ELITE by Maclaw

Chapter 7

**Hector's POV**

Fraya lay sprawled across the bed, her alabaster skin glowing beneath the soft light filtering through the curtains. The room felt warmer, the air thick with the scent of sweat and skin. She shifted, her eyes glistening like molten gold as they fixed on me, full of unspoken desire. Her lips parted into a languid smile, and she beckoned me closer, one graceful hand trailing along her stomach.

I hesitated for a moment, the heat of anticipation crawling up my spine. But then Lucas moved from behind her, his broad shoulders casting shadows across her curves. His muscular chest, marked with the pulse of veins, pressed against her back. His touch was firm, but tender, as his hands caressed her hips, fingers dipping to explore the softness of her skin.

She sighed-a soft, sensual sound that seemed to echo in the small room. Her eyes never left mine as Lucas kissed the nape of her neck, his lips lingering there before trailing lower, pressing against her shoulder. She twisted beneath his touch, urging him further with a breathy moan. But her gaze remained locked on me, and with one slow, deliberate motion, she reached for my hand.

I stepped forward, the air around us feeling charged, electric. As I lowered myself beside her, I caught Lucas's eye

—his expression was filled with the same need I felt. She guided my hand to her chest, while Lucas's mouth descended, brushing her collarbone.

The warmth of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest, it all made my pulse quicken. I leaned down, brushing my lips across her throat as she arched against me.

Her hand then drifted across the sheets, finding Lucas's neck, gently pulling him closer. She turned her head slightly, murmuring something soft, unintelligible, but full of hunger.

As her fingers slipped lower, she urged both of us closer. Lucas's eyes flicked towards mine as her lips pressed against his, softly at first, then with growing intensity. She pulled away, her eyes full of expectation, pushing both of us together.

In that heated moment, everything felt blurred-Lucas's mouth found mine, our breaths mingling with hers. The taste of her skin lingered between us, binding us tighter in the haze of passion.

My hand moved along her thigh as Lucas's fingers intertwined with mine, both of us guided by her touch, her whispers.

We shared her, the three of us entwined in an unspoken connection that left no space for thought, only sensation….

_But then, suddenly, Fraya’s breath grew shallow, her body stilling beneath his touch. A darkness began to creep in around the edges of his vision, and as he watched her, she began to fade—her skin, her breath, her warmth—all slipping away into nothingness.

"No... come back," Hector whispered, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Fraya... come back..." But she was already gone, swallowed up by the growing darkness.

He woke with a violent jolt, his body drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest. The sheets clung to his skin as though they’d fused to him in the heat of the nightmare. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake the remnants of the dream, only to hear a voice cut through the haze.

“You're dreaming again,” a soft voice spoke. It was Mervel, standing at the edge of his bed. Her silhouette was bathed in the soft light filtering through the window. She crossed the room with quiet grace, helping him into a robe, her hands brushing his skin as she covered him up.

“How long have I been asleep?” Hector asked, his voice barely above a whisper, still weighed down by the remnants of his dream.

“It’s midday,” she said softly.

And just like that, he broke. His body trembled, and all the strength that held him together shattered in an instant. Tears streamed down his face as the full weight of his dream crashed over him.

Mervel quickly moved to his side, pulling him into an embrace, her arms steady around him as his body shook.

“It’s all my fault,” Hector choked out between sobs. “I brought her into all this. I killed her.”

“No,” Mervel whispered, her voice filled with soothing tenderness. “Don’t blame yourself, baby. You didn’t do this.”

“I thought I could handle it. But it's hard, Mum.. Everything is so hard.”

She held him tighter, wiping away his tears as they fell. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she murmured.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He drew a shaky breath, forcing himself to speak. “I thought I could use her… Fraya. She was smart, and she was willing. I loved her,I loved him ..I just wanted us,..just us three,mum, but I was selfish.” He swallowed thickly, the taste of regret bitter on his tongue. “I brought her into all this, and it killed her. If I hadn’t involved her… Lucas, the three of us... it wasn’t possible.”

“What did you do?” Mervel asked gently, though her eyes were filled with concern.

“I killed her,” Hector said, his voice broken. “I sent her to lay with priest/father Matthias.. she bore his child... and I was going to use it as a weapon.” He let out a ragged sob, running a hand through his hair. “The church couldn’t let something like that come out. Matthias—if he knew she was pregnant.”

“The church,” Hector whispered, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut.”Thaddeus warned me,his not just a man.”I said to myself.

“Mum... this is it. They took everything from me.”

Mervel’s face softened with sorrow. “Hector, my boy... this isn’t your battle. Vengeance isn’t ours to claim.”

“Mum, no. I’m doing this for us. For her. For you,” Hector snapped, his voice rising with the intensity of his emotions. “What did they do to you? What have they done to us?”

Mervel reached out and gently cradled his face in her hands. “You’ll get yourself killed,” she said softly.

“I’m no longer the little boy you knew, Mother!” Hector shouted, stepping away from her. “I’m a man now! A f*****g man!” His voice echoed around the room.

She stood there in silence, her eyes sad but understanding. Slowly, she backed away.

Hector’s heart thudded against his chest, the anger draining from him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to yell.” He turned toward the wall and, in a fit of rage and sorrow, began punching it. The pain shot through his knuckles, blood dripping down as his hands bruised, but he didn’t stop.

The door swung open, and two guards rushed in, holding him back. Hector struggled against their grip, his eyes wild and searching. “She’s gone,” he thought to himself, the realization sinking in like a stone. “They’re both gone.”

He broke down in tears again, collapsing into the arms of the guards. His father stepped into the room, his presence cold and commanding.

“What’s wrong with him?” his father asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

“He’s been drinking again,” one of the guards replied.

His father strode over, grabbing Hector by the arm and pulling him to his feet. “This is not my son,” he spat, his words cutting deeper than any wound. “Weak.”

Hector felt the words reverberate through him like a cruel echo, amplifying all the pain he had been trying to bury. The weight of his losses—Fraya, his mother—crushed him under the weight of his guilt.

“Get in the shower and get dressed,” his father ordered, his voice cold and final. “We have to be present at the funeral.”

With that, his father turned and left the room, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Hector was left to wallow in his tears, ashamed of his broken state, his nakedness, and his bruised hands.

******** ************* ************** ***********

Jerimah

---

Jeremiah walked quietly, his bare feet making barely a sound against the cold, cobblestone street. The night air was crisp, and a biting chill gnawed at his naked skin. He kept his head low, his eyes scanning the darkened alleys as he made his way through the shadows, careful not to draw attention. But despite his precautions, a gnawing feeling of being followed began to creep up his spine.

He glanced over his shoulder. Someone was there, shadowing him in the dark. His muscles tensed as he quickened his pace, weaving through a crowded market still alive with activity despite the late hour. His heart pounded, and his breath came in short bursts. He was close to his destination, but the presence behind him lingered. The moment he found an opening, he spun around, gripping his axe tightly, ready to strike down his pursuer.

But the figure caught his hand in mid-swing, stopping the blade inches from their face. "I don't want to fight you," the figure said calmly.

"I will kill you if you think you can take me back," Jeremiah spat, his voice low and dangerous, his body still poised to strike. He stood back defensively, eyeing the person cloaked in a long black robe made of sheep's fur.

"Come with me," the figure said, their voice steady and unflinching.

Jeremiah frowned. "Why would I do that?"

"Our kind are not meant to be seen on these streets," the figure replied, slowly raising their sleeve to reveal dark skin underneath. "We head for the camp. The others are waiting for you."

"Others?" Jeremiah asked, doubt creeping into his voice.

Without another word, Jeremiah followed, though his instincts screamed to remain cautious. They approached a large building—a warehouse owned by the church. As they drew nearer, Jeremiah hesitated, gripping his axe tightly once more. His mind raced with thoughts of betrayal and ambush.

Stepping through the entrance, Jeremiah was met with a sight that nearly took his breath away. The interior was bright and warm, a stark contrast to the harsh world outside. Men and women, all with the same dark skin, moved about with a quiet joy, their faces healthy, their bodies well-fed. They wore neat, clean clothing and appeared content—a community living as though untouched by the horrors of the outside world. It was like stepping into another reality, a world he had never imagined.

"Welcome to the camp," the figure said beside him. "A haven for the forgotten."

"Slaves?" Jeremiah asked, disbelief tinging his voice.

"Here, no one is a slave. We are free. We are safe. Did you really think you were the only one who escaped?" The figure chuckled, lowering their hood to reveal a young man, perhaps thirty-five, bald and adorned with a necklace of snail shells. "My name is Tobi," he said, extending his hand for Jeremiah to shake.

Jeremiah eyed the necklace before shaking Tobi's hand. "The beads," he muttered, "what do they mean?"

Before Tobi could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps interrupted them. Elijah, another man from the camp, barged into the room, his eyes wide with concern. "Tobi, who is this?" Elijah demanded, glaring at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah stepped forward, his voice steady. "I’m Jeremiah."

Elijah scoffed. "He speaks… Must be lucky. Hasn’t had his teeth pulled out yet, huh?" He examined Jeremiah with a sneer, but his expression quickly shifted when his eyes landed on the golden axe Jeremiah clutched tightly. "That axe… it’s the weapon of a seedsman."

Jeremiah’s grip on the axe tightened as he met Elijah’s gaze. "I killed him," Jeremiah said coldly. "Took his axe. I broke free."

The room fell silent as Tobi and Elijah exchanged looks. "You killed a seedsman?" Tobi asked slowly. "And now… a soul inhabits your body?"

"I used Eve’s Night as a distraction. The chaos allowed me to slip out," Jeremiah explained. "It was luck."

"Smart," Tobi noted with a nod.

"Stupid," Elijah countered, his voice sharp. "If what you say is true, they will come for you. You’ve brought us danger."

Jeremiah straightened. "I don’t want trouble. If that’s the case, I’ll leave. I can fend for myself."

"Fend for yourself?" Elijah laughed bitterly. "Do you think you could survive the daylight? They’ll have your head rolling before midday. You don’t get it. People like us—we’re trouble. Black means evil to them."

Jeremiah’s retort was cut short by a sudden, violent coughing fit from Tobi. His body trembled uncontrollably, his hands shaking as he collapsed into Jeremiah’s arms.

"What’s wrong with him?" Jeremiah asked urgently, looking to Elijah.

Elijah rushed to grab water, splashing it on Tobi’s head. "He’s having an attack."

"Where’s his medicine?" Jeremiah demanded.

"Medicine?" Elijah echoed, the word foreign on his tongue.

Jeremiah swore under his breath. "You don’t have medicine? What about plants?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

Elijah hesitated. "We… we have plants, yes."

"Then get them!" Jeremiah barked. When the plants were brought to him, Jeremiah quickly crafted a mixture, crushing herbs together with practiced hands. He knelt beside Tobi, pressing the concoction to his lips. "Drink this," he commanded.

Elijah watched skeptically. "What is that?"

"It’s what he needs."

Jeremiah forced the mixture down Tobi’s throat, and slowly, the tremors began to subside. Tobi’s breathing steadied, his eyes rolling back into focus. The room was filled with quiet murmurs as the onlookers watched in awe.

Elijah stared at Jeremiah, shock evident in his expression. Before anything else could be said, two reverends entered the room. Elijah quickly informed them of the situation.

The reverends regarded Jeremiah with a chilling gaze before one spoke, "Welcome." Their eyes lingered on the axe Jeremiah still held.

As they helped Tobi to his feet, one of the reverends reached out and took Jeremiah’s axe. Jeremiah hissed in protest but was silenced by a look from Elijah.

"We’re keeping it," the reverend said coldly. Jeremiah’s grip relaxed as he stepped back. The reverend smiled slightly. "Once again, welcome, and may God bless you."they said,Turing to leave .

As they led Tobi away, the room grew quiet, save for the soft sound of children playing in a corner, their voices humming sacred hymns. Amid them stood Elijah,

Jeremiah lingered near the entrance of the warehouse, his fingers gripping the handle of his axe. The night air clung to his skin, cold and unforgiving. Inside, the sound of children humming hymns filled the space, their voices soft yet vibrant against the stillness. He felt like he had stepped into another world—a world far removed from the brutal realities he'd known.

Tobi sat beside him, his posture relaxed as he gazed toward the children. His color had returned after Jeremiah’s intervention, his skin now glowing with health, no longer pale and sallow. Everyone in the camp looked well-fed, clothed in neat garments, their faces brimming with a quiet contentment.

“They're doing God's work here,” Tobi said softly, his eyes fixed on the children as they played. “Feeding us, keeping us safe.”

Jeremiah scoffed, not taking his eyes off the priest who now held his axe. “Safe from what?” he muttered. “The world doesn’t even know we’re here. We don’t exist to them.”

Tobi turned to him, a frown creasing his brow. “What do you mean?”

“They keep you hidden away, feeding you, housing you like livestock. But for what? Why go to all this trouble? Why keep us alive when the outside world would rather see us dead?”

Tobi hesitated before answering, his voice uncertain. “We’re free here. They don’t hurt us… They protect us.”

Jeremiah let out a bitter chuckle. “Free? Is that what you call this? Locked away in a forgotten corner of the world, at the mercy of men who think they speak for God?”

Tobi fell silent, staring at the floor as if searching for answers there. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter. “Thank you,” he said. “For saving me earlier. Whatever you gave me—it worked. It was a miracle.”

Jeremiah shook his head, his voice hard. “That wasn’t a miracle. It was herbs—simple plants with real properties. Not the so-called holy water and prayers they feed you.”

“They say sickness is a punishment for sin,” Tobi whispered, almost to himself. “That’s why we get sick.”

Jeremiah shot him a look, his disbelief evident. “And you believe that? That’s exactly what they want you to think—so you’ll stay docile, keep your head down, and keep believing in their God, doing whatever they say.”

Tobi frowned deeper, confused. “What are you saying?”

Jeremiah hesitated, glancing around at the people gathered in quiet circles, the priests moving among them with serene smiles. He swallowed his words, shaking his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. He could feel the truth festering in his gut, nagging at him. There was something wrong here, something hidden beneath the surface of their so-called protection. He didn’t trust it—didn’t trust the church, the priests, or their hollow smiles.

“I need to get out of here,” Jeremiah whispered to himself, his eyes narrowing as Elijah’s voice rose above the murmurs of the crowd. His song filled the room, cutting through the tension like a sharp blade. The children laughed and danced, their small hands clapping in rhythm to the tune, their joy a stark contrast to the heaviness in Jeremiah’s heart. For a moment, he allowed himself to listen—to let the sound momentarily distract him from the darkness creeping in on the edges of his mind.

“When Elijah sings,” Tobi said quietly beside him, “I believe there’s a heaven.”

Jeremiah shot him a sideways glance, his lips twisting into a grim smile. “You really believe that?”

Tobi blinked, startled by the sudden harshness in Jeremiah’s tone. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “We’re alive, aren’t we? We’re safe here.”

Jeremiah looked away, his jaw tightening. “Safe,” he echoed bitterly. “Sure. As safe as sheep before the slaughter.”

Tobi opened his mouth to respond but stopped as Elijah’s voice soared, filling the room with its haunting beauty. The children’s laughter mingled with the melody, their carefree innocence floating through the space. Jeremiah’s heart felt heavy, knowing this fragile peace was just an illusion.

And illustrations,he knew ,always broke .