Jerusalem — 2:13 A.M.
The city slumbered under a veil of stars, the coolness of night pressing against the ancient stones. A faint breeze rustled the olive trees on the hillside, carrying with it the scent of earth and something older—something buried.
Inside the small dormitory, Nathaniel Asher stirred in his sleep, tangled in the thin linen sheets. Moonlight slipped through the open window, painting silver stripes across the floor.
His dreams had started simply enough:
fields of wheat swaying under a bright, endless sky; the gentle murmur of prayers carried on the wind.
But now...
Nate's brow furrowed.
The sky had darkened.
The fields had withered into ash.
In the dream, he stood at the gates of the temple, and they were bleeding — the stone walls weeping rivers of crimson. Above him, the heavens cracked open, revealing not light but something deeper: a great chasm, yawning and endless, from which a voice thundered —
not with words, but with weight.
A pressure on his soul.
"The Seven shall sound..."
The whisper was not heard with the ears but carved directly into the marrow of his bones.
Nathaniel gasped awake.
The room was silent except for the rapid beat of his heart.
Sitting up, he wiped the sweat from his brow and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The stones were cool against his bare feet. For a moment, he just breathed, grounding himself in the present.
It was just a dream.
It had to be.
And yet...
the memory of the forgotten parchment still weighed heavy in his mind.
"The Voice of Thunder..."
He muttered the phrase under his breath, tasting the oddness of it.
The other priestly brothers snored softly around him, lost in peaceful sleep. Nate envied them. Shaking his head, he pulled a thin shawl around his shoulders and crept toward the doorway, careful not to disturb anyone.
The night outside was beautiful, and eerily empty.
He moved instinctively toward the library, as if some unseen hand guided his steps. His sandals scuffed quietly across the stone pathways, the torches long extinguished, leaving the temple cloaked in darkness.
When he reached the library, he hesitated.
Something was different.
The great oak doors stood slightly ajar, swaying gently as if breathing. A whisper of cool air kissed his face.
Against better judgment, Nate pushed the door open fully and slipped inside.
The library was a tomb of silence. Only the faint crackling of an oil lamp left burning on a side table broke the stillness. Someone had been here — recently.
Slowly, cautiously, Nathaniel moved deeper into the stacks, trailing his fingers along the dusty shelves. Scrolls rustled softly in the night air.
As he reached the farthest wall — the place where he had found the ancient bundle earlier — he stopped.
There was something lying on the floor.
Kneeling, he picked it up.
It was a scrap of parchment, torn and stained. The ink had bled with time, but a single line remained legible:
"When the Seventh speaks, the Earth shall answer in flame."
A chill ran down Nate's spine. He turned the scrap over, hoping for more—but the backside was blank.
He stood up too fast, nearly knocking over a stack of manuscripts. The sound echoed sharply in the stillness.
From deeper within the library, a soft creak answered him —
the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
He wasn't alone.
"Nathaniel..."
The voice was soft, almost a sigh, spoken from the shadowed rows.
Nate froze.
He wanted to call out, but his throat closed up. His hands trembled at his sides.
Slowly, a figure emerged from the darkness—a man, cloaked and hooded, his face hidden. A simple silver chain glinted at his throat.
The stranger raised one hand, palm outward, a gesture of peace.
"You have heard it, haven't you?" he said. His voice was familiar, though Nate could not place it. It stirred something deep inside—a memory not yet remembered.
"I don't know what you mean," Nate croaked, though part of him did.
The stranger tilted his head, studying him. "The echoes of the Thunder... They have chosen you."
Nathaniel shook his head. "I'm just an initiate. I serve the temple. Nothing more."
The man laughed softly—a sound both sorrowful and strangely proud.
"You are far more than that," he said.
"You just don't remember."
The oil lamp flickered violently then, as if caught in an unseen gale. When Nate glanced back at the stranger—
he was gone.
Only the torn parchment remained clutched in his hand, burning hot against his skin.
Outside, somewhere far beyond the walls, thunder rumbled — though the skies above Jerusalem remained perfectly clear.