“Twe-twenty-sssix.”
“Twenty-twenty se-seven.” The numbers are whispered and barely audible as they tumble from the spittle coating my lips. I promise him everything. Silence. Obedience. Faith. I swear I’ll never question his orders again, never enter his quarters, never touch another forbidden thing.
The final strike is the worst yet and lands with brutal finality across my lower thighs.
The word “Thirty” is a whispered prayer that I will, in my lifetime, feel this kind of pain again.
The room falls quiet except for my broken sobs and harsh breaths. I remain where I am, shaking, sweat cooling against burning skin, my heart pounding with shame and terror. My fingers are red and numb as the blood rushes back into them.
I sink to the floor and curl in on myself, leaning against his desk, letting my tears soak into the wood.
The words I stole are burned into memory now, and the knowledge—the truth they hold—had better be worth it. Because I fear Grand Minister Judiah will never look at me the same again.
If he decides I’m no longer worthy… what then?
What will I become if not this?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Where Truth Rests
Eridessa
I sit at my workbench for a little while to gather my thoughts for our conversation. I’m hunched over a yellowed notebook, candlelight pooling across scarred wood and scattered papers.
The house is quiet around me. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears and makes your own breathing feel intrusive.
I close my eyes.
Some truths, once learned, never truly leave you.
When I open my eyes again, I begin to write down the two passages from my dream.
Two different versions of similar scripture. The Good Book and the secret text in the book Grand Minister Judiah kept locked away.
Though the scars no longer mark my flesh, I still feel them as if they do. They linger in more than memory, etched into marrow instead of muscle.
I craft each word carefully, my pen pressing heavily into the page as if the act itself might summon clarity. Line by line, I copy them out, letting the differences surface the way fractures appear in glass—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.
The riders arrive the same.
The stars fall the same.
Judgment comes either way. But everything after that diverges.
In one version, God turns away.
In the other, He grants those worthy mercy.
I lean back in my chair and study them side by side, my gaze moving between columns of nearly identical language that somehow lead to entirely different futures.
One promises abandonment.
The other offers mercy and a chance for redemption.
The candle gutters softly, its flame wavering as if even it cannot decide which truth it prefers.
My jaw tightens. Which truth to believe?
