Gavril’s grin was a thin, cruel slash in the twilight. The papers rustled dryly against Gavril's thigh, crisp white corners catching the dying sun. Cold dread settled low in Zetta's stomach, jarring against the sawdust-and-salt heat of Manno’s wool shirt. This man, her uncle, was a viper, and her father, bless his simple, trusting heart, was a rabbit. She had to act. Now. “Papa! Papa!” she shrieked, her pitch cutting sharp through the dusk, no longer theatrical but shrill with calculated panic. She squirmed violently in Manno’s arms, pointing a stubby finger toward the looming, forested peaks of Mount Orfino. “The Weeping Saint! She calls! Up there! Up, up!” Manno, still off-balance from her staged tumble and his brother's arrival, blinked down at her. “The… the Weeping Saint, Zetta? What are you talking about, little flower?” He glanced nervously toward Gavril, who took a measured step forward with the documents rustling in his grip. Manno’s shoulders drooped, a familiar posture of self-sacrificing surrender setting in. Zetta knew that look. It meant he was about to accept his fate, to become Gavril’s scapegoat. “The Saint! The Saint!” Zetta insisted, her voice rising to a frantic, babbling pitch. Her internal monologue, however, was a sharp, tactical calculation. The local legend of the Weeping Saint of Orfino, a benevolent spirit said to guide the lost, was deeply ingrained in Vellarno lore. If she could make Manno believe a divine message was at play, it would override even Gavril’s toxic influence. “She sings of *earth-gold*! Of *hidden treasures* for our house! Go, Papa! Go now!” She thrashed again, small shoes drumming against his ribcage. Manno, caught between his daughter's frenzy and his brother’s steady, pressuring stare, froze in confusion. “Earth-gold?” he muttered, the idea of a simple fortune momentarily eclipsing the grim reality of legal trouble. He loved a good treasure hunt, especially if it was for his family. Gavril’s sneer deepened. “Manno, don’t be a fool. The child’s just rattled. Come on, let’s get this sorted. You know what we agreed.” His voice was low, oily, dripping with false concern. Zetta met Gavril’s flat gaze over Manno’s shoulder. *Not a chance, you glorified pond scum.* She doubled down on the performance. “No! Bad man! Black shadows! The Saint says… the Saint says *lies*!” She pointed a wobbly finger directly at Gavril. “Away! Away with the bad shadows!” Her accusation, however infantile, stung Gavril. His composure faltered, a flicker of genuine anger darkening his eyes. “The child is hysterical, Manno,” he hissed, but his voice lacked its usual smooth authority. “She’s talking nonsense.” But Zetta’s words, combined with her sudden, dramatic pointing, had planted a seed of doubt. Manno, ever a man of faith and superstition, found his fatherly instincts warring with his loyalty. The idea of “bad shadows” around Gavril, though vague, resonated with an unease he often suppressed. More importantly, his daughter, his precious Zetta, was distressed and pointing towards the mystical mountains. The mountains held secrets, everyone knew that. “Zetta, are you… are you really hearing the Saint?” Manno asked, his voice softening, his grip on her tightening protectively. He was already leaning into the fantasy. *Perfect.* “Yes! Yes!” Zetta nodded vigorously, burying her face against his collar. “Follow the wind! Up! Up the path of the tall pines!” Without another word, Manno turned his back on Gavril and strode away from the police station, Zetta still in his arms, heading directly toward the winding, unpaved road that led up Mount Orfino. Gavril cursed under his breath, the rustle of the confession papers sounding like an exasperated sigh in the dimming street. He couldn’t chase Manno with half the village watching, not without exposing his manipulation. For now, Zetta had won this skirmish. The climb up the lower slopes of Mount Orfino was less arduous than Zetta remembered. Manno, humming an old Vellarno tune, carried her through groves of maritime timber, fragrant needles cushioning his work boots. The neon glow of the beachfront arcades faded behind them, replaced by the hushed green canopy, punctured only by crickets and the low crash of surf against the rocks. Zetta, having successfully diverted her father, directed him with cryptic gurgles and pointed fingers. “Deeper, Papa! Where the ferns weep!” Manno, charmed by his daughter’s sudden declarations, obeyed every tug of her hand. He was convinced Zetta was channeling something profound. “Alright, little prophet,” he chuckled, setting her down gently in a patch of unusually vibrant, almost iridescent moss. “Where does the Saint say the earth-gold hides?” Zetta pointed to a gnarled oak, its roots thick as pythons entwining a cluster of violet-capped mushrooms. “Under the giant’s claws! Where the earth sings!” “The giant’s fingers, eh?” Manno grinned, pulling out a small, sturdy spade he always kept in his scooter’s utility basket – a habit from his days as a budding botanist before Gavril’s influence had pushed him into less honest work. He began to dig, whistling cheerfully. Zetta, meanwhile, began her own exploration, toddling away from the digging site, her internal compass set on a specific landmark. The Villa of the Weeping Saint. She pushed through a curtain of thick, dew-kissed ivy, its leaves cool against her cheeks. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp stone and decaying wood. Suddenly, the foliage parted, revealing a clearing. And there it was. Not a grand, imposing edifice, but a skeletal whisper of what it once was: the Villa of the Weeping Saint. Stone walls hung heavy with climbing fig, cracked window frames overlooked the sea, and a crumbling fountain sat dry in the courtyard, its carved martyr bowed over a basin choked with wild nettles. It was perfect. Overgrown, forgotten, and completely secure. *Our fortress,* Zetta thought, a thrill of proprietorship running through her. She took another step, her red-and-white polka dots blending into the twilight shadows. Steel flashed in the gray light. A freezing edge pressed firmly against the hollow beneath her chin. Zetta went rigid. Her gaze dropped. A fold-out pocket knife. The polished edge gleamed under the canopy's dim moonbeams. Above it, a pair of intense, dark eyes, narrowed with suspicion and raw fear, stared back at her. The face was smudged with dirt, framed by a wild tangle of dark hair. A boy stood there, no older than six, wearing patched denim and dirt smudges across a sharp, hollowed jawline. “Who are you?” the boy growled low, steady despite his shaking knees. “What are you doing here? This is *my* place.” Zetta, for once, was speechless. This wasn’t in the plan. Her mental gears whirred, assessing the threat. A child, armed, defending his territory. He was clearly desperate. Tears wouldn’t work here. Logic wouldn’t work. Only an undeniable shock could break his guard. She looked into his eyes, a strange, profound knowledge bubbling up from the corners of her reborn memory. The truth. Not her truth, but *his*. “The old lighthouse,” Zetta piped, dropping into a lilting child-cadence, her knees locked against the damp soil. “The red lantern… broken. Your mama’s smile… gone with the waves. Your papa’s fishing boat… *The Siren’s Kiss*… never returned from the storm off Cape Sirena. Left you… alone… with the salty wind.” The boy's scowl dissolved. The blade shuddered against her collarbone, and air tore roughly into his throat. He stumbled back a step, dropping the blade with a muffled clatter onto the roots. His face crumpled, tears cutting pale streaks through the soot on his cheeks. “You… you know?” he choked out, his voice a raw, broken sound. “How… how do you know about Cape Sirena? How do you know about *The Siren’s Kiss*?” He dropped to his knees, staring at the pocket knife, then up at Zetta with dazed reverence. “Are you… are you the Saint?” Zetta merely looked at him, her toddler expression serene, almost beatific. *Bingo.* She had him. She kicked the knife lightly aside, nudging it behind a tuft of moss. “The Saint… sees,” she murmured in her high toddler voice. “She speaks of new paths. Of… earth-gold.” She gestured back toward where Manno was still digging. “For the lost boy. For the lost home.” The boy, stunned by the impossible inventory of his ruined past, stared at her with rapt focus. He scrambled to his feet, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His feral hostility had vanished entirely. He believed. He believed Zetta was a messenger, a divine conduit. His posture shifted, from threat to absolute, unwavering loyalty. “I… I will serve you,” he said, his voice firm, resolute. “Whatever the Saint wishes. Whatever *you* wish. My name is Tavito. And this… this is my secret home. You can share it.” He gestured around the decaying villa with a proprietary sweep of his arm. “Always.” Zetta gave him a small, knowing smile. *Phase two: complete. Enforcer acquired. Headquarters secured.* She grabbed his sleeve, pulling him along with brisk toddler momentum. “Come, Tavito. Help Papa dig. The Saint says… the earth-gold is very special. Very rare.” Together, the three-year-old tycoon and the six-year-old runaway returned to Manno, who was still happily excavating. “Zetta! Look!” Manno exclaimed, holding up a clump of soil. “No earth-gold, but… a mushroom! A strange one!” Zetta knelt beside him, Tavito shadowing her every move. She carefully brushed away the soil from the delicate, almost shimmering fungi. Her gaze locked on the pale, marbled skin. Silver-Crested Truffles. Ultra-rare, highly prized, and incredibly valuable. This was more than just ‘earth-gold’; this was a botanical goldmine. A true luxury good. “More, Papa! More, more!” she urged, her voice laced with genuine excitement. Manno and Tavito, now working in tandem, dug with renewed vigor, unearthing more of the fragrant truffles. The pile grew, each one a small fortune. Triumph flared bright in Zetta's chest. This was capital. This was their escape hatch. Then Tavito’s trowel scraped something hard beneath the loam. Manno let out a low grunt, scraping aside black mulch. Wedged beneath the oak roots sat a small, leather-bound book. Dark, slick with damp earth, and intricately embossed with a coiled serpent emblem, it looked less like a forgotten diary and more like… a ledger.

Prophets and Switchblades