Hidden Fragments Chapter 29

Shadows and Sanctuary

Previously on Hidden Fragments
Marisa’s quiet refuge is shattered when a soldier named Ronan arrives with urgent news: soldiers are coming to arrest them for their faith in the God of the Scrolls. After revealing that Calen escaped capture at the Bridge of Echoes and that he once saved his life, Ronan defects from the Council of Twelve and helps Marisa, Isola, and Tobin flee just moments before the soldiers storm the area.

Meanwhile, Calen awakens in the cove after his harrowing confrontation with Seraphiel. Though he resisted the tempter’s deception, the battle is not over. The mysterious Codex of Everlasting Illumination lies physically before him, luring him with promises of greater wisdom, but Calen refuses to touch it, choosing obedience over curiosity.

As he steps out of the cove, weary but steadfast, he encounters a new figure, an old man named Elior Bren, who offers food, fellowship, and the promise of answers.

The chase has begun. The temptation lingers.
And new alliances are forming.

Chapter 29

Shadows and Sanctuary

Marisa breathed a sigh of relief as they reached the safety of the forest’s edge. The soldiers had not seen them. Here, surrounded by trees and thick undergrowth, they could make their escape. Tobin clenched his arms around her waist so tightly, it almost hurt. She didn’t mind. As long as she could keep him and Isola out of Droskar’s hands, nothing else mattered.

Ronan rode ahead, charging forward and forcing his way zig-zagging between the trees and bushes with Isola seated behind him. Marisa followed, leaning low over Whisperwind’s neck to avoid the whipping branches, She hoped Tobin would do the same. Pax ran alongside them, bursting with enthusiasm. The dog seemed to relish every step, completely unaware of the danger they were in.

After several more minutes of hard riding, Ronan pulled up in a small clearing. He tilted his head, scanning the woods.

“Do you think we’re safe?” Marisa asked, bringing Whisperwind to a halt beside him.

He didn’t answer. He turned slowly, first right, then left, rigid and alert. Only the whisper of leaves and the distant call of a cuckoo broke the silence. At last, some of the tension left his shoulders and he looked at Marisa.

“Think so,” he said, with ragged breath. “For now. But we can’t risk it. He’ll send men to sweep the area.”

He wiped his brow and glanced at her. “Do you know where we can go? We need to move.”

Marisa turned to Isola, right behind Ronan, her face drained of color. “Isola, do you know somewhere we can go?”

Isola blinked rapidly, fighting tears.

An hour ago, she had been at home. Now that life was gone. Their house, the land, the quiet gatherings with other believers… all left behind without warning. Everything had changed in a moment. She had no home now. Droskar’s men, men who had bent the knee to the Council of Twelve, were hunting her. That morning, she had laughed while kneading the bread dough. Now she was staring at trees.

Isola looked down at her empty hands, then back toward the path to her cottage, as if saying goodbye.

Marisa reached for her shoulder, fighting tears herself.

Isola flinched, then steadied herself and gave her a small, fragile smile. “I always knew they’d come eventually,” she said. “I just thought I’d have more time.”

“God has brought us this far, Isola,” Marisa said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “He won’t leave us now.”

Isola lifted her trembling hands, then met Marisa’s gaze and nodded. “I know, Marisa,” she whispered. “We are pilgrims before God, just passing through. This world is not our home.”

“That’s right!” Tobin shouted, bouncing with excitement. “By the Whiskers of Saint Gilles, we’re traveling like Calen now, aren’t we, Mama? God is good!”

He and Pax seemed to find the entire journey thrilling. Marisa chuckled, shaking her head. Perhaps it was better that Tobin didn’t fully understand the danger.

“Are we going to the Bridge of Echoes too, Marisa?” he asked eagerly. “Will we see Calen there?”

Marisa shook her head. “I’m sorry, Tobin, but we’ll skip that bridge today. I have thought of another place to go. Want to see my grandfather’s goats instead?”

“Goats?” Tobin’s eyes widened. “Are there many?”

“Too many for you to count,” Marisa said. “And Grandfather has a dog, so Pax can have a playmate too.”

“Good gravy!” Tobin exclaimed, bouncing in his seat.

Isola gave a small, wobbly smile. “That sounds good, Marisa. I… I can’t think of anywhere safer right now.”

“Where is this farm?” Ronan asked.

“We need to take the direction of the capital,” answered Marisa.

An ox-horn blared through the forest, sharp and shattering, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Her stomach knotted. The soldiers had discovered that the house was empty.

“Move!” Ronan snapped. “We need to keep going!”

“You know where to go?” Marisa asked.

Ronan grinned. “I know this area like the back of my hand. I know which paths Droskar and his men have abandoned.” He gave Marisa a reassuring look. “Trust me. There’s a place to hide along the way; an old, collapsed way station. Nothing fancy, but I doubt Droskar’s men will think to check it.”

“On the way?” Marisa asked.

“Sort of,” Ronan said. “Your grandfather’s farm is too far for today. But the place I know… we can safely spend the night, I think.” He nudged his horse toward the forest, signaling them to follow.

Marisa hesitated, then, with no better choice, steered Whisperwind after him. Once they rode on at a calmer pace, she asked, “Tell me more about the way station.”

“It shut down years ago,” Ronan said. “Trade routes changed, and it doesn’t appear on patrol maps anymore. Old smugglers still use it, but nobody else goes there.”

“That sounds good,” Marisa said, glancing at Isola, who stared blankly ahead, lost in her own thoughts. Marisa turned to Tobin. His eyes shone with excitement, and he clutched the sides of the saddle, bracing himself as the horse moved.

“Hold on, Tobin,” she said. “We’re not safe yet.”

“God will keep us safe, Marisa,” he replied with quiet certainty, as if he had crossed the valley of the shadow of death many times before.

Marisa smiled, feeling both amused and moved. Tobin had never faced such danger, of course, but his childlike faith was unwavering. God would keep them safe, she reminded herself.

She focused again on Ronan leading the way and whispered a prayer as she guided Whisperwind through the underbrush: All right, dear Father. Please help and guide us. Keep us safe.

Ronan turned in his saddle. “If we’re lucky, we’ll reach the way station before dark!”

“Before dark?” Marisa said. “Then we don’t have a minute to lose.”

The horn sounded again. Closer than before.

They had to hurry. The enemy was gaining.

“Come on!” he shouted, spurring his horse into a gallop. Isola clung to him as they tore through the forest.

For a moment, Marisa glanced back. The forest stood empty and she heaved a sigh of relief. There were no soldiers nearby. Then she spurred Whisperwind forward and raced after Ronan toward the abandoned way station.

Smugglers? A crumbling ruin?

Everything was better than Droskar’s men.

Calen stood motionless, uncertain what to do. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation with the unknown. The old man, with his silvery hair and gentle smile seemed as harmless as a dove, and the scent of Sable Wolf jerky and charred beetroot drifted warmly through the cove.

Still, he needed to stay on guard. His gaze shifted to the travel bag strapped to Hosanna’s back. The Scrolls were still there.

Should he leave Hosanna and the Scrolls hidden in the cove while he went down alone to meet the stranger?

He dismissed the thought. Leaving the Scrolls so close to where he had faced Seraphiel would be reckless. Better to keep them within reach.

He lifted his hand and called out to Elior Bran, “I am coming down.”

Taking Hosanna by the reins, he began the descent, careful with every step. Loose stones shifted beneath his boots. The old man watched with a quiet smile as Calen guided the horse down the narrow path.

When he reached the bottom, the old man stepped forward and placed a hand on Calen’s shoulder. “So glad to see you, Young Pilgrim. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Seraphiel had not called him pilgrim, though he had spoken in a similar manner. Elior Bran’s words felt different. Simple, but weighty. Spoken with genuine interest. This man saw him.

Seraphiel’s words had been polished. Measured. There had always been something faintly condescending underneath them, as though Calen were a tool. Useful, perhaps, but forever beneath a higher standard he would never quite reach.

Elior Bran made him feel welcomed, not measured or managed.

Only welcomed.

“Are you hungry?” Elior asked, breaking through Calen’s musings.

Calen nodded. His eyes drifted to the small fire, where a large slab of Sable Wolf jerky roasted above the flames. His stomach rumbled.

“Go on, sit down,” Elior said, pointing to a tree trunk that served as a stool.

The old man with his silver hair walked to the fire, poked the meat with a stick and grinned. “It’s done. You can eat.”

From a shoulder bag near the fire, Elior pulled out a plate and set it carefully on the ground, then lifted the meat from the flames. A sharp cleaver appeared from beneath his robe, and with one swift motion he sliced off a massive portion of the Sable Wolf jerky.

“Big enough?” he asked kindly, holding it up for Calen to see.

Calen could not remember ever having such a large piece of Sable Wolf jerky on his plate, and certainly not for breakfast. For a moment he was at a loss for words, but the old man’s good-natured smile put him at ease. He could simply be himself, just as he had around Marisa. The last of his reservations melted away.

“That’s more than enough Sable Wolf jerky for me,” he said, almost feeling guilty for eating such a luscious piece. “Do you have enough for yourself?” he asked timidly.

Elior chuckled as he placed the meat on the plate. “I ate hours ago, Young Pilgrim. I always eat at five in the morning.”

“At five in the morning?” Calen stared at him, bewildered. He wouldn’t dream of getting up that early, and hoped he never would have to. Elior showed no reaction, but kept busy preparing Calen’s breakfast.

From a small pot beside the fire, Elior spooned several servings of charred beetroot next to the jerky. The plate was abundantly filled as he handed it to Calen.

“Go on, eat well, Young Pilgrim,” he said warmly. “Enjoy it.”

And Calen did. The meat was perfectly done, and the smoke from the fire lent it a deep, rich flavor.

“Thank you,” Calen said between bites, though his eyes kept darting toward the entrance of the cove.

Elior noticed and reassured him. “Do not worry. Eat. Seraphiel had his chance, and he squandered it. He has no power here. He is gone.”

Hearing that dark, unpleasant name again, Calen nearly choked on a piece of beetroot.

“H-How do you know that name?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“He is one of the princes of darkness,” Elior Bran said simply. “The Scrolls do not name him or his companions directly, but much is written about the spirit now at work in the sons of disobedience. Their deceitful works rest entirely on twisting the truth. These imps have honed deception into an art. We can only pray that their downfall is swift.”

The way Elior spoke, revealed not only contempt and restrained anger, but something else as well: relief. Calen noticed it immediately. Relief. Why? Because he had not fallen into Seraphiel’s trap?

The thought unsettled him.

Doubt stirred again. Not about God, but about himself. About his own weakness. About how easily he had nearly failed. The old shame crept back in, heavy and familiar. After all, it had been a close call. More than once.

It was as though Elior could read his thoughts.

“Do not be too hard on yourself, Young Pilgrim,” he said with a playful smile. “We are only flesh and blood. Sin is always crouching at the door. But you did well. The Scrolls are safe.”

Calen nodded. The Scrolls were indeed safe.

Elior sat down across from him and gave him a long, steady stare. At last, he tugged on his beard and said, “You must be wondering who I am, are you not?”

Calen nodded. He was, but he had not dared to ask.

“As I said, Seraphiel is a liar,” Elior began. “His father is the father of lies. He told you he was the hermit you were seeking. But that is impossible, because the hermit you seek is me. I am the one you’ve been looking for.” He regarded Calen with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I thought…” Calen began. “I mean… I hoped so. But I’ve been through so much these past few days that I’m no longer certain of anything.” Elior raised his bushy brows.

“Well,” Calen stammered, “I do not doubt the God of the Scrolls. But I cannot say this journey has been easy.”

“No pilgrimage ever is,” Elior replied calmly. “But here you are, and all is well.”

All is well?

As Elior spoke, a stab of pain shot through Calen’s heart. No, not all was well. Marisa had been captured by Slink, and what if she…

A heavy shadow crossed his mind. He had not thought of Marisa for some time. After the Bridge of Echoes and the confrontation with Seraphiel, his beloved companion had faded into the background. But now, sitting by a warm fire, a full plate of food before him, in the company of the true hermit, guilt returned.

He set the plate on the ground and looked up at Elior.

“I… I…” His voice sounded weak, frightened. He licked his lips and forced the words out. “Because of me, someone was taken prisoner…”

Elior’s eyes lit briefly. “You mean Marisa?”

“H-How do you know that?” Calen stammered.

“God has shown me what I needed to see,” Elior replied.

“Has He shown you … everything?” Calen asked quietly, lowering his eyes. Had Elior seen his pride too? Did he know about his clumsy stubbornness? Not a comforting thought.

“Perhaps not everything,” Elior said, his voice gentle and it somewhat calmed Calen’s nerves. “But He has shown me the most important things. And I have good news for you.”

Calen looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Elior paused for a moment and Calen felt the gentle gaze of the hermit resting on him. At last, he spoke and said, “Marisa lives. Did you truly think God would abandon His children in moments when they need Him the most? And,” Elior continued, “has He failed you?”

“N-No,” Calen said, not sure how he was to react. If there was one thing he had been learning these last days it was that God had not failed him. Not even in the least. He gave Elior a small nod and as he felt genuine conviction he said, “He most certainly has not.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Elior said, while leaning back.

The realization of the truth that everything, even to the smallest details, was guided by the Heavenly Friend hit Calen once more with a surge of joy that sprouted up from deep within.

He jumped to his feet, accidentally kicking his plate. The Sable Wolf jerky and beetroot scattered into the dust.

“Marisa lives!” he yelled, while dancing around.

Elior nodded kindly. “Yes, Calen. All is well.” There was a smirk on the hermit’s face as he glanced at the dirt-covered remains of Calen’s breakfast and he added, “In fact, she is faring much better than your meal. But while you eat your Sable Wolf jerky, now seasoned with mud, there’s one last thing I need to do before we go to my dwelling.”

“What’s that?” Calen asked.

But Elior did not answer. Instead, the old man got up and, to Calen’s surprise, began the ascent to the cove with surprising ease. A few moments later he disappeared, only to return with a broad smile on his weathered face.

Calen froze when he saw what Elior was carrying.

It was the Scroll, the lying Scroll Seraphiel had wanted to give him.

When Elior reached him, he said, “I did not only make a fire to prepare your breakfast. We need the fire to burn this lying Scroll.” He turned to Calen and added, “Here… the honor is yours.”

Calen hesitated as he stared at the wretched thing.

Should he take it? He had not wanted to even touch it, but burning it felt right. With his heart pounding, he stretched out his hand and took it from Elior. The leathery surface felt unpleasant. Dirty. Foul. He would need to wash his hands afterward.

With a determined grimace, he placed the Scroll into the fire.

It caught instantly. Large tongues of bluish flame leapt toward the sky, and a terrible scent filled the air, the stench of a dead animal left too long in the sun. Calen shielded his mouth and nose from the fumes.

The fire crackled loudly… and then it died, just like that.

As suddenly as it had flared, it was gone. The foul scent vanished with it, replaced by the sweet aroma of fresh mountain air.

Calen laughed.

He could not explain why, but a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.

The bad Scroll was gone. The good Scrolls were safe and so was Marisa.

Now he could face the world again.

“Come,” Elior said. “Let’s go to my place. It’s not far.”

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