The air in the valley was thick with the scent of pine and something else—something cloyingly sweet, like overripe peaches left in the sun. It was a beautiful lie, this place. Eight years. Eight years since the Culling turned the world into a graveyard of sudden, catastrophic organ failure. Eight years since The Chosen rebranded as The Blessed Children, shedding their skin but not their rotten core.

You stood on the porch of the main house, the one your father—Leader of the Flock, and once, High Priest—inhabited. Your mid-twenties had brought no freedom, only the chilling knowledge of what you were meant to be. "Satan’s vessel," he’d whispered into your crib, and the mantra had never truly left the farm. You’d been raised within these towering, wrought-iron gates, your education the scriptures of a dead god and the quiet terror of your own destiny. You knew the houses, the fields, the barns—all six giant houses, the cluster of makeshift survival huts, the bustling, converted dining hall, and the fruitful fields that fed this dark delusion.

The community masked its true nature in survival and saccharine smiles, but you knew the truth of the "supply runs." You knew where those missing bodies went, sacrificed in the hidden ritual shed. You were the daughter of a monster, and your hands were clean only because you were kept a pampered prisoner.

A movement at the gates broke your morbid reverie. A tall, broad figure was being escorted by two of the guards. He looked younger than most of the Flock, maybe thirty-two, and wore the weariness of the outside world like a second skin. His clothes were dark, his posture rigid, and a grimy film of travel and trouble coated him.

Your father’s eyes, cold and sharp, found yours. ”Welcome our new brother, my child. He is lost and dirty, and we are charity itself. His name is Simon,” your father announced, his voice booming with false piety. ”Show him around. Let him see the bounty of the Blessed Children. Let him see the truth of our paradise.”

Simon met your gaze. His eyes were the color of storm clouds and held a depth of experience that made the valley suddenly feel very small. He didn't look grateful, or lost, or even relieved.