I look back at Argos who is trying to determine whether to follow me, whether he trusts me to protect him. Harry is oblivious as he races around the cottage flinging open cupboards, searching for weapons.

Outside the window I see two children running through the fog, holding hands. They're brother and sister. I know them—have known them since the boy, Jacob, was born six years ago.

Jacob trips and falls, grabbing at his now-bloody knee. The sister pauses, noticing that her hand is empty where it just recently held the hand of her older brother. She looks back over her shoulder at Jacob on the ground, his arm stretched out to her for help. She shakes her head, her fingers in her mouth and her eyes wide, her blond curls bouncing with the gesture.

Suddenly, her body stiffens with an age-old terror. I see a wetness appear on the front of her skirt and she stumbles back, her eyes shifting between her brother and something beyond.

Jacob turns his head and then flops onto his back, using the heels of his hands to drag himself across the packed dirt. My view is blocked by the frame of the window and I have to press my face awkwardly against the glass to see what I already know is there. It's a pack of Unconsecrated shambling toward the boy. They always come in packs.

The sister takes two steps toward her brother, grabs his arm and tugs, but she's too small and weak to drag him. The Unconsecrated approach and the boy struggles against his sister, batting her little hands away, pushing her toward the platforms.

All of this takes place in the space between heartbeats and I back away from the window before my heart beats again, before I see Jacob's fate which I know all too clearly. Like the little girl I shake my head in disbelief.

This is panic. And panic means the people on the platforms will pull up the ladders early. Will do anything to save themselves first.

The hair on Argos's back spikes, his head is low and I see his body vibrate with a growl. All dogs in our village instinctually fear the Unconsecrated and have been trained to scent them.

His entire being is focused on the door to our cottage, he is warning us of what exists beyond.

Something crashes into me. I'm pushed away from the window. Harry shoves the ceremonial knife into my hand and grabs my chin, his fingers digging against my jaw as he searches my eyes.

His chest heaves, sweat trickles down his temples. And then he throws open the door, dashes outside and is back before I have a chance to recover. Before I have a chance to scream or hold him back. While I am still rubbing where his thumb dug into my skin. In his arms is Jacob, who had been left for the Unconsecrated by both his sister and me. Harry drops the boy onto the bed and returns to his work gathering supplies.