A vow of silence. A mission across centuries.
We have all been fed lies that keep us from becoming our fullest, fiercest selves—but the deceptions that cut me carved scars through the centuries themselves. The lies I was told run so deep, it’s almost unthinkable.
My name is Adam Foster. I didn’t choose silence; the Phylax forced it on me. From childhood, they taught me obedience, discipline, and pushed me into mute submission. For years, I believed in our cause—to safeguard humanity, to bend time itself for the greater good. But when my mission unraveled in ancient China, everything I trusted turned to ashes.
Now, every leap through the centuries draws me closer to the faint echoes of the family I was torn from—proof that the past can still be rewritten and hope reclaimed. The Phylax may control my past, but only I hold the future. And the fate of humanity rests in my hands.
Start reading The Silent Guardian now and join Adam Foster on his race to rewrite history before hope slips away.
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From Chapter One: Forged in Shadows
As a child, I didn’t choose silence. My family and entire community lived by the oath. The Renegades wove it into the fabric of our lives: silence, obedience, and discipline. Before I turned thirteen, I doubt I had ever heard a voice from a living person. We were taught language through audio recordings. Among ourselves, we communicated using a unique sign language known only to a handful of people around the world.
At the time, I believed we were the real Phylax. That the commune was the heart of our order. I didn’t learn until later that we were an instrument for someone else’s nefarious purpose.
One day, our priest signed to me, asking what I liked best about being a Phylax. I paused, fingers hovering mid-air before signing, I like how it feels to be part of something special, something greater than myself.
He nodded in agreement, a smile on his lips. Then he asked me how I felt about the silence.
I hesitated longer this time, fingers trembling. How could I explain it? Eventually, I signed, Sometimes, I find it hard to understand why it’s necessary.
His reaction caught me off guard. He spoke to me in English, his voice shattering our oath. “Sometimes, I don’t understand it either.”
Blood flushed my cheeks. A priest of the order—one of the revered few—had spoken aloud. I had always assumed their vow was more profound than ours, that they were above such transgressions. Yet here he was, breaking the vow as quickly as one might break bread.
He must have noticed my surprise because he quickly added, “It’s okay to speak to me in this building. It’s different here.” Still, I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. They etched the oath into my very being. It was too sacred to be broken so casually.
Over the next several weeks, the priest would seize any quiet moment to ask me questions aloud. Each time, I lowered my gaze, responding in signs. I clung to the rules drilled into me since childhood.
It was close to a month later when the priest asked, “Is your father good to you?”
The question made me tense up, my hands freezing mid-sign. Unbidden images of my father’s clenched fists and the sting of his belt surged to the surface.
The priest’s expression softened. “Oh. Is it that bad?”
I could still feel the sting of new wounds along my back, raw from three nights earlier. The humiliation was fresher than the lacerations themselves. My vision blurred as tears welled up; for once, I couldn’t hold them back.
The priest gasped as he noticed my wet cheeks. He stepped forward, wrapping me in a hug. “How bad is it, my son?” he whispered.
The word son hit me hardest. It was a word I had longed to know in a tone filled with love, not anger. I choked a sound that startled me as much as it did him. Through broken sobs, I croaked, “It’s bad.”
The priest glanced toward the two guards at the door, a crooked smile twisting his lips. “Not nearly as bad as it’s about to get.”
I didn’t grasp what was happening until it was too late. The priest stepped aside. Suddenly, a punch connected with my stomach. The air rushed out of my lungs as I collapsed to my knees. Before I could catch my breath, the second guard’s fist struck my temple. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. I sunk further to the ground. Instinctively, I clutched the branding scar on my arm.
Tears blurred my vision. “Please,” I gasped, desperation gripping my throat. “Please stop,” I whimpered.
Dazed, I saw my mother approaching. Relief flooded through me—surely she would stop this. Wouldn’t she?
“Help me,” I pleaded, my voice cracking.
Except, I saw her share a laugh with the priest. My chest tightened; betrayal washed over me like icy water. She wasn’t here to save me. She was part of this, a willing participant in my torment.
Another blow landed, this time against my ribs. I heard a sickening crack as sparks danced behind my eyelids. Through the haze of pain, I looked at my mother again, desperately hoping she would intervene. She didn’t. She stood there, still laughing, while my world dissolved into betrayal.
A final strike to my head briefly plunged me into darkness. When I awakened, a blur of motion caught my attention—a man rushing toward us. Later, I learned that his name was Philip.
Philip swept a guard’s legs out from under him, then swiftly snapped his neck. The other guard turned, but Philip was faster, striking before the man could react. The priest cowered in the corner as Philip advanced. My vision faded again before I could see what happened next.
My consciousness flickered in and out. I remember brief, disjointed images—the guards lying motionless on the floor, the sensation of being lifted, the cool air outside the church. Then, nothing.
Only later did I learn the truth: these were Renegades, not the Phylax at all. Their so-called Temptation was meant to break me. Without Philip and the genuine Phylax’s help, I would have perished at their hands.
That feels so long ago. Decades have passed. I am no longer that helpless little boy.