, sitting in the passenger seat, tenses beside me. "I don't like this," he mutters.
I don't either.
There are no road signs, no markers, no indication that human life exists out here.
And yet, I know we're getting close.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we arrive.
A towering gate stands before us, massive and foreboding, with high fences stretching in both directions. Razor wire coils menacingly along the top, glinting under the faint daylight. It's not just a fence; it's a fortress.
Who the hell are these people trying to keep out?
Or more importantly… who are they trying to keep in?
I count at least a dozen guards positioned strategically around the entrance, some standing at attention, others patrolling. Their rifles are slung across their chests, fingers near the trigger, eyes scanning every movement.
Two men sit perched in makeshift watchtowers inside the walls, their vantage points giving them a perfect view of anyone who dares to approach.
This is no religious community.
This is a prison.
One of the guards breaks formation and approaches the first car in my convoy. He exchanges a few brief words with my men before turning and striding toward my vehicle. His stance is rigid, his expression impassive, but there's something behind his eyes—something wary.
I roll down the window before he reaches me.
He stops beside the car, his grip tightening on his rifle. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" His voice is gruff, clipped.
I don't miss the way his eyes flick to Sebastian, then to the car behind us. He's assessing the situation, calculating the threat level.
"I'm here to speak to the Prophet," I say, holding his gaze.
It's something I've learned to do over the years.
Direct eye contact makes people nervous. It unsettles them.
And most importantly, it asserts dominance.
The guard's lips press into a thin line. "Is he expecting you?"
"No."
His jaw tightens. "Then you cannot see the Prophet without prior notice and appointment." His voice takes on a mocking edge. "I'll assume you lost your way if you leave now."
I don't blink.
"Tell him it's Caspian Rossini," I say evenly. "He'll want to see me."
Recognition flashes in his eyes.
There it is.
I figured my name would carry weight here. Even the most secluded groups are not immune to the influence of the outside world.
He hesitates, then turns and walks toward another guard standing near the gate. I watch as they exchange hushed words before the second guard disappears inside.
A long silence follows.
Sebastian shifts beside me, cracking his knuckles. "They don't want us here."
"No," I agree. "They don't."
Which only makes me more curious.
Minutes pass, tension thick in the air.
The guards near the entrance are watching us closely now, their fingers twitching near their weapons. It doesn't escape my notice that they are on high alert, as if one wrong move from us will be met with immediate force.
What the hell are they hiding?
Finally, the second guard returns and whispers something to the first.
The man walks back toward my car, expression unreadable.
"The Prophet will see you," he says. Then he turns and signals to the others.
With a heavy groan, the enormous gates creak open.
We drive in.And I am met with something I have never seen in my entire life.
Inside the gates, it's as if we have entered another world.
The first thing I notice is the people.
They move in clusters, all wearing the same modest, earth-toned clothing—long dresses for the women, plain shirts and trousers for the men. Most of them gazed at us with curiosity as we pass, their shoulders hunched, their movements hurried.
It doesn't sit right with me.
I came here expecting resistance, maybe hostility. But what I see is something else entirely.
Oppression.
Control.
And what's worse is that they do not seem to know how inhumane they are being treated.
Something inside me tightens.
The deeper we drive, the more of the compound is revealed. Rows of identical, single-story buildings stretch across the land, uniform and bare, as if designed with the sole purpose of function over comfort.
Further ahead, a large, chapel-like structure looms, its architecture out of place in this setting.
And then I see the guards.
They are everywhere.
Standing at doorways. Patrolling the perimeter. Positioned near the chapel.
Armed.
Watching.
Sebastian exhales slowly. "This isn't a religious community," he says under his breath.
No.
This is something else.
Something far darker.
I'm about to respond when I catch sight of a group of women being herded from one building to another.
There are five of them, their heads bowed, their hands clasped in front of them like obedient servants.
A man walks beside them, gripping a baton.
My jaw clenches.
None of them look up. Not until the last girl in the line hesitates.
It's only for a second—just the briefest moment of hesitation.
But in that second, her eyes flick upward.
Our gazes lock.
And my world tilts.
She is young. Maybe early twenties.
Her face is pale, her cheek bruised. A split on her lip, half-healed.
And her eyes…
They are not the eyes of someone who belongs here.
They are defiant. Burning.
Screaming.
Then, as quickly as she looked at me, she drops her gaze again, her steps quickening to catch up with the others.
But I saw it.
And I know what I saw.
A prisoner.
Not a follower.
A captive.
Sebastian must see the change in my expression because he follows my line of sight.
"That girl," I murmur. "Did you see her?"
"Yeah." His tone is cautious. "What about her?"
"nothing" I mutter