Cynthia, while walking to DeNial’s room, heard a loud thud from behind her and turned back. The horrific sight made her run to the receptionist, who was lying with her front against the concrete floor. Oh, dear God.
Checking for her pulse, she found the steady heartbeat. The Aps. With trembling hands, she turned over the body. She looked away in grimace as soon as she saw the horrific face of the receptionist she had spoken to earlier.
“What is going on?” a firm authoritative male voice asked from behind her, but he must have seen the body because his next words were, “Oh no!”
He slumped down beside her and with downcast eyes, uttered a prayer. He was a Devout, the ones who believe in Redemption, a far-fetched notion that infuriated the International Alliance, comprising of all nations of the world.
Looking at him, Cynthia immediately recognized who it was. Dark red hair, striking blue eyes and the badge pinned to his front pocket. It was Kratos DeNial. She began to speak but her attention went to the medics, who came and took the body away.
She turned to him to introduce herself but he was already gone. His silhouette was leaving the headquarters. Running to catch up with him, she called out to stop him. He turned around with an inquisitive look on his face.
“How can I help you?” he asked when she caught up with him.
“Mister DeNial, I’m Cynthia Lockwood,” she panted. “I’m a Crisis historian.”
He made an expression she could not decipher.
“What did you say you are?” he inquired.
“A Crisis historian,” she repeated between breaths. “I can help you.”
Taking out her phone, she showed him the text message as her eyes fixated on him and his on the text message with the most horrific expression that Cynthia had ever seen.
“You have to be kidding me,” escaped his lips.
It was unnatural, the way Nicholas died; Sarah could feel it in her bones. She read the note that she found on the book while rummaging through its pages. Nicholas had written the note in Latin. They were Devouts; they could read Latin and all dead languages as easily as they could read English. The citizens of Mrantis knew dead languages and religions that existed in the B.C. The International Alliance, IA, disapproved but could not do anything about it.
Sarah had not shown the note to anyone but her brother’s most trusted friend, Rave. They were unable to accept what the note meant. Still, they had hope. Despite all the reports of the Aps, they had faith. The world could be saved.
The problem was doing it without attracting attention of the IA, whose representatives were doing rounds of the hamlet. Mrantis was the only place where all its citizens were Devouts.
Sarah and Rave knew that IA was protecting, rather preventing something from happening. They knew what it was. For all that mattered, they had nothing to lose.