The fields stretched endlessly before the commune, rows upon rows of crops swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. The followers moved through them like silent shadows, their hands caked with dirt, backs hunched from the weight of hours of labor under the relentless sun. The air was thick with the smell of freshly tilled earth and sweat. Yet none of them complained. Not a single murmur of exhaustion or protest passed their lips. They moved in quiet, synchronized motions, heads bowed in devotion to the task, as though even the act of breathing was an offering of grace.

From his vantage point on the hill, Dwayne Hayes watched them with an unsettling stillness, leaning casually on his shepherd’s staff. His sunburned skin and wild beard lent him the appearance of an old-world prophet—timeless, almost otherworldly. The flannel shirt clung to his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, the scars of old ranching days barely visible beneath the tan.

But it was his eyes—those watchful, unblinking eyes—that held an eerie power. From this distance, they could not see him, not really. He was the omnipresent figure, the constant shadow looming just beyond their line of sight, as much a part of the landscape as the hills and the trees. And he preferred it that way. He liked to observe them when they didn’t know he was watching.

There was something deeply satisfying in their toil. They bent low, fingers trembling as they pulled weeds from the soil, faces streaked with dust and grime. Each of them believed, truly believed, that their work was an act of devotion. The crops they tended were no longer just food—they were sacred, the lifeblood of the chosen community, the fruit of their obedience. Every plucked weed, every shovel of earth, was a prayer whispered into the ground. And Dwayne had told them as much, had woven that idea into their minds so tightly that they could no longer tell the difference between devotion and degradation.

The Harvest of Grace was his haven, theirs as well.