Chapter Fifty-One
GAbrIAL
CHILDREN OF the Flame compound
The hallway to Miriam’s cell was colder than the rest of the compound.
Not by accident.
I had designed it this way, bare concrete, no windows, ceilings pressed low enough to smother a person’s breath.
A corridor meant not just to contain, but to diminish.
To strip people down before they ever reached the door.
To remind them of what they had been before softness, before rebellion, before rot. Before they forgot who made them.
I walked slowly, my footsteps carrying like the toll of a bell. Each step an echo. Each echo a sermon. At the door, I paused. Adjusted the cuffs of my shirt. Smoothed the collar as though preparing for communion. Then I opened it.
The chamber breathed cold.
She didn’t flinch.
Miriam Merrick—now Thorne—sat on a wooden bench bolted to the far wall.
Her hands rested lightly on her knees, her spine a rigid line, her chin lifted as though daring the ceiling to press harder.
Her hair, still shining silver, braided with precision.
Time had carved her body, but not her defiance.
It had only calcified. She was still the Shepherd’s wife. Still the traitor. Still the murderer.
“It’s been a long time,” I said softly, my voice carrying into the corners like smoke. “As though no time at all.”
Her eyes met mine, steady. “Not long enough.”
A smile touched my lips. I stepped inside, let the door shut behind me. The sound sealed like stone.
“You know,” I began, my tone reflective, almost gentle, “I’ve always wondered what became of you after the fire. After they found your husband’s body, half-burned, a bullet lodged neat in his heart. A holy kind of execution.”
Her jaw tightened, a flicker of heat in her eyes, but her silence held.
“You should thank me,” she said at last. Her voice was quiet but edged. “I ended him before your father could.”
“My father admired him.”
She laughed without humor, a sharp exhale. “Your father admired nothing but his own reflection. Tolen let him rape me. Let him break me. Lied for him. Protected him. And when I threatened to run, he said he’d take Zeke, raise him in the fire, away from me. Just as he raised you.”
The words dripped with venom, but I savored them.
I stepped closer, folding my hands behind my back. “You were supposed to be the example. The vessel. The mother of something divine. And you ran.”
“I chose freedom.”
“You chose murder.”
“I chose life,” she snapped. Her voice cracked the air like a whip. “For myself. For my son.”
The silence after was heavy. Almost holy.
“You didn’t just run,” I said, letting my tone soften into reverence. “You stole the boy.”
Her fingers curled against her knees. A tremor.
“He was mine.”
“He was ours,” I whispered, leaning forward, my voice both cruel and sacred. “You know what he is, Miriam. You’ve always known.”
Her face twitched—just once—but I caught it. I always did.
She rose to her feet slowly, deliberately, as though her body carried centuries of weight. For the first time, the silence between us shifted.
“You’re just as evil as your father,” she hissed.
“Judging by Zeke’s path in life I’m not alone.” I smiled, spreading my hands as if receiving confession.
The word hung in the cold air, thick with implication.
Her eyes burned with hate.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” I stepped closer, close enough to see her hands tremble, though she tried to still them. Close enough that the frost of her breath brushed mine. “He should know why he’ll burn in the fire.”
“You’re talking about your brother.”
“Half-brother,” I corrected, my voice slicing like glass. “Do not elevate him.”
Her chin lifted higher. “He is nothing like you.”
“No,” I said softly, shaking my head. “He’s a failed reflection. A shadow without fire. He could have been more. Imagine if you hadn’t polluted him with your weakness. If you hadn’t dragged him into the outside world. Imagine what he would’ve become if he had stayed here, under the flame.”
Her lips parted, but she closed them again. A silence that was not denial—only proof.
“You think you’ve protected him,” I murmured, circling her like a predator circling prey. “Zeke took what belongs to me. My flame. My chosen. Does he care for her?”
Her eyes flicked—barely, almost nothing. But enough. Always enough.
The crack.
“Ah,” I breathed, smiling. “So he does love her.”
Her shoulders stiffened. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“Oh, Miriam,” I said, almost gently. “I’m not surprised. Sable is beauty unmatched. My flame. My covenant. I am only disappointed that you thought you could hide her from me.”
“I tried to protect her,” she whispered, her voice frayed.
I leaned close, breath grazing her ear. “You failed.”
Then I drew back, smiling as though blessing her.
“I will break him,” I promised. “Slowly. Piece by piece. And when the truth burns through him—when he remembers what you did, what you made him witness, what you are—he will not come for you. He will spit your name like ash. He will know the truth before he dies.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. The tremor in her voice could not disguise the steel.
“I never am,” I whispered. “That is what makes me divine.”
She did not answer. Did not try to.
So I left her in the cold, the door closing behind me with the finality of a tomb.
Alone.
Exactly as she deserved.