Chapter 166: Forgive Me Father

Chapter 166: Chapter 166: Forgive Me Father

The church doors hung slightly ajar, warped from the weather but still standing, and Silver pushed one open with the flat of his palm, python coiled tight against his arm, alert for any sign of trouble before he’d fully cleared the threshold.

Inside, dozens of candles flickered against old stone walls, throwing long, uneasy shadows across pews crowded with survivors — more people than Silver had expected to find crammed into a single small building, all of them turning at the sound of the door, expressions shifting rapidly from wary suspicion to something closer to exhausted relief once they registered that none of the newcomers moved like the infected.

"We’re not here to cause trouble," Silver said, keeping his voice low, steady. "Just need shelter. We’ll take whatever corner’s available and keep to ourselves."

An older man near the front — clearly some remaining authority in the space, judging by the way several heads turned toward him for guidance — studied the three of them for a long moment before nodding slowly. "There’s room near the back. We don’t turn away anyone who isn’t a threat."

Silver inclined his head in thanks, and the three of them made their way down the narrow center aisle, boots echoing softly against worn stone, the weight of dozens of eyes following their progress with the particular mixture of curiosity and wariness that had become the standard greeting for strangers in this world.

He found an empty pew near the back, close enough to the door to retreat quickly if it came to that, and sank down onto it with a heaviness that had nothing to do with simple exhaustion. Dahlia settled beside him, then Victor, both quiet, watchful, letting Silver take the lead the way they had for the entire length of their week-long trek.

Silver’s eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the small altar at the front of the church — a simple wooden cross, some remaining candles still burning steadily despite everything, the particular stillness of a space that had once meant something sacred to people who no longer had any reliable way of knowing if sacred things still existed at all.

He crossed himself, slow and deliberate, an old habit from a childhood he rarely thought about anymore, buried beneath decades of violence and command and the particular, practical atheism that came from running an empire built on blood.

"Forgive me, Father," he murmured, almost too quiet for even Dahlia to catch beside him, "for I have sinned."

Dahlia’s eyes flicked toward him, something soft and surprised crossing her face at the unexpected gesture, though she said nothing, simply reaching over to rest her hand briefly against his arm.

"You don’t usually do that," she said quietly.

"I don’t usually feel the need to." Silver’s gaze stayed fixed on the altar, old memories surfacing unbidden — Ruben’s blood on his hands, decades of violence he’d justified as necessary, the particular arithmetic of survival that had cost him more of his own soul than he generally allowed himself to consider. "Killed more people than I can properly count, this last week alone. Some habits come back stronger, in a place like this."

Victor said nothing, though something understanding passed behind his own tired eyes — a man who’d killed plenty himself, in this life and whatever version of survival had come before it, never quite comfortable enough with the necessity to stop feeling its weight.

Around them, the church’s low murmur continued, dozens of separate conversations weaving together into an uneasy hum, and it didn’t take long for Silver to notice the same tension he’d sensed the moment they’d stepped through the door — not hostility exactly, but something fractured, unresolved, running just beneath the surface of the space’s fragile calm.

"They’re not sick," a woman’s voice rose, sharp enough to cut through the general noise. "I keep telling you, my sister isn’t sick, she just needs rest—"

"She’s not going to get better," another voice answered, tired, worn thin from what sounded like a conversation repeated too many times already. "None of them get better. You’ve seen it same as the rest of us."

"You don’t know that."

"I watched it happen to my own father." The second voice cracked slightly. "I know exactly what I’m talking about."

Silver’s eyes moved toward the source of the argument — two women, standing near one of the side pews, one clearly exhausted past the point of rational debate, the other rigid with grief-fueled denial that hadn’t yet found anywhere useful to direct itself.

"Same argument in every shelter, I imagine," Dahlia murmured.

"Grief moves at its own pace," Silver said quietly. "Doesn’t matter how many times reality repeats itself. Some people need to arrive at acceptance on their own schedule, however slow that turns out to be."

A boy’s voice drifted from somewhere closer to the front of the church, tired but steady.

"—already told her, Mom, the whole world knows now. It’s not like it’s a secret anymore."

Silver’s attention sharpened. He glanced toward the voice’s source and found a woman seated near one of the front pews, a teenage boy beside her, both looking considerably more settled than most of the church’s other occupants — steadier, somehow, like people who’d already weathered the worst of their own panic and come out the other side of it.

"You seem to know quite a bit," Silver said, loud enough to carry, curiosity overriding his usual instinct toward silence among strangers.

The boy glanced back, surprised to be addressed directly, though he answered readily enough. "Some people helped us understand it early on. Told us straight, no sugarcoating. Made it easier to accept once we actually knew what we were dealing with."

"Who told you?" Victor asked, something alert entering his own tired expression.

"A group that came through here weeks back," the boy’s mother answered, turning fully now. "Brought my son’s friend, badly hurt at the time, and his whole family with them. They were the ones who explained everything. Told us how the infection worked, what to watch for, how to protect ourselves once we understood."

"Do you remember much about them?" Silver asked, something careful and hopeful threading through the question despite himself.

The woman considered it. "There was a woman. Red hair, I remember that clearly — she was the one who explained most of it, calm as anything, like she’d already lived through worse than what she was telling us to prepare for. Her eyes stuck with me too, actually. Amber, almost gold. Unusual color, the kind you don’t forget. Her husband was with her, quiet, capable-looking man. And she had three brothers, from the way they all talked to each other — protective of her, all of them, the way brothers get."

Silver went very still.

Amber eyes.

The same color as his own. The same color Eliza’s had been, before she died — the Azar family’s mark, rare enough that he’d never once, in his entire life, met a stranger who carried it by coincidence.

"Amber," he repeated quietly, something raw breaking through the careful composure he’d held for seven straight days. "You’re certain."

"Certain," the woman confirmed, a little startled by the sudden intensity in his voice. "Struck me at the time, actually. Not a color you see often."

Dahlia’s hand found his arm again, gripping tighter this time, hope flaring bright and unmistakable across her exhausted face. "Dad."

"I know." Silver’s voice had gone rough, something overwhelming pressing against his chest that he hadn’t let himself fully feel in days. "I know, sweetheart."

"Do you know her?" the boy asked, glancing between the three of them.

"She’s my niece," Silver said, barely above a whisper. "My sister’s daughter."

The woman’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "Small world, apparently."

"Smaller than I would have guessed," Silver agreed, something almost unsteady in his voice now.

"Do you know where they went? After they left here?"

The boy answered. "Mentioned a building. Secured, high floors, safe above the flooding. Didn’t say exactly which one. Sorry."

"That’s more than we had an hour ago," Victor said, glancing toward Silver.

Silver considered it for a long moment, exhaustion and overwhelming hope warring in his chest now in a way that felt entirely different from the cautious calculation he usually brought to every piece of new information. Amber eyes. It had to be her. It had to be.

"We can’t chase it tonight," he said finally, forcing the practical part of his mind back into control despite everything in him wanting to move immediately, storm and exhaustion be damned. "We don’t have transportation, and none of us are in any condition to walk further without rest." He glanced toward the church’s high, arched windows, the darkness beyond them near total now, storm still hammering steadily against the old stone walls. "We stay here tonight. Regroup in the morning, see if anyone in this church can point us further toward the building."

Nobody argued, though Dahlia’s hope had clearly sharpened into something closer to certainty now, matching the same unsteady conviction settling behind her father’s eyes.

They settled in for the night as best they could, the church’s uneasy murmur continuing around them — grief and denial and fragile, hard-won acceptance all tangled together beneath the same worn stone roof. Silver kept his eyes on the small altar a while longer before finally closing them, the same quiet prayer settling over him again, unbidden.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

This time, though, something warmer threaded through the words — not just penance, but gratitude, however cautious, however early.

Beside him, Dahlia leaned her head against his shoulder, and Victor kept his watch a little longer than either of them, listening for threats only he could sense, until exhaustion finally claimed even him.

Outside, the storm continued its relentless assault against the hillside church, and somewhere across the flooded city, in a building none of them yet knew was the very one they were searching for, Penelope slept undisturbed, entirely unaware of how close her family had finally come — carrying, without knowing it, the exact color of her eyes as proof enough to finally believe they might actually find her.