The Silent Guardian — Chapter 17, Part 1: Rasha
This installment continues The Silent Guardian Series. Previous: Chapter 16, Part 2: The Renegade Commune.
The compound begins to stir as dawn breaks. I drift through the gloom, a ghost among the living, watching the Renegades come to life with the first light. Morning routines unfold: farmers venture to the fields, and workers gather tools from the workshop. I drift along the periphery as an observer, watching a world I once knew intimately. Time feels more fluid here, bending as I let myself slip between the present and the echoes of my past. I let the hours roll back, tracking the rhythm of the compound.
When ready, I slip toward the schoolhouse, crouching beneath one of its windows. I peek inside. The interior is simple: nine wooden desks arranged in three rows, a chalkboard scrawled with symbols, and shelves lined with battered books. The scene inside sends a jolt through me. As the children enter the room, they sit, hands folded on their desks. I spot the nine-year-old version of myself among them: young and obedient, absorbing every word the teacher communicates through sign language.
I’m surprised when the talisman starts vibrating once the children are inside, not when adults are near. When Philip explained how the commune was a Renegade sect of the Phylax, I assumed they were all time travelers. This, it seems, may not be the case. Or something is different here, causing the talisman to malfunction.
But when I spot her, none of that matters. Everything in me locks up.
Rasha.
Not a memory. Not a trick of the light. Her, exactly as I remember: eleven years old, seated near the back of the classroom. Her loose braid hangs over one shoulder and wisps of hair curl around her face. The delicate freckling across her cheekbones softens her expression. Even the confident way her fingers move as she signs with the others brings back memories. She carries herself with that same quiet defiance, like she’s always bracing against something the rest of us have already surrendered to.
She meant everything to me. For that brief period, I was in love. We couldn’t wait to get out of school, to slip away unnoticed and hide in the forest near the gardens, where no one watched. We’d sit for as long as we could, our fingers tangled in each’s hand. She was my first kiss—soft, sudden, and unforgettable. We kept it hidden from everyone because affectionate relationships were forbidden. Love—whatever form it took—was weakness to the Phylax.
And then, one night, she was gone.
No warning. No goodbye. Her bed empty, her family’s quarters cleared out like they had never existed.
I always wondered. Maybe someone found out. Maybe we were too careless.
I never did get an answer. Only silence, and the hollow space she left behind. I wish the outcome had been different—for both of us. But wishes don’t bend time. They only haunt it.
Inside, the children shift in their seats as the lesson moves on. They start to talk about history, focusing on the Pax Romana—a time of peace that helped the Roman Empire reach new heights. When they explore the turmoil that follows this era and discuss Caracalla, will they tell the version found in all the history books? Or will they reveal that a Phylax named Adam Foster slit the emperor’s throat? Either way, their history lesson will be tinged with hints of Phylax doctrine. Sacrifice and order are the path to survival.
The Renegades mold history into a narrative that justifies their existence. They use the past to shape our worldview, showing us how their mission is necessary. It made every lie they told easier to swallow because they were rooted in half-truths. When Philip freed me from the Renegades, he revealed that much of our education was untrue. Yet, I cannot see how this and the true Phylax differ.
I continue to watch as the children absorb these lessons. They were once blank slates forced to swallow the dogma fed to them. Glory. Sacrifice. Duty. Words hammered into us from the time we could understand them, shaping us into tools. We learned English, Chinese, Pahlavi, Greek, Latin, and the basics of other languages. One day, we will have to blend in seamlessly, no matter where or when we find ourselves.
A bitter taste rises in my throat as I realize how deeply these lessons have embedded themselves in me. How difficult they are to let go. Before I move on, I take a long look at Rasha and wonder what has become of her. Will I ever know?
I let time blur around me, pushing forward to the next scene that demands attention. The morning passes in fragments. Faces, movements, and sounds blend in harmonious cacophony. From a blind spot in the balcony of the communal dining hall, I observe the room below. It’s an ample space lit by unsteady bulbs that cast long silhouettes over rough tables. The children, including my younger self, line up. They move in unison. There’s no talking, no laughter, just the soft shuffle of feet and the clink of dishes. The children take their seats at the long tables, waiting obediently.
Maya Foster, the woman I once called Mother, moves down the line of tables with the same robotic movements I remember. She places bowls of soup in front of the children without looking at any of them. She goes through the motions, her every action steeped in quiet resentment. The Maya I see here is even more miserable than I recall. I focus on her, searching for something beyond her wretchedness.
I remember overhearing one night when she warned Azar, “The Archon sees everything.” Did she speak these words aloud? Whether spoken or signed, she was scared. “Do to the boy what they ask. Otherwise, we’ll both pay the price.”
Continue with Chapter 17, Part 2: The Doctrine. New installments publish daily at 5:00 AM.
