Where Nothing Stays Hidden Part One

For years, I have watched over Larkin’s Grove.

I’ve watched them lie, smile, whisper, and dismantle one another in the name of righteousness—watched them dress cruelty up as concern, gossip up as prayer, and control up as conviction. It’s almost impressive, honestly, the way they’ve convinced themselves it all means the same thing.

But tonight, I’m done.

I rest my hand against the old wooden door, feeling the rough grain press into my palm—solid, unmoving. Familiar in a way nothing else in this town has ever managed to be. A strand of my long hair slips loose, catching against my lips in the still air, and I brush it back behind my ear.

This gate has been here longer than all of the people it protects…

My family has spent decades tending it. Keeping it closed. Standing watch while the rest of Larkin’s Grove carried on, completely unaware of what sits just on the other side.

I have stood at this door as a daughter. As a keeper.

And now… as something else entirely.

And for what?

We could’ve been anywhere else. Out in the world. Living, traveling, meeting people who don’t smile at you while quietly deciding what you’re worth. But instead, we stayed here. In the Bible Belt. Watching husbands slip out of their homes and into someone else’s bed—someone younger, someone easier to impress. Watching money disappear from honest hands into more “capable” ones. Watching girls learn early how to ruin someone with nothing but a look and a well-placed whisper.

Watching lives come undone over things that were never true to begin with.

Watching men who can’t govern themselves take it upon themselves to govern everyone else—armed, of course, with morality and God, like either one asked to be dragged into it.

Honestly, the hypocrisy alone could’ve kept this place running for another hundred years.

And through all of that—

we protected them.

The keepers of the gate. The Voss line. The ones standing between this world and the next, holding shut a door they don’t even believe exists.

And in return?

We get watched. Labeled. Kept just far enough outside to be talked about, but never actually known.

I hear it when I walk down Main Street.

There goes that Voss girl.

Whispered like an insult. As if I don't stand between them and certain ruin.

My parents guarded this gate their entire lives. Their parents before them. And, in what I’m sure was meant to feel meaningful, I was expected to do the same. Someday, my children too.

A long, noble line of quiet sacrifice for people who wouldn’t lift a finger if we disappeared tomorrow.

I press my hand more firmly against the door, feeling the weight of it—of all of it—settle into something almost steady.

But I’ve decided, in what I’m sure they’d call a lapse in judgment—

these people aren’t worth protecting anymore.

__________

My mind drifts back to the moment it all stopped being a question.

The Incident.

__________

It was late. The kind of quiet that settles over Larkin’s Grove when everyone has gone home, lights dimmed, doors locked, reputations safely tucked in for the night. I had taken the long way back, cutting behind one of the buildings where the town’s most respectable gatherings were held—the kind of place where decisions were made, guidance was given, and people were quietly reminded of who they were supposed to be.

I wasn’t meant to be there.

Which is why I stopped when I saw the light.

I’ve never really been one to pass up an opportunity to see something I probably shouldn’t. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

I am a Gatekeeper, after all.

If I’m expected to protect things… it feels a little irresponsible not to know exactly what I’m protecting them from.

The side door hadn’t quite shut. Just enough of a gap to let something spill out—low voices, soft laughter, the kind of ease you don’t hear in public.

Now, a part of me wishes I hadn’t looked.

Ignorance is bliss, right?

Or at least that’s what people like to tell themselves when it’s convenient.

I’ve never found that to be true.

So…

I looked.

And—

they were all there.

Men whose names carried weight in Larkin’s Grove. The kind of men people deferred to without thinking. Men who spoke with authority, who advised, who corrected, who shaped the direction of this town under the steady assumption that they knew better.

Men who were, by all accounts, good.

And they weren’t alone.

The women with them weren’t strangers.

That would have made it simpler. Perhaps easier to understand.

No—these were women who stood in the same rooms, spoke the same careful language, wore the same polished version of restraint. Married. Admired. Trusted. Some of them had even dared look down on me….

Ha! Imagine that!

The kind of people who were never questioned.

The things I saw—

Honestly, it would make you blush. 

Hands where they shouldn’t have been. Not subtle about it either—just… there. Like no one in the room was going to call it out, so why bother pretending. Other men’s wives—young, ridiculous, just naive enough to think attention like that meant something —sitting a little too comfortably in the laps of the same men who spent their days deciding what everyone else should and shouldn’t be doing.

I just stood there, watching it.

Different corners of the room, each with its own quiet little scene of debauchery unfolding. And everyone else was just… ignoring it. The kissing. The low, unmistakable sounds. The hands that weren’t even trying to be discreet anymore. The way bodies pressed together like no one in that room had anything to lose. Like everyone had already agreed—without saying a word—that this was fine. That this was normal. That this was something you just… didn’t see, even when it was happening right in front of you.

That’s the part that stuck with me.

Not what they were doing.

How normal it felt to them.

Like this wasn’t a mistake. Not a bad night. Not a lapse in judgment.

Just… another night.

And I remember thinking—standing there, watching all of it play out—that for a place so obsessed with appearances, they really didn’t try very hard when they thought no one was watching.

Or maybe they didn’t have to.

Because they already knew no one would say anything.

I decided I'd seen enough. I would think about what to do about it later.

For now, I'd bask in the knowledge that everything I'd already assumed to be true about these people was true indeed.

In retrospect, I should've marched straight to their spouses that very night and exposed them.

But I didnt...

Hindsight is 20/20, right?

A week later, they turned on someone else.

And that someone just so happened to be… me.

Just little old me—standing out there at the edge of town, guarding a door they don’t even believe exists, minding my own business, not saying a single word about what I saw.

Which, if we’re being honest, should’ve counted for something.

Because I could’ve ruined them.

A few well-placed words. The right ears. The right timing.

That’s all it ever takes here.

But I didn’t say anything.

Not to anyone.

Because I’m a Gatekeeper.

And we don’t get involved.

We don’t form attachments. We don’t have friends. We don’t trust anyone. We don’t take sides. And we certainly don’t judge.

We watch. From a distance. Quiet. Steady. Exactly where we’re meant to be.

Or at least—

that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Yet, they turned on me anyway. Despite the fact that I never breathed a word about their inconsistencies or indiscretions or hypocrisies. They still turned.

I was asked to come in. Nothing formal—just a quiet request, phrased like a conversation that needed to happen. The kind of thing people agree to without thinking, because saying no would feel… unnecessary.

So I went.

__________

They were all there. Of course they were. Seated comfortably, like they’d done this before. Like they knew exactly how it would go. No one raised their voice. No one said anything outright cruel.

“We’ve had some concerns,” one of them started. 

Careful. Measured. Practiced. Of course, you lying hypocrite.

Another nodded. “There’s been a shift in your… attitude.”

My attitude.

That was new.

“It’s come to our attention that you’ve become somewhat… resistant,” someone else added. “Distant.”

I almost laughed at that.

Distant.

As if I hadn’t always been exactly where they preferred me—far enough away to ignore, close enough to watch.

“And then there’s the matter of the gate.”

That got my attention.

A small pause. Just long enough to make it feel deliberate.

“We’ve reviewed things,” one of them said, folding his hands like this was something thoughtful, something considered. “And we’re not entirely sure there’s any real need for it anymore.”

Not entirely sure.

Right.

“There’s no evidence,” another added quickly. “Nothing tangible. Nothing that justifies the continued… investment.”

Investment.

That’s what they were calling it now.

“We believe,” the first one continued, “that your family has done its part. But times change. And it may be that this”—a small gesture, dismissive, like it barely mattered—“is no longer necessary.”

No longer necessary.

“And given your recent behavior,” someone else said, “we’re not confident the responsibility is being handled with the level of… commitment we expect.”

There it was.

Not just unnecessary.

Now I was the problem.

“So we’ll be discontinuing the arrangement,” he finished. “Effective immediately.”

That was it. No questions. No discussion. Just a decision they had already made.

I sat there for a second, letting it settle. The irony of it almost made me smile. They didn’t believe the gate was real. Didn’t think it mattered. Didn’t think it was necessary.

And somehow—

I was the one being called irresponsible.

“Unnecessary, my ass. You want to talk about unnecessary? Look around the room—you’re not just unnecessary, you’re obsolete. You all sit up there on your little thrones of half-truths and polished lies, surrounded by people who will worship anything you say, who nod along like simple idiots, who treat you like you’re untouchable when the truth is you’re just loud enough and confident enough that no one bothers to question you. They don’t see the lies, the contradictions, the inconsistencies, the way none of it actually holds up—they just follow, because it’s easier than thinking for themselves. And you let them, because it keeps up the illusion. You call it leadership, you call it guidance, but it’s nothing more than a room full of simpering hypocrites who’ve convinced themselves they’re something worth listening to. I could expose every single one of you for exactly what you are—I probably should—but I won’t. You don’t want me watching over your sad little town anymore? Fine. I’ll give you exactly what you want. I have no desire to protect you any longer. I’m done. You’ve done me a favor, you sad little reprobates,” I laughed haughtily at them. “Good riddance.”

And then I walked out of that meeting, leaving them sitting there in their shocked silence.

__________

And now, here I am, hand pressed to a gate we’ve never opened.

I don’t know what’s on the other side.

And, quite frankly, I don’t care.

I hope it’s terrible. I hope it comes through and leaves nothing but wreck and ruin in its wake, strips this place down to whatever it actually is underneath all the pretending. I’m done protecting these people.

I look at the gate—set back behind the house, tucked into an old stone wall half-swallowed by overgrown hedges that haven’t been properly trimmed in years, like even the land itself has been trying to hide it. Most people wouldn’t even notice it was there, not with the house sitting out front—big, two-story Victorian, all charm and structure and just enough presence to keep anyone from wandering too far behind it.

It’s done its job. Kept everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

Well… no more.

They don’t want it?

Fine.

I’ll find something else worth protecting.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the key.

It hasn’t been used in years—at least not by anyone in my lifetime. You’d think it would be rusted over, dulled down, worn from sitting untouched for so long.

It isn’t.

Still smooth. Still solid. Gold, with that slight curl at the end like it was made for something more deliberate than a lock on an old door.

Some things don’t fade just because they’ve been ignored. 

I slide it into the lock. It fits too easily. For a second, I just hold it there, fingers resting against the cool metal, like something in me is waiting—hesitating, maybe.

But not for long.

I turn the key.

Slow at first… then all the way.

There’s a deep, final click—louder than it should be, like the sound carries further than the gate itself—and something in the air shifts, just slightly, just enough to notice if you’re paying attention.

I am. I always have been.

I wrap my hand around the handle and push.

It resists, just for a second—like it’s reminding me what it’s been asked to do all these years.

Then it gives.

I push the gate open—

and something hits me immediately.

Not pain. Not fear.

Just… wrong.

It settles in before I can even make sense of what I’m looking at, like my body recognizes something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet. Subtle, but there. Enough to make me hesitate.

At first, there’s nothing. Just darkness. Not the kind that comes with night, not shadows or depth—just… absence. Flat. Endless. Like the space beyond the gate hasn’t decided what it is yet.

I almost laugh. Of course. All this time, all this buildup, and it leads to nothing.

Figures.

And then—it shifts. Like it had been waiting for me to notice.

It’s a garden.

Bathed in pale, silvery moonlight that doesn’t seem to come from anywhere I can actually place. It just… exists, settling over everything evenly, softening the edges of things in a way that feels almost intentional.

There’s a fountain somewhere deeper in, the sound of it reaching me before I fully notice it—water trickling steadily, calm and unbothered, like it’s been doing that for a very long time and has no reason to stop now. The air itself looks different, too. Slightly off, like it’s catching the light in a way it shouldn’t, faintly shimmering if I look at it too long, like something just beneath the surface is moving.

Everything about it is quiet.

Still.

Almost… peaceful.

And that, more than anything, is what bothers me.

I just stand there for a second, staring at it. Processing. Trying to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I was expecting.

Well.

That’s disappointing.

I don’t know what I thought would be on the other side—something terrible, probably. Definitely a hellscape. Loud. Violent. Teeth and fire and the kind of thing you don’t have to question.

Something that would’ve made all of this feel justified.

Instead—it’s a garden.

“A garden?” I mutter, stepping a little closer, like maybe it’ll change if I look at it from a different angle. “You’ve got to be kidding me. All this time we’ve been standing watch over… a freakin’ garden?!”

Twenty-five years.

Twenty-five years of my life spent in this town, standing watch over a door that leads to—

this.

I let out a short, sharp laugh that turns into something closer to frustration.

“Story of my life…” Of course I’d be the one guarding the gate that leads to a garden.

Of course.

For a second, doubt creeps in. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe this is it. Maybe this whole thing—everything my family built our lives around—was never what we thought it was to begin with.

I glance back over my shoulder.

The house. The trees. The familiar stretch of land behind me. The sky above it, quiet and unchanged.

Nothing about it looks any different from what’s in front of me.

And that’s when it hits me: I have no idea what I’m looking at.

All these years. All that time. Standing watch. Following rules. Doing exactly what we were supposed to do—

and we never once tried to understand it.

Not really.

We guarded it.

We protected it.

But we never learned it.

And standing there, halfway between one side and the other, staring into something I can’t even begin to explain—

I feel it, sharp and unwelcome. Maybe I wasn’t protecting anything at all. Maybe—

I was never much of a Gatekeeper to begin with.

I threw myself on the hard ground, staring up at the sky for what felt like an eternity, the kind of stillness that settles in when you’re not entirely sure what just happened—or what was supposed to happen—and you’re left somewhere in between, waiting for something to catch up.

Hi. I’m Elana Voss. I’m twenty-five years old. I have no friends, no boyfriend, no social life to speak of. And my job—if you can even call it that—is standing in the middle of nowhere, watching a gate, making sure no one opens it from either side. That’s it. That’s the grand, generations-long responsibility my family has built its life around.

And guess what.

I just opened it.

And nothing happened.

Not fire. Not monsters. Not even a decent gust of wind to make it feel dramatic. Just… a garden. Quiet. Still. Like it’s been sitting there the whole time, waiting for someone to notice it wasn’t nearly as important as we’d all been pretending.

I let out a slow breath and dragged a hand over my face, half tempted to laugh and half tempted to just stay right there and not move at all, because if this was it—if this was the thing I’d spent my entire life guarding—then I had wasted twenty-five years protecting something that didn’t even have the decency to be dangerous.

And somehow, that felt worse.

I was still lying there, staring up at the sky and wondering how I’d managed to spend twenty-five years of my life guarding a glorified garden, when I heard footsteps.

They weren’t far off.

For a second, I didn’t move. I just listened, letting it register slowly, because something about it felt… off. Like I had missed something important a few seconds ago and was only now catching up to it.

Then I sat up.

Turned toward the gate.

He was standing there.

Right in the doorway.

I don’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough that it didn’t feel like he had just arrived. More like I had only just noticed him.

He was tall—easily over six feet—but it wasn’t just the height. It was the way he stood, like he owned everything around him. Dark brown hair fell around his face, framing it in a way that felt almost deliberate without trying to be. His dark eyes were on me, steady and unreadable.

There was a cleft in his chin, subtle but enough to catch your attention once you noticed it. When he smiled—and he did, just slightly—it shifted something in his expression without softening it. There was a flash of gold along one of his canines, quick but unmistakable, and a thin gold hoop in his ear that caught the light just enough to make it feel intentional.

I stayed where I was for a second, still sitting in the dirt, trying to process the fact that there was now a man - an incredibly handsome man - standing in front of me who very clearly had not been there a moment ago.

And somehow, that part didn’t even feel like the biggest problem.

I became aware of myself in a way that was sudden and deeply inconvenient. The position I was in. My black hair hanging wildly about my face. The fact that I had just been lying flat on my back like none of this mattered. The dirt on my hands. The way I hadn’t even considered what it would look like if something—or someone—actually came through.

I pushed myself up to a standing position, brushing my hands off against my jeans like that was going to fix anything.

I was completely unprepared for this.

What exactly was I supposed to do—tell him to leave? Close the gate and ask for a refund? I’m the one who opened it. I don’t really get to act surprised when something walks through. Still… this wasn’t what I had in mind. Or who.

“You must be the Gatekeeper,” he said, like it wasn’t a question, his gaze moving over me in a way that felt a little too intimate to be casual. A shiver slid down my spine. “Elana, isn’t it?”

“Uh…” Brilliant. Really strong start. “How did you—”

“Of course I know,” he said, like I’d asked something obvious. “I know of you and your family and your world. I’ve known all of it for a very long time.” He took a step closer, slow enough that I had time to notice it and not nearly enough time to do anything about it, stopping just short of me, mere inches away. The air shifted with him, carrying something clean and sharp—pine, softened by something darker I couldn’t quite place, like spice or smoke lingering just beneath it. 

There was something about him. It settled somewhere low in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar, and before I could stop myself, I was suddenly very aware of how close he was, how easily he could close the distance, how ridiculous it was that my brain chose that moment to wander in that direction.

I dragged it back just as quickly.

What are you doing, Elana? I scolded myself.

Five minutes ago I was hoping for something terrible to come through that gate and tear this town apart, and now I’m standing here getting distracted by a man I don’t know, who quite literally just stepped out of something I don’t understand.

Focus.

“I’m Lorian,” he said, like that alone should mean something. “Of the Gilded Court, in the Kingdom of Sylvarith. And I have to admit, I’m surprised. Your family has been standing watch over this gate for generations, and yet you know almost nothing about it.”

There was no accusation in it. If anything, he sounded… entertained.

“But that hardly matters now,” he added, glancing past me toward the house, the trees, the quiet stretch of land like he was taking inventory. “I’m here. And we have something to do, don’t we?”

I blinked at him, trying to catch up to a conversation I clearly hadn’t agreed to be part of.

“Uh… we do?” I said, because apparently that was the best I had.

“Of course,” he replied, that same slight smile pulling at his mouth, the flash of his gold tooth catching the light again in a way that felt entirely intentional.

He looked back at me.

“We have a town to destroy.”