Jerusalem — A New Dawn
The morning sun spilled over the stone walls of Jerusalem, bathing the city in a soft, golden light. The air was crisp, sweetened by the scent of baking bread and fresh olives from the market. Bells chimed in the distance, calling the faithful to prayer.
Nathaniel Asher rose from his cot, stretching stiff arms toward the low wooden beams above him. The simple robe he wore was coarse against his skin, but comforting, like a second layer of earth.
This was life now.
Simple. Clean. Steady.
Nate didn't question much anymore.
He couldn't remember why.
Somewhere in the mist of his mind, there were shadows—fleeting dreams of fire, thunder, and ash. But they faded as quickly as they came, like footprints washed away by the morning tide.
He pulled on his sandals and stepped into the temple courtyard, joining the other initiates. The stone beneath his feet was warm already, heated by the rising sun. Around him, chants rose softly into the heavens, a cadence he had learned by heart but still did not fully understand.
"Nathaniel!"
The voice of Father Eliam broke through his drifting thoughts.
"Yes, Father," Nate answered, bowing his head respectfully.
Father Eliam was an elderly man with a weathered face and eyes that held the wisdom of decades. He carried a scroll tucked under one arm, sealed with the temple's crimson wax.
"Today, you will assist in the library," he said, pressing the scroll into Nate's hands. "The records need reordering. Dust has become their enemy."
Nate smiled faintly. "It will be done."
As he made his way to the inner sanctum — a quiet, cool room lined with shelves and ancient manuscripts — he allowed himself to breathe deeper, to savor the peacefulness. The past few weeks had been the same: prayer, study, service. A life unmarked by chaos.
Still...
There was something about today.
A whisper beneath the skin.
An itch in the soul.
He shook it off and pushed open the heavy oak door.
Inside, the library was a vault of history. Scrolls and books stacked high, their edges curled and faded with time. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, catching on floating motes of dust, turning the air into a haze of gold.
Nathaniel worked methodically, sorting parchments by age and scribe. Hours passed unnoticed.
It wasn't until late afternoon, when the light had dimmed into a honeyed orange, that he stumbled across it—a forgotten bundle tucked behind an overturned stand. Its leather ties were worn thin; the wax seal broken long ago.
Curious, Nate brushed away the dust.
The parchment beneath was dry and brittle. Faded words danced before his eyes, nearly lost to time.
"The Voice... of Thunder..."
he read aloud, frowning.
A shiver ran down his spine.
It was probably nothing. Just an old sermon, discarded and left to decay.
And yet, as he tucked the bundle carefully onto a nearby shelf, he caught a flash at the edge of his vision—
a fleeting image of crimson robes, standing silent between the rows.
When he turned, heart pounding,
there was nothing there.
Only silence.
Only the dust.