THE DISCIPLE'S TRAIL
The transport cut through the dark waters of the Pacific, its engines humming with a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to vibrate through James's bones. He sat in the dimly lit cabin, his eyes fixed on the Master's face, studying every flicker of expression, every subtle shift in their posture. The Master had been calm throughout the journey, their hands clasped in their lap, their gaze steady. But James had learned to read people, and something about the Master's composure felt forced, like a mask that was beginning to crack. "The disciple," James said, his voice flat. "Tell me everything." The Master inclined their head, their movements slow and deliberate. "Her name is Elena. I trained her personally, starting when she was a child. She has a gift for organization, for planning, for
- Writer
