❝They call him the Dutch Lion.❞
❝Yeah? To be honest, I think he's more like Scar from The Lion King, but whatever.❞
In the high-pressure world of Formula 1, Red Bull Racing is crumbling. Half the team has quit, morale is at an all-time low, and Max...
Highly reocmmend you listen to Noah Kahans "View Between Villages" on a loop for this one...
P.S. you get an early update because I feel bad for uploading the last chapter of Skin and Bones (but prewarning you rn this is not a happy chapter)
TRIGGER WARNING:
Abuse (Physical and Emotional)
Sexual Abuse/Assault (Implied)
Religious Abuse and Manipulation
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN;
The Devil You Know
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SIXTEEN YEARS AGO
Cysgodell was a village that breathed beneath the watchful gaze of its church—Eglwys y Cwm, as it was known in the lilting tones of Cymraeg, the ancient Welsh tongue. The stone spire of the church, carved from slate-grey rock quarried from the mountains, rose like a solemn finger pointing to the heavens. It stood sentinel over moss-cloaked roofs, a steadfast monument to faith and endurance.
The cobbled streets twisted through the village like veins, carrying the quiet pulse of life past modest cottages with their whitewashed walls and low, smoke-belching chimneys. Beyond the village, the land rolled into patchwork fields enclosed by dry-stone walls, fading into the brooding shadows of the Mynyddoedd Duon—the Black Mountains.
The rhythm of life here was dictated by the toll of the church bells, their deep chimes cutting through the misty mornings and heralding the day's ebb and flow. Sundays were sacred, marked by the gathering of the village in the cool, dim interior of the church. Voices rose in unison, singing hymns like "Calon Lân" and "Ar Hyd y Nos", their harmonies spilling out into the surrounding hills. The singing was communal, a shared expression of faith and belonging that echoed through the generations.
Despite modern intrusions—televisions with flickering screens, patchy internet that crawled with glacial slowness, and the occasional smartphone—the village seemed a relic of an earlier time. Cysgodell clung stubbornly to a life that felt caught in the amber glow of the 1980s.
