Eliah never considered himself extraordinary. He couldn't fly, summon bread from thin air, or quote scripture like a prophet. If anything, he was the kind of person you'd trust to fix your sandals or carry water for your grandmother. His most repeated phrase was: "If I have time, it's because the Lord gave it to me."
People in the valley village appreciated him, though nobody thought he had power—until the night a mother came running, clutching her feverish child.
Eliah had no miracle to offer. He couldn't lay hands and heal. But he did have faith.
That night, he knelt beside the child and prayed—not casually, but with desperation in every breath. He drank no water, ate no food, and offered a complete fast. For hours, he prayed and stayed. No holy light descended. No divine voice spoke. But when sunrise touched the chapel windows, the child stirred—the fever broken.
The mother wept, calling it a miracle. Eliah only whispered, "I believe the Lord listens when we ask with a sincere heart."
—
One day, while sweeping near the village altar, Eliah noticed a yellowed page wedged between stones. Curious, he pulled it out. It read:
"Faith without works is dead."
He read it three times. Something stirred—not thunder nor prophecy, but a warmth, as if something inside him had quietly awakened.
So Eliah packed a satchel, tucked the page inside, and walked out of the valley.
No crowds. No blessings. Only footsteps—and a quiet fire in his heart.
Far away, in the hills, shadowed figures moved. A cult known as The Fallen Wing had begun to gather, twisting sacred texts and selling doctrines of fear.
Eliah didn't know that yet.
But light was beginning to move—and darkness was watching.