In the town of Armasia, the buildings are fashioned from rusting stone and weathered brick, their lifeless forms softened by ivy and wildflowers that climb the walls, gifting them the hushed grace of nature.
Neva stands beneath the shade of a towering sycamore, her palm pressed gently against its rough trunk.
Her dark, lean brows knit as she squints, adjusting her gaze toward the distant bustle of Armasia veiled in a dense layer of fog, where only the visible shadows of townsfolk move about their day, unaware they are being watched from afar.
Her black shawl and long, pooling dress—dark burgundy and vintage—floats with the wind that rustles through the grove of sycamores, their dead amber leaves swirling in the wind's wake in the hush of falling autumn.
She lifts her gaze to the sky, shadowed by gloomy clouds, where the pale yellow sun hangs high at midday—yet even the burning sun's light cannot dispel the darkness looming over the town of Armasia.
Leaves crunch under the nearing footsteps.
Neva glances over her shoulder and meets Rhett's eyes.
"Let's go," Rhett says, offering a hand.
Neva nods with a soft exhale, placing her hand in his, while her other grips the floral-printed, delicate shawl drawn close around her shoulders, her fingers fisting the fabric over her fast-beating heart.
His warm hand closes over her colder one, firm yet tender, before his fingers gently thread through hers.
Dry autumn leaves crunch beneath their footsteps as they begin down the slope, leaving the sycamore grove behind and heading toward the town.
Neva glances back as two more sets of footsteps approach—Pastor Gideon and Jack following behind them.
Beyond the looming sycamores, a black SUV is parked at a distance from their destination, slowly fading from sight as fog begins to creep around it.
Rhett and Jack aren't wearing their usual outfits, but dark undertunics tucked into trousers, and trousers into boots—dressed to blend in, since most men in Miraeth wear tunics, though women's clothing styles are more varied.
As they enter the town, the click of their boots against the concrete is hushed beneath the noise of the bustling market.
The gentle murmur of conversations is drowned by children laughing and running through the streets, and by the loud voices of shopkeepers bartering amid the swarm of hundreds.
"It's almost as if we've stepped into a different world," Jack says, his voice low, unemotional.
The town of Armasia unfolds beneath creeping clouds of mist, revealed in the quiet spaces between pockets of human warmth.
Jack walks just behind them, gaze sharp and watchful, scrutinizing every corner—each royal guard in bright red tunics beneath silver armor—as if they'd stepped through a portal into a medieval era.
Neva swallows the lump rising in her throat, her knees weakening as numbness spreads from her heavy feet to her chest.
"I'm scared, Rhett," Neva murmurs, tightening her grip on his arm as a wave of dizziness clouds her mind.
"I'm right here," Rhett replies softly, covering her freezing hand with his own, warm and comforting.
"There," Pastor Gideon says, pointing to the marble structure surrounded by the moving crowd.
"We should head toward the temple,"
He glances at Neva beside him, gives her a nod, and starts walking toward it.
Neva draws in a shaky breath as they trail behind Pastor Gideon, murmuring a quiet prayer under her breath as she closes her eyes for a moment.
As they near the temple, a colossal golden statue of a hissing sea serpent comes into view—grotesquely detailed, with gleaming jade eyes—looming over Miraeth's citizens as they kneel beneath it.
Neva frowns in disbelief as they reach the marble steps, where townsfolk move steadily up and down, eyes lowered and faces solemn.
"Is that a dragon they're praying to?" Jack asks, a hint of amusement in his voice as he takes in the gigantic serpent statue.
"Not just a dragon," Pastor Gideon replies, his eyes hollow and shadowed. "A monstrous sea creature. An evil prince of hell called Leviathan."
"It's just a demon," Neva says, meeting Pastor Gideon's gaze, faith and firmness glinting in her dark cocoa eyes.
Pastor Gideon nods, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It is. Nothing but a fallen creature."
"We can't go preaching like those evangelists do in normal situations," Rhett says, his eyes scanning the guards in red and silver—some stationed still and watchful, others strolling through the crowd, laughing and at ease.
"It's too dangerous," he adds, glancing at Neva.
"I understand," she replies with a nod, lips pursed in thought, already weighing what must be done.
Then suddenly, Neva's gaze lands on a couple, both appearing to be in their mid-thirties.
They must be here to visit the temple—another pair of lost souls, blinded by hope and salvation, caught in the web of Leviathan's lies and his gilded cage of merciful illusion.
Neva's lashes flicker as they stand at the foot of the stairs, hesitation tightening their furrowed brows as they exchange a weary glance.
The woman, her hair covered by a washed-out green veil that matches the color of her long tunic, nods at the man beside her, gently taking his hand in what seems like a quiet encouragement to ascend the stairs.
Neva frowns as the man sighs and returns the nod, drawing a faint smile from the woman.
As they take their first step up the temple stairs—to worship a symbol of the demonic, a colossal golden serpent embodying the evil that leads souls straight down the path of damnation—an overwhelming surge of holy conviction ignites in Neva's chest.
Rage, compassion, and grief at their deception burn through her veins.
Before she even realizes it, the zeal for righteousness overtakes her—the aching urge to free them from the web of lies—and she calls out, voice trembling with urgency.
"Why are you doing this?"
Her voice rings out, loud and clear—charged with holy fire, each word echoing like a blade curled in flames of truth, slicing through the polluted clamor of the deceived crowd.
Rhett glances at her, his brows furrowed at the fire blazing in her eyes.
The shadow of anxiety that once clung to her is gone—replaced by conviction etched into the firmness of her expression.
The couple turns to her, confusion etched into their solemn eyes.
Around them, heads begin to turn—she has drawn the crowd's attention, their eyes now fixed on her.
But nothing could make Neva tremble with doubt anymore—not against the stirring in her heart, nor the aching desire to unburden the sacred truth surging in her chest like waves crashing the shore.
"What will you gain by falling to your knees and worshipping a lifeless sculpture—that is an image of an immoral being?" Neva cries out, her fists clenching at her sides.
"Woman! Hold your tongue!" a man's voice shouts from the crowd.
"How bold she is—to scorn our deity right in front of the temple!" a woman cries out, beating her chest in disbelief.
As the jeering crowd begins to close in around her, Rhett steps forward without hesitation, placing himself in front of Neva.
His eyes darken, sharp with warning, as his fingers graze the cold steel of the pistol tucked into his waistband.
"Because we have no one else to turn to," the man replies, his voice trembling.
"Leviathan is our only hope. If we refuse to put our faith in him, we might as well drink poison and end our lives."
"You've already decided to do it tonight—after your visit to the temple," Neva replies, the words flowing from her lips before she even realizes it.
She feels her heart racing, burning with unwavering faith, her body heating from within as if set ablaze.
The couple looks at her in disbelief—speechless, as if a veil has been torn from their souls, and for a heartbeat, no one speaks.
Then Neva says, softly, eyes shimmering with tears. "Leviathan cannot give you peace—or life. He cannot bring back the child you've lost,"
Compassion floods her heart at the knowledge of their grief—grief revealed not from anything she's seen or heard, but from the Holy Spirit burning within her, stirring her heart to speak truth.
She feels the weight of their pain, hidden beneath ritual and reverence—a silent tragedy that drove them to bow before a lie.
"Through all your deepest woes, you forgot to turn your face toward the only loving God—the One who has never forsaken you," Neva says, stepping closer, stopping beside her husband.
"You forgot to place your faith in the only Father who has always been waiting with open arms—for you to return and be healed in His embrace."
A whimper escapes the man as he covers his face with his palms, shoulders trembling as he weeps with his head bowed low.
"Who are you?" the woman finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper—a blend of disbelief, fear, and fragile hope flickering in her eyes.
She rubs her husband's shuddering back with one hand, while her other clutches the edge of her veil as though bracing herself for a truth too great to bear.
Neva looks around.
A crowd has gathered, circling them in silence. Even those who had knelt before the golden statue now stand on the marble stairs, staring down at her—faces painted with awe, confusion, and a creeping fury that twists slowly through their expressions.
"She is the prophetess—promised to us by the only true, the only living God who has never once abandoned us," Pastor Gideon declares, standing beside Neva with his chin lifted high.
Neva's heart feels light, the weight lifted—her fists uncurls.
Warmth spreads through her, soothing the burning sensation that had just surged through her body like fire from heaven.
"The presence of Adonai has been made known before your very eyes," Pastor Gideon continues, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.
"The words spoken by this young woman are light—mystery revealed, a miracle of God's everlasting mercy, His mighty hand, and His unfailing love."
The crowd breaks into murmurs, wary eyes shifting between the golden serpent and Neva—between a lie and something that feels like truth.
Questions ripple through them, tossed in hushed tones from one to another… questions not for the statue, but for the doubt unraveling inside them.
For years they had bowed before illusion, seeking hope in silence—never knowing the answer had always been a whisper, a prayer away…
To the only living God.
"We need to leave," Rhett says, his voice low and steady—perceptive, calculating—as he catches the sound of heavy footsteps drawing near.
Through the press of townsfolk now crowding around them, the tall statures of armored guards begin to emerge, red tunics flashing beneath their gleaming silver.
Confused yet vigilant, their hands hover near the hilts of their swords, muscles tensed—ready to unsheath their blades at the first command.
"Now," Rhett declares, turning to face Neva. Their eyes meet, and she gives a faint nod in return.
"Jack, behind us. Make sure no one creeps in," Rhett commands, grabbing Neva's hand and pushing through the crowd.
Jack nods and gestures to Pastor Gideon. "Pastor, take the lead."
Pastor Gideon nods and follows closely behind Neva and Rhett.
"Move," Jack snaps, eyes sharp as he shoves through the press of people behind them.
"Wait!" a woman calls from the crowd, reaching toward Neva.
"Don't go!"
"We need answers!"
"Are you really the prophetess we were promised?"
"Where have you been all this time?!"
"Stick close," Rhett mutters, tightening his grip on Neva's hand as he pushes forward through the pressing bodies.
The crowd spirals into chaos—guards forcing their way through, dispersing the townsfolk with swift, brutal orders.
"When shall we hear from you again?!" a man cries out.
Neva glances over her shoulder, her eyes softening just as she catches sight of the man falling, trampled by the surging crowd.
"The day after the full moon—in the valley of Samaria!" she cries out, voice soaring above the chaos like a trumpet call.
"There you will see the hand of the Living God!"
Neva's words echo through the crowd just as Rhett pulls her into a narrow alley, where bushes heavy with scarlet roses bloom along the shadowed path.
And in a breath, she disappears from the townsfolk's sight—leaving behind eyes opened and spirits awakened with hope.
Many among the people of Armasia feel their hearts stirred by this mysterious encounter, while others—hardened by sorrow and the silence of unanswered prayers—remain cold.
But even they are not entirely untouched by the Holy Spirit that moved through this woman.
The Word Begins to Spread.
A flicker of light has been kindled in the heart of Armasia. A seed has been sown—by the chosen vessel of God.
And soon, the word will spread like a wildfire to every corner of Miraeth, even into the most withered and calloused hearts:
The promised prophetess has come.
To lead the people to freedom.
To tear through the veil of Leviathan's lies.
To awaken the land with the light, the Way, and the Truth.