Inside lies folded correspondence—and beneath it, tucked carefully out of sight, a small brass skeleton key.
My breath leaves me in a quiet rush.
I cross back to the cabinet and unlock it.
Inside rests a gold chalice, folded consecrated cloth, several sealed vials—and beneath them, wrapped in faded linen, a familiar volume. No title marks its cover, yet it is unmistakably ancient, so I treat it with care.
The leather is cracked with age. The edges of its pages are darkened by centuries of hands. It’s the texts that Judiah only allows a few select among the Chosen to study.
I gently free it from the cloth and lift it to my chest. I retrieve my notebook, then carry both back to his desk and set them down as I take a seat, drawing the candle closer.
I know what kind of punishment is in store if I’m caught, but I proceed anyway. Even after my fingers take a moment to find and brush the thin scars trailing over the top of my shoulder. A reminder of past corrections.
Palms damp, and sweat gathering beneath my robe, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer for forgiveness before opening the book.
The pages whisper as I turn them, candlelight trembling over familiar script and Judiah’s careful marginal notes. I flip faster, searching for the passage that has been haunting me.
And then I find it.
The words are similar, but just as I feared, they do not match those in the Good Book.
My pencil trembles as I steady it over my notepad.
I lean closer, heart pounding, and begin to copy it—every line, every deviation—while the monastery sleeps around me in peaceful slumber.
And in the latter days, when the seals of Heaven are loosened, and the firmament grows thin, the Riders shall walk once more among the living.
They shall come clothed in judgment, crowned in ash and fire, bearing the weight of divine decree.
The White shall rise first, and his voice shall carry conquest.
The Red shall follow, and war shall be his breath.
The Pale One shall measure the starving with uneven scales.
And the last shall bring about a great silence, and his name shall be Death.
Together they shall pass through the nations, and the earth shall bow beneath their hooves.
Cities shall crumble like dust.
Kings shall kneel beside beggars.
The rivers shall dry up, and the fields shall yield no harvest.
And the children of man shall cry out for mercy, but their prayers shall echo unanswered in the hollow places of Heaven.
For in that hour, the Creator shall turn His gaze away.
The Great Redeemer shall look beyond this world—its ruin and remembrance—and set His sight upon realms unformed. And the earth shall be written into the Book of Life as lost, its name sealed in sorrow.
From its dust, He shall draw the substance of a new world.
From its ashes, He shall fashion new dawns.
For this world shall be weighed and found wanting.
Among the souls gathered, many will be scattered to the four winds. And countless voices shall fall silent beneath the closing of Heaven’s Gate.
