As Seraphina and Lyla stepped out of the car, they were soon joined by the low rumble of engines as several black SUVs pulled into the clearing behind them.
One by one, the vehicles lined up in a neat row, their headlights cutting through the misty darkness.
Doors opened, and a dozen women emerged, all members of the church, their movements precise and disciplined. Their faces were solemn, their eyes guarded, as if they were stepping into the presence of a king.
They, too, had heard the stories about their master, Kafka, but for most, this was their first time meeting him. The weight of that moment hung heavy in the air as they assembled in a tight, orderly formation before the barrels where Kafka sat, their postures rigid, like soldiers before a general.
