The click-clack of Felisca's stones reverberated within their bones a rhythm that had pulled them away, from the edge. Emerging from the forest's edge the ordinary noises of the world—far-off water—seemed like a chaotic onslaught. The Land Rover awaited ahead a solid vow of steel and movement.
They did not get there.
Figures appeared from behind the car and the nearby rocks. Not silently,. With a composed intentional resolve. There were four individuals. Rex Ralph, his expression an emblem of composed command led the group. At his side stood Luna Lorelei, the Enforcer, her stance casual yet emanating a strength capable of deadly force instantly. A younger male, with the gaze of a devoted follower—Nichole Neil, the disciple who had mentored Leo. A woman, with hands marked by what appeared to be charcoal or ash her eyes distant: Fronie Felicity, the ritualist. Of retreating after their defeats they had gathered together.
"Analyst Duncan. Don Croft " Rex stated, his tone clear, in the air. He offered a deferential nod to Felisca. "Guardian of the beat. You have sensed the draw of the corrie. You have encountered the truth."
This was not an act of attack. It was a welcoming chain.
Luna moved closer not in a way but with the air of a protector. "There's no reason to fight. You have succeeded in the challenge. The corrie examines the spirit's preparedness. Yours…" she glanced at Devon then at the stunned, devastated Croft "…yours align flawlessly. A fatigued analyst aware of the system's flaws. A respected scholar who has dedicated a lifetime to charting its opposite. You are not opponents. You are our distinguished nominees."
Nichole Neil's expression glowed with wonder. "Flavio predicted this! He mentioned the inquiry would guide the intellects to the ideal location. You weren't pursuing us. You've been… seeking your illumination."
The terror overwhelmed Devon. Everything about their investigation—the anxiety, the journey, the existential turmoil—hadn't hindered the cult. Instead it served as a training course. They were amplifying their fatigue sharpening their despair turning themselves into channels, for the Tithe. Flavio wasn't concealing himself; he was directing their learning.
Croft comprehended it well. A soft groan slipped out of him. "Laurent…" he murmured. "He… he didn't simply surrender. He was dignified."
"Yes " Fronie Felicity murmured gently her hands, smudged with ash shifting slightly as though following contours. "He was the contemporary saint of stillness.. You, Professor are his rightful heir. Your watchful geometry was a dalliance, with the brink. Today you glanced beyond it. We have come to guide you through."
Rex's look was nearly fatherly. "The Tithe demands excellence, not numbers. The yielded will of a mind like yours Don Croft burdened by a lifetime of defiance holds the value of a thousand clerks.. You, Analyst… your exhaustion is no defect. It is a fatigue gained in the trenches of a hopeless struggle. Your submission would serve as a light. A message, to everyone engaged in futile conflicts."
They were venerated. Their fatigue was sanctified. It was the transgression Devon had ever endured.
"We aren't your saviors " Devon rasped, his tone roughened by the quiet of the corrie.
"You already possess it " Nichole affirmed, moving nearer his gaze aflame with conviction. "Consider the significance! The man who pursued tranquility and the academic who characterized it both accepting it. That would settle the controversy. It would validate our claim, beyond any declaration."
Luna shifted to surround them her demeanor causing Felisca to stiffen and clutch her stones more firmly. "The procedure causes no pain. Fronie has refined the channel. You just sit. You embrace the reasoning you have already unearthed. We assist in the… transformation from comprehension, to existence."
They had no intention of killing them. Instead they planned to induce a state of catatonia. To transform them into living symbols for the cause. The perfect form of propaganda.
Devon's hand moved closer, to the -lethal pulse weapon attached to his belt. Rex noticed the gesture. Exhaled deeply expressing deep frustration.
"Act, until the last moment " he stated. "That is your coding. We are able to assist you in revising it." He nodded toward Luna.
She shifted. It wasn't aggression; it was a move. A smooth effective gesture to restrain Devon's arm to steer him not to harm him. He struggled,. His body felt heavy, from the corrie his resolve drained. Croft just remained still immobilized by an existential disbelief.
The script was disrupted by Felisca.
She didn't shout. She started to chant. Not a tune,. A waulking song—a rough rhythmic Gaelic labor chant designed for beating fabric. It was imbued with determination, energy and collective strength. Meanwhile she also kept striking her slates in a loud irregular counter-beat.
"Tha mo chasan fuar, tha mo làmhan fuar!" (My feet are cold, my hands are cold!)
The sound served as a weapon. It opposed the cerebral quietude cherished by the cult. It embodied folk-noise, physical grievance, the rhythm of endurance.
Nichole Neil recoiled as though hit. Luna's concentration broke momentarily. During that moment Devon spun, not to battle her but to forcefully push Croft toward the Land Rover.
"STEP ON IT!" he shouted.
Croft wavered, the order breaking through his daze. He groped for the door handle.
Rex advanced to block him. Felisca placed herself before him continuing to clack and sing her eyes burning with a fierce primal rage. She was no longer a guardian of silence; she had become a minstrel of disorder.
Devon realizing he stood no chance in the battle chose the option available, to him: he ceased resisting. He relaxed entirely in Luna's hold making her support his mass. Then his gaze shifted beyond her toward the astonished Fronie Felicity.
"You seek a candidate?" he panted, his tone harsh. "Then act. Right here. At this moment. On the ground. Amid this clamor. Observe how graceful your stillness appears then."
It was a gambit. A challenge to their aesthetic of perfect, peaceful transition.
Fronie paused. The crudeness of the setting—the yelling, the rattling stones, the scuffle—desecrated the ceremony. The Tithe was intended to be a peaceful tribute, not a brawl, in a Highland parking lot.
Croft managed to start the engine. The diesel growl blended with Felisca's melody, a mechanical desecration.
Luna, understanding the ritual was spoiled let go of Devon with a push of disdain. "You hold on to the clamor. You will be overwhelmed by it."
Rex raised a hand halting any moves. He glanced at Devon not with fury. With a sorrowful acceptance. "You've opted for the route. Very well. But keep in mind Analyst: in essence you already belong to us. Your fatigue is your belief. We will remain here when that belief reaches its form."
They receded into the terrain not running away but retreating, resembling priests abandoning heretics to their fate.
Devon collapsed against the Land Rover, his heart hammering, not from exertion, but from the terror of what he had almost become: a saint in a religion of silence, a trophy of surrender. They hadn't escaped an attack. They had escaped canonization. And the look in Rex's eyes promised it was only a postponement.