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The faces stare back beneath the flickering light, solemn, proud, their features etched in fading ink and curling edges. Generations of men, layered across time.

“They weren’t just men, Lydia.” His words are steady, quiet. “They were protectors. Shepherds. Builders of the Kingdom.” His eyes flick back to me, calm but unyielding. “You tried to tear down what they gave their lives to uphold.”

He lets the words settle, his gaze sweeping across the wall again. “And yet… it still stands.”

I can’t breathe. My chest seizes. My hands clench uselessly against the binds.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Clyde steps to the wall. His hand hovers over the photographs before he peels one free from the row, holding it between two fingers, lifting it into the flickering light.

“Kerr.” His voice is soft, contemplative, almost fond.

I freeze.

It’s him. A face I swore I’d erased. A face I still see, even now, beneath my boots, in the dark stains on my hands.

Clyde lets the photo fall from his fingers. It flutters down like an autumn leaf.

He plucks another from the wall. Holds it up. “Wolfe.”

Another. “Levi.”

Another. “Harper.”

Another. “Even Grayson.” Each name lands like a stone in my chest, each photograph a weight dropping onto my back.

“You thought killing these men made you righteous.” Clyde’s gaze meets mine, steady, solemn. “You thought you were undoing something evil.” He glances back at the wall, the missing spaces like silent wounds. “But they were disciples, Lydia. Chosen men. Your father’s disciples. My disciples. The Covenant doesn’t die because you killed a few of its soldiers.”

I shake my head, words stumbling out. “I… I didn’t kill Grayson.”

Clyde steps closer, his expression unreadable. “No.” His voice gentles, a faint pity threading through it. “But he died because of you.”

He leans down, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, breath warm against my cheek.

“‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’” His lips barely move. “2 Timothy 4:7.”

A cold shiver coils down my spine.

Clyde tilts his head, watching me. “You didn’t just kill these men,” he says softly. “You killed servants of God.”

A flicker crosses his face then, pride, grief, something buried deep. “I killed my father to protect this.” His voice is quiet, steady. “That’s what loyalty demands, Lydia. Sacrifice. And you… you’ve mistaken sacrifice for sin. Your cellar, the cabin, your father’s house, have already been cleared out. Every piece of evidence you thought you had. It’s all gone. By morning, there won’t be a page left to burn.”

The men drag me forward, their hands iron on my arms, fingers digging bruises into my skin. My knees scrape against the gritty floor, the bite of splinters slicing through the denim as they shove me down, forcing me to kneel beneath the hanging photographs. My fallen flashlight throws wild, fractured light across the walls, a carousel of faces frozen in horror, every flicker carving deeper into me.

Clyde stands over me, tall and still, his shadow stretching long behind him like a cloak. His silhouette breaks the light, and for a brief, stupid second, I imagine he’s shielding me.

He isn’t.

“You think you’re the first to try to fight this?” His voice is soft, almost pitying. “You think you’re special?”

My chest heaves. “You don’t have to do this.” My words come thin, cracking against the stale air. “Clyde, please…”

He leans down, so close I can see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.” His whisper coils around me, tight and cold. “Proverbs 26:11.”

I recoil, but the hands on my arms clamp harder. His breath ghosts my cheek, heavy with something sour and metallic. “You were always going to end up here, Lydia,” he murmurs. “You just pushed it to happen sooner.”

Behind him, low laughter rumbles, spreading among the men like wildfire. Their boots scuff the floor in slow, methodical steps as they move around me, rearranging the room, pulling unseen objects into place. Preparing.

Preparing for what?