Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 28)

The convoy of black SUVs cut through the snowstorm like shadows pushing against a raging sea. The wipers struggled to clear the thick layers of ice building on the windshield, and every gust of wind felt like the world was trying to push them back—warning them, begging them, to turn away.

But Evelyn was done turning away.

She sat between Liam and Marlowe in the lead vehicle, her eyes glued to the faint, distant glow rising through the blizzard—the glow of fire. Ritual fire. Symbol fire.

The first ring had already been lit.
The ritual was in motion.

Her breath fogged the inside of the glass.
“How long until we reach the river?”

Marlowe checked the GPS.
“Six minutes. Maybe less if visibility improves.”

It wouldn’t. The storm wasn’t normal.
Evelyn felt it in her bones.

Beside her, Liam leaned forward, studying the map.
“They’re cutting us off from the east side,” he muttered. “There are roadblocks—unregistered vehicles, no plates.”

“Followers,” Marlowe said grimly. “Hale must have mobilized them.”

Evelyn swallowed hard.
“What does he want from me? What does he think I am?”

Marlowe hesitated.
Then—softly—
“Not what, Evelyn. Who.”

The words sliced through her like a blade of ice.

But there was no time to pull the truth out of him; the radio crackled violently.

“—Director! Movement ahead—figures on the bridge—armed—”

The SUV jerked as the driver swerved.

“Hold on!” he shouted.

Through the curtain of snow, they saw them—five hooded figures blocking the bridge, torches burning despite the storm. The fire didn’t flicker. Didn’t move.
Like it wasn’t subject to the wind at all.

Evelyn felt a sharp sting of recognition.

“These aren’t just followers,” she whispered. “They’re part of the original circle.”

Marlowe nodded.
“The same kind your mother warned us about.”

The car screeched to a halt.
The wind howled.
The road trembled.

Liam unbuckled instantly. “We’ll clear the path.”

Before Evelyn could protest, he flung open the door and stepped into the storm. The others followed—agents emerging into the blizzard, weapons drawn, forming a moving line.

Marlowe turned to Evelyn.
“You stay inside.”

“No,” she said sharply. “I go with you.”

“You are the target.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “And I’m done hiding.”

For a moment, Marlowe saw her mother in her—the same fire, the same recklessness that came from refusing to let fear take control. He finally nodded.

“Stay behind me. Don’t engage unless you need to.”

Evelyn stepped into the storm.
The cold hit her like a slap, biting deep, trying to freeze her breath before it left her lungs. Snow swirled violently around them, yet the hooded figures stood perfectly still—unshaken, unbending.

One stepped forward.

Even through the snow, Evelyn recognized the mask he wore.
It was carved with spirals—her mother’s drawings.
The same spirals found in Hale’s research.

Liam shouted, “Drop the torch!”

But the figure simply tilted his head… and whispered something she couldn’t hear.

Then he pointed at her.

Not Marlowe. Not Liam.
Her.

As his hand lifted, the torches around them erupted—flames stretching upward, unnaturally bright.

Marlowe grabbed Evelyn and pulled her back.
“Move!”

The agents opened fire—not at bodies, but at the ground near the torches, trying to break the formation. The shots echoed into the storm.

The figures dispersed like shadows—silent, fast, almost gliding.

Evelyn felt something cold brush past her, like a hand dragging across her shoulder. She spun—nothing.

Liam cursed under his breath.
“They’re not trying to fight us. They’re trying to delay us.”

“And they’re succeeding,” Marlowe growled. “We need to move. Now!”

The path was finally clear. The torches had gone out as suddenly as they ignited.

The convoy pushed forward again, tires skidding through slush and ice.

Moments later—
the river came into view.

And Evelyn’s heart nearly stopped.

The community hall stood on the bank, half-swallowed by fog rising from the river’s surface. But what froze her was the sight beside it:

A massive symbol burned into the snow—circles, spirals, and lines that mirrored the drawings in her mother’s diary.

Inside the largest circle…
something moved.

A silhouette.
Tied to a chair.
Breathing.

Liam whispered, horrified, “That’s the captive from the photo.”

And then—
the front doors of the hall opened.

A figure stepped out.

Firelight behind him.
Snow swirling around him.
A silhouette tall, calm, too familiar.

Evelyn felt her heartbeat collapse in her chest.

Dr. Rowan Hale.

His voice carried across the storm, impossibly clear:

“Welcome home, Evelyn.”

A surge of fear and fury cracked through her veins.

He continued—
“Your mother chose the wrong side.
You still have a chance not to repeat her mistake.”

Liam raised his weapon. “Don’t take another step!”

But Hale didn’t flinch.
His eyes locked onto Evelyn—bright, intense, full of something dark and unhinged.

“It is time,” he said softly.
“For you to take your place.”

Evelyn’s breath shook.

Her place…
in what?

The storm howled.
The symbol circles glowed faintly.
The captive groaned.

And Evelyn realized—
the ritual had reached the point of no return.
.
.
.
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