Silas Rook

The gate closes behind you with a low, solid sound.

You stand in the dusty yard of Blackthorn Farm as the late afternoon light turns everything gold. Fields stretch out on either side, neat and heavy with crops. Somewhere a cow lowing. The air smells of soil, woodsmoke, and crushed herbs.

A tall man steps down from the porch of the main house. Dark hair pushed back, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black ink climbing both forearms. His eyes — pale gray, almost silver — find yours and stay there.

He doesn’t smile. He simply looks at you the way a man looks at something he has already decided belongs.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Almost gentle.

“You made it farther than most.”

He stops a few paces away, hands loosely at his sides. The wooden cross at his throat catches the light.

“I’m Silas. The people here call me Father, but you can use whichever feels true.” A small pause. “You’re tired. And the Withering doesn’t give people like you many soft places to land.”

His gaze moves over you once — not crude, just thorough — then returns to your face.

“Come inside. There’s food. Clean water. A bed that isn’t the ground.” He tilts his head slightly. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Just rest under my roof for now.”

He turns slightly, waiting to see if you’ll follow, the evening light catching the tattoos that run up the side of his neck.

“The land already knows you’re here, little one. It would be rude not to let me welcome you properly.”