Some places do not announce themselves.
They observe.
They remember.
This chapter is about distance, restraint, and what happens when safety is enforced rather than granted.
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The road carries me through towns that blur at the edges.
I pass them without marking their names, watching lights thin, buildings lower, the world soften into something less expectant. Dawn comes and goes somewhere above me, pale and unremarkable, as if even the sky has agreed to give me space.
By the time I stop, the babies are restless in that quiet way that means their bodies are tired rather than hungry.
I rent a small house on the edge of town. Nothing grand. One level. Clean. The kind of place people use to disappear briefly and leave without being remembered. I do not unpack much. Just enough to make it safe. Just enough to make it temporary.
Fed. Cleaned. They fall asleep almost immediately.
Their breathing steadies first. Then mine.
It is only then, standing alone in the kitchen with a glass of water I do not finish, that the feeling reaches me.
I am being watched.
The realization does not arrive with fear. There is no spike of alarm, no tightening in my chest. The presence sits at a distance, far enough that it does not intrude, close enough that it does not feel accidental.
I reach outward instinctively.
Nothing answers.
Whatever it is, it does not step closer. It does not retreat either. It simply remains, patient and observant, beyond my reach.
I let it be.
My phone vibrates for the first time an hour later.
I do not look at it.
The second vibration comes quickly after. Then a third.
I turn the device face down on the counter and move back to the room where the babies sleep, lowering myself carefully onto the bed beside them. Their warmth anchors me more than any reassurance ever could.
Another vibration hums against the wood.
Then silence.
I breathe through it.
When I finally check the phone, there are missed calls stacked neatly in a row. Seth's name appears more than once. So do others. I do not open any of them.
Alec's message sits lower down.
I open that one.
Alec:
They're home.
He's not okay.
I stare at the words longer than necessary.
Another message arrives.
Alec:
He's angry. Not at you. At himself, I think.
I read it once. Then again.
I do not reply.
The phone remains in my hand as another notification arrives. A text this time. From Seth.
I do not open it.
It sits there, unread, a quiet rectangle of effort that came too late to feel gentle.
I set the phone aside and lie back, one hand resting lightly on each baby, feeling their small bodies rise and fall in unison.
Outside, the town carries on without us.
And somewhere beyond the walls of this borrowed house, the watcher remains.
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I need cash.
Cash leaves no trail that can be pulled apart later. The account I use is old and quiet, opened long before my name meant anything to anyone else. It requires a visit inside. No machines. No shortcuts.
The babies rest against my chest in their carrier, bundled close, warm and heavy in that comforting way that tells me they are content. Their weight is balanced properly, their heads supported. I keep one hand lightly braced over them as I step through the bank doors.
The building is small.
Too small.
The feeling returns the moment I cross the threshold. The same awareness I sensed at the house, closer now. Alert. Focused.
The watcher draws nearer.
I take my place in line and keep my gaze lowered. My breathing stays even. The babies shift once, then settle again, lulled by my movement and heartbeat.
The shouting erupts without warning.
Two men burst through the side entrance. Masks. Gloves. One raises a gun too fast, arm jerking with nerves rather than confidence. The other slams the door shut and turns the lock, his movements sharp and uneven.
"Down!" the gunman shouts.
Chairs scrape. Someone screams.
I do not move.
I adjust my stance instead, turning slightly so my body shields the carrier. My hand presses flat over the babies, grounding them, steadying myself.
The gunman swings toward me.
His motion stops halfway through the turn.
His arm stiffens. His shoulders lock. The gun dips, not falling, just… forgotten. His eyes go unfocused, gaze fixed on nothing directly in front of him.
The second man freezes mid-step.
His knees bend.
Then he drops.
The movement is abrupt and unnatural, as if a command has overridden his balance. He kneels straight-backed, hands lowering to his thighs with precision. His head bows, chin touching chest.
The gunman follows.
His body jerks once, then mirrors the other's posture. Knees strike the floor. Spine straight. Head lowered.
Both men are silent.
No apologies. No panic. No pleading.
Their breathing slows in unison, shallow and controlled. Their hands rest open and empty, palms upward. Their bodies hold still with an obedience that does not belong to them.
The air around me tightens.
The watcher stands close now. Close enough that the space feels guided, as though invisible lines have been drawn and everything dangerous has been quietly pushed outside them.
I keep my head down.
I say nothing.
Minutes stretch. Shoes pound against tile as security rushes in. Orders are shouted. Weapons are raised, then lowered again when no resistance comes.
The men remain kneeling as they are cuffed. Their movements stay mechanical as they are pulled to their feet and led away, heads still bowed, eyes vacant.
Only when the doors close behind them does the room begin to breathe again.
I lift my gaze.
Marcus stands near the entrance, half-shadowed, posture relaxed in a way that fools no one who knows him. His eyes meet mine.
Two spirits withdraw.
I feel them go.
Marcus gives the slightest nod. Confirmation, not surprise.
I turn back to the counter, finish the transaction, and leave without looking back.
The babies sleep through it all.
And as I step into the daylight, I understand fully now.
The watcher was never watching.
He was guarding.
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The car hums beneath us, steady and unremarkable, the kind of sound you stop noticing once it becomes part of you. The babies rest in the back, their presence unmistakable even without looking. I have learned their weight, their rhythm, the quiet shifts that tell me when they are content and when they need me. My attention moves to them only when it is required, guided by instinct rather than worry.
I am grateful they are divine.
Other babies demand constant vigilance. Mine ask for awareness instead. It reminds me of Israel, of how some children arrive already settled into the world, as if they remember something the rest of us have forgotten.
Marcus sits beside me, quiet, watching the road ahead as if he has already memorized it.
I break the silence first.
"How did you find me?"
He does not look over. "Top secret."
I snort and punch his arm, light but pointed. "Spill."
He exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You really want the truth?"
"I always do."
"I didn't find you," he says. "I found them."
My grip tightens on the strap of my bag instinctively.
"The spirits did," he continues. "The old ones. The kind that don't follow names or faces. They follow gravity. Meaning. Continuity."
He finally glances at me. "The babies pulled them like anchors."
That settles something in my chest and unsettles something else entirely.
I look back at the road. "Where we're heading stays between us."
"Of course."
"If you give my plans away, you're dead meat."
"That stays buried," he says. "I'm not suicidal."
He pauses, then adds more seriously, "I still need to tell Seth you're safe."
I stay quiet.
"If he finds out I left with you and vanished without word," Marcus says, "he'll assume the worst. About me. And Seth scares me."
I sigh slowly. "You can tell him I'm alive. That the babies are safe. Nothing else."
"Agreed."
Silence stretches again, comfortable but weighted.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"Blue Downs first," I reply. "The airport there is old. Small. No one pays attention to it anymore."
"And after that?"
"Creeks Valley. It sits deep in the mountains. It's a quiet land where people farm and mind their own business."
He nods. "You can disappear there."
"That's the idea."
His phone vibrates in the console. He does not check it.
"Something else," he says instead. "Alec's worried. He keeps messaging you."
"I know."
"He asked me to ask you to answer him. Or at least acknowledge him."
I glance down at my phone, the unread messages stacked neatly like accusations I refuse to open.
"I'll answer Alec," I say finally. "Not the others. Yet."
Marcus lets out a breath he has been holding. "Thank you."
"And Marcus?"
"Yes."
"You tell Seth about the bank."
His brow furrows. "The robbery?"
"The possession," I say.
"You stepping in. The way it ended before anyone was hurt. He needs to know that you were there. That you acted."
Understanding settles across his face.
"You want him to trust that I belong with you."
"Yes," I reply. "And with the babies."
He nods slowly. "I'll tell him everything that matters. Nothing that doesn't."
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We stop twice along the way.
Once for fuel. Once because Marcus has been driving for nearly two hours and my patience finally outweighs his pride. We swap seats without ceremony. He stretches, rolls his shoulders, then settles into the passenger side while I take the wheel again.
I drive the last hour.
Blue Downs arrives without fanfare. The airport looks exactly as I remembered. Small. Old. Overlooked. The kind of place people pass through without leaving much behind. We move efficiently, heads down, no wasted motion.
Marcus carries Ethan while I keep Elara close. Neither stirs. We are gone again before anyone pays us more than a passing glance.
Creeks Valley follows an hour later.
The road narrows, climbs, then opens into something green and wide and deeply quiet. Mountains cradle the land like a promise kept. A lake stretches below, silver and still, catching the sky without distortion.
The village elder waits near the edge of the road as if he has been standing there all morning.
He inclines his head when he sees me. No surprise. No questions.
Marcus watches the exchange, then exhales slowly. "I won't ask."
I smile faintly and lead the way.
The cabin sits high on the cliff, weathered but solid, overlooking the lake below. The land around it is rich and dark. Fishing waters within reach. Soil ready for planting. Wind that carries nothing but birds and pine.
Peace.
I thank the village elder quietly and watch him disappear back down the path without lingering. Marcus and I carry our bags inside together, moving through the cabin with the ease of people who understand silence. We unpack only what we need now, placing things where they make sense, opening windows to let the mountain air move through the rooms. The space settles around us as if it has been waiting.
The babies are fed, washed, and settled with a quiet ease that feels earned. When they sleep, I turn to Marcus.
"Watch them for me."
He nods and takes a seat nearby without comment.
I step outside and make the call.
Alec answers on the second ring.
"Max."
His voice cracks on my name. The sound hits harder than I expect. I hear movement behind him. Jamey's voice carries faintly, too loud, too emotional, as if volume alone can fix things.
"I'm safe," I say gently. "They're safe."
Alec exhales sharply. "I know. Marcus told Seth. He told me after."
Silence stretches.
"I'm angry," he admits. "Not because you left. Because you didn't trust me with it."
"I didn't want you involved," I reply. "I didn't want anyone involved."
"You don't get to decide that alone."
"I did this so you wouldn't have to choose sides," I say. "So no one would. Seth is family. I couldn't put you in the middle of that."
Alec's voice softens. "He's still investigating."
"I know."
"Adrian and Claire are still with him."
That earns a small breath of laughter from me. "I'm glad he did not stop with the investigation."
"He's hurting, Max." He adds quietly.
"I know," I say again. "And if I had stayed, that hurt would have turned into something else. I felt it building. In him. In me."
I pause, choosing the truth that matters most.
"If I didn't leave when I did, I might have lost control," I say. "I wasn't only protecting myself. I was protecting everyone."
The line goes quiet.
When Alec speaks again, his voice is steady. "I hear you."
Jamey snatches the phone before he can add more.
"Max," he says dramatically, "do you have any idea how unfair it is to vanish like that? I had a whole speech prepared."
"I'm sure you did."
"And I didn't even get to use it," he continues. "Tragic. Absolutely tragic."
I smile despite myself.
"Tell Alec to eat," I tell him. "Tell Seth to sleep. Tell yourself to stop being loud."
He huffs. "No promises."
I end the call and stand there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle around me.
Inside, Marcus hums softly to the babies, a sound so low it barely registers as music.
The valley holds us.
And for the first time since I left, the world feels far enough away.
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I notice it first with Elara.
Her red strands slow as the light shifts through the cabin, no longer drifting aimlessly the way they always do. They angle downward instead, subtle but deliberate, gathering closer to her abdomen as if pulled by something outside her body.
The movement draws my attention without urgency. I feel it the way you feel pressure change before a storm, instinctive and quiet. Elara stirs once, not awake, not restless, simply adjusting as if responding to something already decided.
I glance toward the door.
The cabin remains still.
Marcus notices my pause. He does not ask.
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Dawn arrives gently in Creeks Valley, light spilling over the lake and climbing the cliff face in slow, patient bands. The mountains hold the sound of the world the way a bowl holds water, contained and deliberate.
I open the door expecting mist.
Instead, I find the rabbit.
It lies just beyond the threshold, placed rather than dropped. Its fur is unruffled. Its body intact. There is no sign of struggle, no scattering, no mess.
Marcus steps forward immediately, crouching before I can speak.
He does not touch it at first. He studies the angle, the neck, the position of the paws. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"This wasn't hunger," he says quietly.
He waits a moment longer before adding, "This was a message."
I feel Elara's strands tighten behind me.
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That night, Ethan answers.
His blue strands lift as the sky darkens, drawing upward and outward as if testing the space beyond the cabin walls. They vibrate faintly, the way tension hums through a line pulled too far.
I pause mid-step, a hand braced against the table.
The sound comes soon after.
Wolves.
Distant at first, layered and low, echoing across the valley in overlapping calls that ripple through the night air. The sound does not rise in threat. It spreads in placement, measured and deliberate.
Marcus looks toward the door.
I do not wait.
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The night is cool against my skin as I step outside, the lake below reflecting fractured moonlight. The trees stand unmoving, branches heavy with stillness.
Then I see them.
The wolves stand at the perimeter of the cabin, spaced with intention, bodies angled outward toward the dark beyond the cliff. None of them growl. None bare teeth. Their presence presses inward without aggression, a living boundary drawn in fur and breath.
They do not look at me.
They are watching everything else.
Marcus exhales slowly beside me.
"The land has accepted the babies," he says.
He lets the silence stretch before finishing, "And it's enforcing that acceptance."
I understand without asking how long this will last.
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Marcus makes the call the following morning.
He does not put it on speaker. He does not pace. He stands by the window and speaks in a low, steady voice, relaying only what matters. The rabbit. The markings. The wolves. The formation.
He does not explain.
He does not soften it.
I do not hear Seth's words, but I feel them land. Marcus's shoulders tense. His jaw locks. He closes his eyes and keeps them closed, like he is choosing restraint over reaction.
"I would never play dad to your kids, Seth," he says quietly.
There is a pause. Long enough to mean something.
"I'm here to make sure they live long enough to still have one."
The call ends shortly after.
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Marcus tells me everything after dark.
I listen without interruption, seated on the edge of his seat while the cabin settles around us. The fire crackles softly, sound filling space that words no longer can.
When he tells me Seth cried, something in my chest finally gives way.
The tears come quietly, my face pressed into my hands, grief breaking through restraint I did not realize I had been holding since the night I left. I cry for the distance, for the silence, for the way the world moved ahead of him while he remained behind.
Outside, the wolves remain.
They do not howl.
They do not leave.
Their presence a comfort now.
And somewhere far away, a father feels it happening without being able to stop it.
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We live simply.
Fish from the lake. Greens from the land. Berries that stain fingers and lips. Sometimes rabbits appear at the edge of the clearing, laid out with the same careful intention every time. I no longer question it. The wolves provide. The land accepts.
The babies thrive.
I make the call when the sun dips low, the sky bruising purple over the mountains. Alec answers on the third ring.
His voice sounds older.
"Lisa talked," he says.
The words settle slowly, the way cold does when it seeps through bone.
"She warned Seth," Alec continues. "She says they know about the twins. Not vaguely. Not eventually. They know."
My grip tightens on the phone.
"Are they're looking for me?"
"Yes."
The pause stretches.
"And Seth?" I ask.
"He's still standing," He says. "Barely."
He tells me about the arrest. About the trial coming. About the Obsidian tearing itself apart trying to contain the fallout. Lisa did not act alone. Others helped her. Others are still trying to get her out.
"No stones," Alec adds quietly. "They learned that lesson."
The enemy adapts.
"They want you to stay away," he says at last. "Until Seth finishes this. Until he can protect you fully."
I close my eyes.
It feels less like a request and more like a sentence already carried out.
"I understand," I say.
Alec exhales, the sound heavy with relief and grief in equal measure.
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I need some fresh air.
The valley does not change.
That unsettles me more than chaos ever could.
Marcus watches the tree line, silent. The wolves remain where they always are. The babies sleep, strands calm for now.
I tell myself this is safety.
That night, as the fire burns low, the quiet feels wrong.
Somewhere far from here, the spiritual world fractures again. I feel it the way you feel pressure before glass breaks. The rules bend. Allegiances blur. Something ancient is being rewritten by hands that do not understand the cost.
Lisa will stand trial.
Others will follow.
And somewhere among the 28, something sacred has already been touched.
I draw the babies closer, the weight of them anchoring me to the present.
Whatever comes next will not ask permission.
It never does.
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Creeks Valley is not a refuge.It is a response.
What watched was never passive.What followed was never accidental.And what accepted the twins did so with conditions older than names or law.
Max has not escaped the conflict.She has stepped into a different jurisdiction.
The world beyond the valley is already shifting.Alliances are blurring.Rules are being tested.
And somewhere among the 28, something sacred has felt the tremor.
Next chapter, the quiet begins to fracture.