The road had no name, just scattered stones and the scent of goats.
Eliah walked steadily—not with muscle, but conviction. His sandals had holes. The sun was unkind. But the page burned in his heart:
"Faith without works is dead."
He didn't know where to go. He just went.
—
At the roadside, a merchant sat beside a broken cart, groaning and gripping his ankle.
"You're not a healer by chance?" the merchant asked.
"No," Eliah replied. "But I have hands."
No sermons. No miracles. He offered water, then built a splint from sackcloth and a broom handle. He spoke softly—not preaching, just comforting.
By sunset, the merchant could stand.
"You didn't ask for coin," the merchant said.
"I'm collecting something else," Eliah smiled. "Goodness."
"That doesn't buy much."
"Not yet."
—
That night under a sycamore tree, Eliah heard a whisper:
"He who walks without reward shall be counted twice."
He sat up. No one was there.
Just leaves whispering—and hooded figures marching across distant hills.
The Fallen Wing had passed.
They didn't look evil.
And that was the dangerous part.