The Betrayal

By Peter Bowden

The garden was quiet, except for the wind brushing low through the olive branches. He knelt beside a worn stone, head bowed, fingers tangled like roots in the soil. Behind him, the others slept, curled into themselves, dreams tangled with dust and the scent of old leaves. A gate creaked somewhere far off, and the hush grew heavier, as if the earth itself knew what was coming.

A man stepped from the shadows. They met without words. Only a brief touch—a hand to a shoulder, a gesture too familiar to be trusted. Behind him, figures approached with the slow confidence of those who carry permission. Firelight shimmered on steel and eyes, and the one who had come first stepped aside, his face unreadable as a shut door.

It ended quickly. No arguments, no cries. Just the sound of feet on gravel and robes brushing stone. One man woke too late, lashing out in confusion, but the moment was already gone. The others scattered. The wind remained, pulling at the branches, whispering to no one in particular that things would never be the same.


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