The great riot shall spread across the sky, and the old gods shall tremble in their weary courses. The firmament shall crack, and the land shall bleed with light and fire.
Fear shall become law, and hunger shall be the world’s teacher. Brother shall turn against brother as the wastelands devour life.
Yet even then, the faithful shall not be left without a guide.
For from among the Chosen one shall rise.
Marked and refined in suffering.
Bound to both flesh and spirit.
Born of sacred sacrifice, knowing ruin and rebirth alike, a maiden shall carry the remembrance of what was and the burden of what must yet be.
Through her, the remnants of mankind shall be led across the valley of ending, toward whatever light remains, into the hereafter.
For though the world be forsaken, the Chosen shall ensure humanity endures.
And though Heaven be silent, the appointed shall stand—even against His decree—in the final days after the dawn of judgment.
I close my eyes, and contentment settles deep in my bones. This is as I thought.
The words work their way through me, refusing to be silenced. They press against my mind and chest, heavy with implication. Fear rises slowly, creeping into places I didn’t know it could reach.
But still, I open my eyes and read it again.
And again.
I force myself to commit every line to memory, every deviation from the Good Book, every subtle fracture in doctrine. I trace the passages with my gaze until the shapes of the letters imprint behind my eyelids.
Only when I’m certain I can carry it with me do I reach for the page.
My throat tightens as I swallow. I draw a steadying breath, then tear the paper free from the notepad.
The sound is too loud in the quiet room.
I hesitate for a heartbeat, then lean toward the candle and touch the edge of the page to the flame.
The fire catches quickly. The room begins to smell faintly of smoke and hot parchment as the paper curls inward, blackening as the words vanish in soft orange light. I watch until nothing remains but ash. I close the book with careful hands and rise to return it to its place in the cabinet. However, my gaze is immediately drawn to the stone wall beside it as the stone itself begins to ripple like waves.
At first, I believe exhaustion has finally caught up to me. My vision is swimming, and the candlelight is playing tricks. But the wall does not settle. It’s as if it’s made of a cloudy liquid or shifting matter, and as I watch, it darkens, the edges blurring as though shadows move inside it. The surface softens, warping inward, and something like smoke coils through its center.
Grand Minister Judiah steps through.
Darkness clings to him as he emerges, stretching and folding back into the stone behind him like water sealing over a wound. He stands there for a long moment, unmoving, his presence filling the space as the gravity of his presence sets in. His gaze fixes on me immediately, then gradually drops to the book in my hands, then to the key clutched in my fingers.
Whatever warmth he once carried for me drains from his face. His expression smooths into something controlled and severe. Fear floods me so fast my knees threaten to buckle.
I move slowly, deliberately, setting the book back on his desk. Then the key beside it. My hands tremble as I place them carefully in front of me and bow my head, as though my obvious fear and remorse might undo what I’ve done.
He crosses the room in measured steps.
He lifts my chin and then his fingers close around my jaw without warning, forcing my face upward to meet his eyes. His grip is firm, unyielding, his thumb and forefingers pressing hard beneath my cheekbones.
“Explain.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. My throat tightens until it feels impossible to speak.
“I—I was worried,” I manage, the words breaking as they leave me. “You were gone. The passages didn’t align, and I thought?—”
