The serendipitous misadventures of the Zeta Squad had come to an abrupt and unpleasant end. With Marcus returning to the mission he was sent on, Camille finally left Moscow unsure of when she would be able to meet her mother again.

  In the early hours of Saturday, 12th of August, she boarded a late flight and arrived in Tbilisi, Georgia. By midday, her mother’s contacts had provided her with new identification and the documents necessary to disappear. But she did not remain in the capital for long. Before evening fell, she was driven west toward the quieter hills of Imereti, beyond Kutaisi, where the roads narrowed and the villages thinned into pastureland. She reached the cottage just after midnight – a modest wooden house at the edge of a fenced field – and stepped inside with nothing but a single bag and the weight of recent days.

  The August night was warm, the air heavy but cooling slowly with the dark. Insects droned in the grass beyond the open window, and somewhere in the distance cattle shifted against their bells. The hills lay quiet under a hazy sky, neither fully clear nor threatening rain. Inside, the timber walls held the day’s lingering heat.

  For the larger part of the night, Camille lay awake on the narrow bed, staring into the dim outline of the ceiling, unable to surrender to sleep. Every silence invited memory. Every breath carried the echo of what had been lost.

  When she did fall asleep, sharp cries of peafowl, splitting the quiet fields, woke her up. It was still before dawn. She rose and pulled on her trousers and a thin cardigan against the lingering chill, and stepped outside. She stepped into grass heavy with dew. The eastern sky had begun to pale, a washed blue spreading slowly above the dark hills. The air was cool but thick, carrying the scent of damp earth and livestock. For a while she simply stood there, watching the light gather along the horizon, waiting for the day to commit itself.

  Once the sun rose, she walked back. Approaching the cottage, she hesitated, and instead of going inside, she sat down on the stone step in front of the door. The young lady untied her hair and looked around until, through the morning mist, she saw a horse cart approaching.

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  ‘I didn’t know they still used those,’ she thought and kept looking.

  The driver guided the horse cart along the narrow dirt road carefully. The cart rumbled past Camille. The driver looked over at her – their eyes met. His gaze widened subtly. A sharp tug on the reins, a clop, a creak – the cart came to rest just a few paces after the cottage door.

  The man got off. Camille stood up.

  “Delivery, madam,” the old man said tipping the edge of his ivy cap.

  ‘A parcel,’ Camille thought. “Who is it for?” she asked, wondering how a local cart driver could be so fluent in English.

  The man took out a piece of paper from his pocket, read it, and asked, “You are the helper deputy, aren’t you? You fit the description.”

  Before Camille could respond, he took out another piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to her.

  “Who sent you here?” she asked as she took the folded paper from his hand.

  “A young man paid me a good amount to deliver him.” The man took his cap off and added, “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  Wide-eyed, she peeked into the covered cart and froze as she saw the casket inside. She moved a few steps back. ‘Hugo…’

  The man dropped his head, said, “I’ll give you a moment…” and stepped away.

  Camille opened the paper. It was a note – a message from someone.

  Her heart raced. She gripped the paper tighter as she read…

  ‘I knew where they were taking him. He deserved better. TC – Ethan VB’

  Her eyes welled up. A single tear fell onto the note. She whispered, “Thank you, Ethan.”

  The End

  Scribe here...

  The Eye", the first part of Custodes Animarum. Thanks for sticking around till the very end.

  – or the right place at the right one.

  If you felt anger, even better.

  And if you looked at your own surroundings and asked a question... well... that means the story did what it was meant to do.

  Joust...

  Different truths.

  Old names returning.

  And questions that will not stay buried.

  –

  Stay watchful.

  The Scribe of Ayn