Ivory snow from yesterday still clings to the slopes of the mountains surrounding the valley. Green hills rise between patches of uneven terrain, where the snow has already melted—or is slowly melting under the dim warmth of the pale sun.
The cold winter wind whooshes, swirling through trees and shrubs.
Against it, a chorus of voices rises—clear, multitudinous—carrying and echoing across the valley of Samaria. They move toward the steep heart of the valley, their hushed footsteps brushing over the brittle, dry grass.
A large triangular blue tent rises by the bank of a clear, flowing stream. Two tall men, clad in thick tunics, stand on either side of its entrance, where the doorway is veiled only by a hanging fold of fabric.
And inside the tent, Neva sits on the carpeted floor before a low, round wooden table, head bowed, trembling fingers clutching the edges of the notebook resting in her lap.
Outside, the voices multiply—growing louder, but hushed against the roaring of her own heart.
She glances up as the entrance fabric stirs, revealing her husband.
"How many are they?" Neva asks, her voice soft, steadier than she feels—unlike the turmoil coiling within her.
"More than four thousand," Rhett says, stepping in. "And still counting."
Neva inhales sharply, then reaches for the pale beige shawl, printed with pink delicate flowers, lying on the table before her.
She unfolds it, draping it around her shoulders before gently veiling her head with it.
She casts one last glance at the notebook's pages before closing it and setting it on the wooden table.
Rising slowly, she meets his gaze.
He stands by the doorway, arms crossed, still lingering.
"What?" she asks softly.
He shakes his head and steps closer. "Nervous?" he murmurs, adjusting the veil so her face is revealed.
"I can't feel my legs, and my throat has shrivelled," she whispers, shivering as a chill runs down her spine.
"That scared?" he asks, his eyes softening as his knuckles brush against her forehead, then her neck.
She chuckles softly, taking his hand in hers. "Not so scared that I'd fall sick."
He smiles softly, cupping the back of her head and pressing his forehead to hers.
Their eyes close as he murmurs a prayer under his breath. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before leaning back, their gazes entwined with golden threads of faith, love, and something deeper—eternal.
"I love you," he murmurs, his hand caressing her cheek, thumb tracing the warmth of her skin.
"Don't worry about anything—just focus on the sermon. I'll make sure everything's taken care of."
She closes her eyes, exhaling as she leans into his hand—so warm and rough, so large against her jaw.
"I love you too," she whispers.
"Don't get hurt… and don't let anyone else get hurt either."
"Roger that," he says with a goofy smile.
She chuckles lightly, then draws a deep breath as her nerves crack her composure again.
"If I'm not interrupting," a voice calls from just outside the tent, "people have gathered."
It's Agent Jack.
"We're coming," Rhett says, glancing toward the doorway before meeting Neva's eyes. "Ready?"
"Yes." Neva nods faintly, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.
When he reaches to slide the fabric curtain from the doorway, her feet freeze. Her fingers clutch the soft linen of his stone-grey tunic shirt, halting him.
"What if I mess up?" she whispers.
He looks at her with a gentle frown. "You won't. And even if you do, it'll be alright."
She offers him a faint smile as he squeezes her hand reassuringly.
Then he leads her out of the tent, flanked by two village guards—the same men who had accompanied them to the failed sermon on Mount Lumora.
Beyond the doorway, Jack waits for them.
Neva shivers as cold gusts swirl past, stirring her loosened curls beneath the veil of her shawl and the skirt of her dusty pink vintage dress.
"Need something warmer?" Rhett asks, glancing at her with concern.
She shakes her head. "I'll be fine."
"Best of luck," Jack says, offering her a smile.
"Thankyou," Neva whispers back.
"Come, my child. You must be in the center," Apphia says, standing just behind the tall fabric-curtained wall on the east side of the tent.
Neva nods, slowly stepping toward her.
Pastor Gideon turns toward her, a worn Bible resting in his hands.
"The moment you step to the altar, child, remember—it will not be you who speaks, but the Spirit Himself breathing through you," he says, voice steady, reverent as he extends the Scripture.
Neva stops before them, just short of the entrance—two slitted panels of green fabric, fluttering lightly in the wind.
She nods at Pastor Gideon, receiving the Bible with both hands. "I will," she whispers.
Rhett leans close to her ear. "My eyes are on you. I'll stay close."
Neva meets his eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
She steps forward, him trailing just behind—close enough to be her shadow, far enough to let her lead.
For this moment is hers to carry, and the Lord's to claim her soul, and he, ever her guardian, threads himself quietly through it, her shield and witness all at once.
With one deep breath, her slightly trembling fingers reach for the smooth fabric of the dark green curtain.
Just as the wind stirs, she parts it with a calm, unwavering assertion of faith in the Father.
The air yields, stirring the curtains and her clothes, giving her way in a hushed gesture of reverence.
Thousands of eyes fall upon her.
And a deep, voiceless chorus of their wonder, anticipation, and fear echoes through the mountains of her mind.
Neva steps through, her gaze sweeping across the multitudes seated in a wide circle. For a beat of her hammering heart—she finds herself holding her breath.
But her feet move, and soon she stands at the center of it all. Before her, four thousand of Miraeth's people watch.
The gentle realization slowly sinks in.
She—born to a common native mother and a foreign father, raised by a man who wove God and Scripture into her very soul from the earliest days—
through all the desertion and love, through all the loss and discovery, through tragedy and miracles, she has been shaped into the woman who now stands as a vessel, chosen by the Lord.
"Let us pray before we begin the sermon," her voice echoes, floating warm over the chilly winter wind—soft, yet clear, mirroring the slow, steadying rhythm of her heart.
They listen, heads bowed quietly in obedience.
As she closes her eyes, she murmurs a prayer of gratitude and guidance under her breath, then lifts her voice in the ritualistic prayer, inviting the multitudes to hear and join in, to recite the faith—
each word laced with the depths of her own devotion to the Lord.
.
.
.
"There is a God," Neva says, her eyes gentle, her face serene, rooted in the conviction of her Father, allowing the Holy Spirit to speak through her.
"Mightier than everything you've known… and all you will ever know."
"His name is Yahweh." Her voice softens, still holding steady, echoing through the hush of the mountains, floating on the air with clear conviction—a sacred intervention, a miracle reaching into hearts.
She breathes in softly, her breath a faint mist against the chill.
And what is a miracle, if not her heart to beat with calm certainty, steady amidst the crowd of thousands gathered in the valley of Samaria, bathed in the soft, faintly shadowed white–grey light of noon?
What is a miracle, if not her voice—clear and unwavering—
carrying across four, five thousand souls, defying the glassy wind as it sharpens and cuts through the cold air around them?
"And He so loved the world,
that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life."
"Blessed are you, children of Adam and Eve,
For God's grace rests forever upon you.
For the Son of man walked among the dust—
And taught us the true meaning of love."
Her gaze sweeps across the gathering, and the crowd continues to grow—more souls stepping toward the doorway of eternal life.
"He, Who was untouched by immorality
Bore our sins upon Himself—
And gave His life for the darkest,
Most shattered versions of who we are,"
"He rose again, that we might rise with Him,
Through Him, we are restored, reborn, renewed.
So choose Him—for life is found in Him alone,
Above the world, above the self, above all."
"For He is the Way—burning through the wilderness.
He is the Light—our bliss when darkness smothers.
He is the Life—when the dry roots of the soul shall wither into the grave."
She cradles the Scripture in her palms, fingers grazing the worn spine, as the pages flutter lightly in the wind.
But her eyes barely linger on the pages, for all that she has learned and forgotten, the courage and fear intertwined, love for the Father conquers all—while the Spirit, ablaze within her soul.
"All the evil forces of this world,
And of the realms beyond, attempt to tear you away from Love,
For Love is the Lord Himself.
Pray for discernment,
And you'll find the true longing,
Hidden in your soul.
And when you seek Him,
He shall grace you with peace that endures."
As she speaks the Word, she paces a few steps forward—
toward the true heart of the gathering, seated in a crescent like the moon.
She hears the soft cooing of babes in their mothers' arms,
the wide-eyed wonder of children,
the hushed tears tracing the cheeks of mothers, and the bowed heads of fathers, heavy with surrender.
Her brows lift softly as she meets Apphia's eyes—standing with a peaceful smile, her face aglow.
And Neva's faith only deepens—steady, unbroken, floating like a river.
That river is the murmur of the stream that glides beside the gathering; her words a hymn in their ears—a symphony beating with His heart, echoed in the hush of souls leaning into the conviction of her sermon.
"He does not make puppets of us,
Nor rule as the evil of this world.
He is not like men, greedy to devour all.
We are His children, carved in His image,
The most precious creation of all.
So the Loving Father gifts us free will.
He does not force, nor does He deceive,
It is ours to choose to walk in Light with Him,
Or wander to the dull eternity of separation.
Remember, this mortal living is a blessing,
A fleeting trial, a run–through for salvation.
And if it's Him you embrace; life only begins."
Pastor Gideon bows his head, eyes closed, trembling as the Spirit descends—
swirling, stirring the air with the very exhale of Heaven.
Her words are woven with the threads of living water of the Son of man's own life and teaching.
Beside Pastor Gideon stands Neva's husband, caught between the Word and the world, between faith and the unyielding duty to shield her.
His arms are crossed, a sentinel in the flicker of calm within storm,
sharpness in his gaze concealing the awe that threatens to break through.
For now, he protects.
As the Gardener pruned her—pouring life, light, and living water into her growth, shaping her into the prophetess she was meant to become—He too was preparing him, her soldier,
set apart to guard the rose to his leaves, the love-poem entrusted to him.