The Silent Guardian — Chapter 18, Part 1: The Ceremony

This installment continues The Silent Guardian Series. Previous: Chapter 17, Part 3: Indoctrination.

The priest stands at the pulpit, veiled by shadow. He steps toward a portable forge, where a branding iron heats in the orange glow. The ritual about to begin fills the room with dread.

The congregation sits below him. Among them are Maya and Azar, who purse their lips in anticipation of what is about to happen. Maya gawks at the pulpit, her hands resting rigidly on her lap. Azar sits beside her, the muscles in his face twitching from the storm that continuously churns beneath his surface.

Maya and Azar sign to each other with hurried movements as if they are trying to keep the conversation to themselves. Azar’s brows knit together. This feels wrong, he signs urgently. His fingers tremble, betraying the fear he’s trying to conceal. He glances at the furnace.

Maya’s response is swift, almost mechanical. It must be done. He is chosen. You will do your duty. There is no hesitation in her gestures. She doesn’t look at Azar. She directs her attention toward the priest and the ritual about to unfold.

The church doors creak open. There is no ceremony or music, just heavy steps echoing in the open space. The procession walks in single file. The congregation doesn’t move. Each of them has witnessed this annual ceremony.

The woman who killed my father enters first. She looks as cruel now as she did in the car. Seeing her reignites the ire inside me. The gunshot that killed him continues to ring in my ears. I want to strike her down for what she did.

Then Philip enters with my fiver-year-old self. He grasps my wrists without any hint of compassion. Seeing him drag me down the aisle twists my guts. The boy is terrified.

Seeing Philip here reinforces something I believe: the Renegades aren’t renegades. They are the foundation for this organization of lies.

The boy pleads, his voice trembling, “No. Please, no. I don’t want to be here.”

Philip tugs at the boy, a command to stop talking and hurry up.

I want to grab my younger self, to pull him away from all of this. Sadly, I cannot. The second rule of time travel prevents it. I will pass through the scene, unable to change anything because it is myself that I want to whisk away. Worse, the Phylax might sense my presence somehow. They will hunt me while the five-year-old version of myself will still be stuck here. Instead, I make a solemn promise: I will correct this wrong. Not for me, for the world. I swear it to my younger self.

Two more figures follow Philip: the assistants to the Archon. They move in perfect synchronization. Obedient tools, as I was meant to be. They take their places on the altar platform.

The Archon enters.

If there is any lingering suspicion about who the Renegades are, it vanishes at that moment. The Archon would never visit a dissenting faction of the Phylax.

His formal regalia gleams in the low light. The intricate patterns woven into the fabric reflect his deep understanding of time. The robes flow around him—the trailing edge of a storm in motion. He always publicly adorns this attire, inspiring awe, submission, and fear. As he walks, even gravity appears to bend to his will.

Each member of the procession moves into position around the chancel. The priest stands near the furnace. He looks smaller now. His unyielding authority falters in the presence of the Archon. Meanwhile, the Archon ascends to the pulpit. Every eye is on him now, including mine.

“Is the Mark of the Phylax ready?” the Archon asks. He is the sole member of the Phylax who wields the privilege to speak. His voice thunders through the nave.

The priest lifts the heated branding iron toward the Archon. Its glow throws harsh light across their faces as the ceremony moves forward.

“For the Phylax,” the Archon says with finality.

His gaze shifts to Philip. “Do you have the anchor?” The Archon’s tone isn’t a question; it’s a command.

Philip steps forward. He retrieves a small box from a small leather pouch at his waist. He opens it to reveal a gleaming sliver of metal. It’s the anchor, the same device Clara cut out of me. I brush the scar on my arm. The mark is a chilling confirmation of what was once inside me.

“For the Phylax,” the Archon repeats as if the phrase alone could justify the horrors unfolding.

The Archon then addresses one of his attendants. “Bring me the knife,” he orders.

An attendant steps forward, cradling a tray of crushed velvet, upon which rests a scalpel. The Archon takes it without ceremony, gripping it with the precision of a surgeon who has performed this ritual countless times. There is no reverence in his hold, only cold efficiency.

I feel a phantom pain creep up my arm. Skin prickles with dread and pity for the boy who will endure this.

Philip drags my five-year-old self toward the Archon. The boy is trembling, his small frame wracked with fear. He senses that something terrible is about to happen. He pleads through his tears, his voice desperate. “Please, I want to go home.”

Continue with Chapter 18, Part 2: The Anchor. New installments publish daily at 5:00 AM.

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