His words, when spoken, are imbued with an eloquent lilt—whether genuine or carefully crafted—I cannot say. Only that the sound of it draws the ear, and leaves an ache behind. One such as I have never heard.
His litany of words flows together in such a measured cadence, not unlike a soothing melody, one of hope, reassurance, and amity that quiets doubt and kindles belief.
Even I, at times, feel its pull and fall victim to it.
This accounts for why the crowds revere him and watch on with expressions softened by awe and worship.
Through whatever ability given to him by the heavens, he’s convinced them all that he’s their savior.
When in reality, he’s an agent of God sent down to Judge. To conquer. To distract. To herd them all into one area like fish in a massive barrel so that the next Horseman who arrives will have an easier time of it, of decimating what is left of the world's population.
It’s the first test for humanity, and they have failed miserably.
Disheartening, but not irredeemable.
I endeavor to keep in mind that they don’t see what I see.
They do not know what I know, or understand his true intentions.
That he will deliver a reckoning upon them, one they will not see coming or be prepared for.
His purpose is not to lead them to a better tomorrow or offer salvation. He’s merely drawing them together to stand united when the end finally comes and the time to enact Judgment arrives.
Fire and brimstone wait just beyond the horizon. Yet they listen like devoted sheep, unaware of the thrall tightening around them with every word he utters.
Like a divine noose.
I want to act now. Every instinct urges me to confront him, to end this before his influence spreads farther, to save as many as I can from this enthrallment. But I cannot risk it. Revealing myself too soon could cost everything.
So I wait, prepare, and find a way to draw closer without exposing who—or what—I am.
I move through the city as nothing more than a shadow—garbed in a heavy wool cloak layered over countless garments, my hood drawn low, my mask ever-present to conceal my face as I pass unnoticed through the crowds.
I may appear young, though in truth, I’m older than most of the citizens of the city. The truth is, time no longer moves through me as it once did due to the elixir filling my veins, which has altered much more than my appearance.
In the beginning, the transformation came slowly—so slowly that I did not understand what it was doing to my body. Not just granting me stamina beyond mortal limits and longevity, but changing my very makeup.
My skin turned ashen. My hair whitened. Color drained from me entirely until I resembled the elixir itself—pale, grey-white, almost spectral. Only a trace of hazel remained in my gaze, but even that shifted and became something else, more predatory. What once was warm now glows with something nearer to chartreuse, as though the divine light living beneath my skin has begun to show through.
For whatever reason, the freckles dotting my skin remain untouched, as does the birthmark in the shape of a stretched star on my collarbone.
The elixir did not make me immortal. But it has slowed time’s claim on me, leaving me suspended between life and death, neither fully human nor wholly divine.
Half wraith, half something sanctified.
And as long as it courses through my blood, death cannot easily claim me.
Though I suspect there are limits.
Beheading, perhaps. Dismemberment.
Both ends I wish not to test, nor have the misfortune of experiencing.
Which is beside the point.
As predicted by Grand Minister Judiah, it’s saved me from countless near misses and continues to ensure my survival. One of the ways in which, even long after his death, his legacy lives on through me.
He prepared me well, gave me the tools I needed to complete my task, and arranged secret reserves of the elixir, hidden in chambers known only to me. A safeguard. A necessity. Something I learned on the night before my awakening, when he delivered his final lesson.
