"Welcome, disciples of our Prophet."
The old man's voice drifted across the marble hall like a slow curtain dropping. Coleman, wealthiest patron of the palace, famed for funneling millions into the Order - stepped forward, spine bent but presence towering. He bowed low, a gesture so deep it felt ceremonial. We returned a restrained bow, just enough to show respect without surrender.
When he lifted his head, his gaze locked onto mine. A faint smile.
"Our next Prophet," he murmured too casually, too confidently.
My own smile tightened, more instinct than comfort.
Coleman clasped his hands. "Before the grand ceremony begins at Al-Mazar Hall"—the ancient, vaulted chamber where disciples read the Holy Text to the masses "I request the honor of hosting you in my home."
The others looked at Ren. Senior, stoic, never rattled. He gave a small nod. "We accept," he said. And that was that. Refusing a request was against the Prophet's teachings; ignoring it would be disgrace.
His estate sat on the far edge of the old district, where the roads narrowed and the air tasted of dust that remembered war.
The gates groaned open. The house behind them looked drained of life—walls painted in bruised shades of grey and black, windows dimmed, as though light had long forgotten how to live there. Inside, the smell hit us first: something old, something abandoned, something waiting.
Maids—silent, moving like shadows—set down silver trays of steaming soups and jeweled dishes. The food glittered. The atmosphere did not.
I couldn't help it—the question slipped out half-formed.
"Isn't there any women here?"
Every face at the table froze. Ren shot me a look sharp enough to cut.
I lifted a hand. "I mean—" I exhaled. "A house feels different with women in it. More alive. More… human."
Something softened behind Coleman's eyes. A crack in stone.
"I lost my wife in the Great War," he said quietly. "Sixty-eight years ago."
The world around us stilled. I felt the air shift. My gaze flicked to the old family portrait behind me—faded smiles, colors washed by time.
"Sixty-eight?" I turned back to him. "I was eleven then. I don't remember anything from that year. I woke up after the blasts and… there's just nothing."
Coleman nodded slowly. "Many lost their memories. Many never recovered. And the ones who did?" His eyes lowered to the table. "They were not the same people anymore."
A silence spread that felt like it had weight.
"I'm sorry," I said, throat tight.
He offered a sad smile. "Don't be. You should know what happened to our world. Whole chapters of history were swallowed."
I glanced sideways at Ren—he was stiff, jaw tight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Then, too quickly, he forced a change of subject.
"You have daughters, don't you, sir?"
Coleman's face brightened a shade. "Yes. They live in the States now. Far from all this."
Ren nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on his untouched bowl. Something in him was rattled, shaken loose.
And for the first time since we entered the house, I felt it too—
that creeping sensation that behind Coleman's softened smile…
behind his gloomy walls and swallowed histories…
something else was waiting.
The corridors in Coleman's house felt like lungs that had forgotten how to breathe, yet every doorway carried a spell-scripture pinned with reverence. Golden ink. Careful brushstrokes. Verses that hummed with old power.
I paused at each one. Couldn't help it. The devotion hit me like warmth in a winter room. He believes. Truly. It made something inside me rise—pride, maybe. Relief.
After lunch, Coleman insisted on escorting us himself. His carriage rolled to a stop before Al-Mazar Hall—the fabled sanctuary of white stone. No blemishes. No cracks. Just blinding purity, as if the place had never tasted sin.
Stories said miracles happened here: time pausing like a held breath, bodies lifted by the Goddess's grace. I'd grown up hearing them. Now I was stepping into the legend.
My feet hesitated at the threshold.
"Ren," I whispered, "I'm terrified. I'm actually standing in my dream."
He gave me that half-smile he pulls out when he wants to reassure without exposing his own nerves.
"You're going to see more," he said.
More what?
More beauty?
More horror?
The question stuck in my throat. I never asked. I should've.
Because whatever he meant—it was waiting for me inside.
The moment we stepped in, the air shifted. Jasmine and sandalwood swirled around us like invisible silk. Men and women stood in long rows, faces lit with devotion, palms pressed together.
"Holy disciples," they chanted.
"Saviours of humankind."
"Servants of the Goddess."
The titles crashed over me, too heavy, too divine. My chest tightened. I blinked quickly and wiped my eyes before anyone noticed.
We ascended the stage—no, not a stage… a platform meant for revelations. Silver microphones were clipped to our robes. Cushions laid on the marble floor. The Holy Book placed gently into our palms.
I looked up.
The hall was a sea—no, an ocean—no, a world. People filling every inch, every balcony, every breath of space. Faces blurred together in sheer magnitude.
"You see that?" I breathed, grabbing Ren's shoulder. "We actually made it."
He squeezed my hand. "Just don't cry on stage, okay? Buddy?" He grinned, the kind that mocked you and comforted you at the same time.
We settled into position.
And that's when I noticed them.
The angels, their armor shimmered faintly, wings folded tight, eyes sharp as cut obsidian. They stood in the corners and along the aisles, watching the crowd, watching us.
Not protectors. Not exactly.
More like wardens ensuring the ceremony stayed pure. Or ensuring we behaved.
A low hum rolled through the hall—at first so soft I thought it was the crowd. Then the sound expanded, layered, textured. The sahnir drums began their slow heartbeat rhythm. The qanun strings followed, trembling like a thousand silver threads. Flutes of reed and brass wove between them, lifting the air until the entire Al-Mazar Hall vibrated like a living cathedral.
Majestic. Ancient. Designed to make mortals feel small.
Ren stepped back. And suddenly all eyes thousands of them were on me again.
I wasn't ready.
But the music surged, and something inside me cracked open.
I stood, lifted the Holy Book, and felt my own breath leave me. My name, Orhan felt too human for this moment, too small for the weight dropping on my shoulders.
I swallowed hard, stepped toward the mic, and spoke—not as a disciple, not as a servant, but as someone the prophecy had just circled like prey.
"I…" My voice shook. I shut my eyes for a second, grounding myself. "I offer my deepest gratitude to the Goddess—"
My throat tightened.
"—for choosing me… among all loyal disciples… for a destiny I'm still learning to understand."
A tear slipped before I could stop it. Then another.
The music softened, shifting into something tender, almost mournful. People in the crowd covered their mouths. Angels straightened. Even Ren froze, his usual teasing grin gone.
I opened the Holy Book again. My vision blurred, but the verses burned bright, etched into my memory since childhood.
My voice steadied.
"Blessed be Her light that guides the lost,
Blessed be Her will that raises the chosen."
The qanun strings swelled behind me, cascading like gold.
"Blessed be Her breath that awakens the dead,
Blessed be Her steps that shake the earth."
The sahnir drums pounded harder—like war, like resurrection.
Tears kept falling, but I didn't hide them. Not now.
Drums rumbled—like distant earthquakes.
"From among the disbelievers,
the true Prophet may rise."
A ripple of gasps. Fear. Hope.
"For Her true Prophet shall rise,
not by his own desire,
but by Her command."
The flutes spiraled upward, notes piercing the ceiling, the sky, the world.
I pressed my palm to my heart, voice cracking:
"And if I am to walk this path,
let every step be in Her shadow.
Let every breath be Her decree."
The hall erupted. Some cheered. Some sobbed. Some dropped to their knees.
I stood there—Orhan, disciple, almost-prophet—breathing hard, half undone by the power of the verses and the weight of the prophecy pressing against my spine.
Behind me, Ren whispered under his breath—
"Orhan… what did you just accept?"
But I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because the music was still rising. And deep in the front row, Coleman was no longer smiling. He was trembling. Like someone watching fate catch up to him.
Zaida stepped forward, her veil trembling as though the air itself knew something was coming. The music behind her softened into a low, warning hum. The sahnir drums slowed to a heartbeat. The qanun strings thinned to a distant whisper, barely holding shape.
Her voice, usually unwavering, betrayed a thin crack.
"The false goddess may arise at the end times," she recited, the words hanging heavy in the white hall, "and her empire shall collapse at the feet of the True Goddess."
She paused, pressing her lips together as if the rest of the prophecy tasted bitter.
"The devil will try to stir the Prophet's mind… but he will stand steady, believing only the Truth."
A murmur rippled through the hall. It wasn't panic. It was something deeper—recognition. The angels exchanged looks, subtle but sharp, their wings tensing like drawn bows. Even the air changed, thickening as though absorbing every syllable with greedy intent.
We pressed on with the remaining verses, letting the ancient words settle into the marble floor, into the hearts of the crowd, into the bones of the hall itself. When the bell chimed for a short break, the audience exhaled collectively. The next session, our first direct public interaction was something forbidden for years. The previous Prophet had rejected the people entirely. We were about to break tradition older than nations.
Zaida's communicator vibrated. The sound was small, but in the quiet, it felt like a blade being unsheathed.
She answered. As she listened, her face changed. Color drained from it. Her posture stiffened. All the grace she carried melted into fear.
We watched her, waiting for words we knew we wouldn't like.
Her voice came out small, yet firm. "State Security. Rebels have infiltrated the ceremony. We must leave. Now."
The words struck the hall like ice cracking.
Coleman heard enough from a distance. He rushed toward us with urgent, frantic steps, his worry written across every line of his aging face. "Children—return. Return to Celestia this instant. This is not safe. This is—"
I caught his hands before he could finish. They were trembling. That shocked me more than the warning.
"Sir," I told him, steadying my own voice, "we have the Goddess's blessing. She willed us to come here. We are not meant to run from rebels."
Ren spun around sharply, frustration etched into every movement. "Orhan, Coleman is right. We Must leave. This is not bravery, this is recklessness."
His fear only fueled something stubborn in me. Something fierce. Something I didn't recognize yet.
I stood, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Why? Why should we run? We crossed deserts, borders, oceans only to flee because rebels growl at the gates? We are supposed to show them the mercy of the Goddess, not our backs."
Before anyone could grab me, I strode toward the main hall doors. They opened with a low groan, and the world outside slammed into me.
Light.
Noise.
Heat.
Devotion so powerful it drowned my heartbeat.
A living ocean of people stretched before me. They were singing, crying, praying, hands lifted as though trying to touch heaven itself. Their faces glowed with desperate hope. Their voices rose as one, shaking the very air.
I didn't think.
I ran.
I vaulted over the barrier with a burst of adrenaline and landed directly in the sea of bodies.
The collective gasp that followed was sharp enough to cut. Security panicked. Angels reached for their weapons. Zaida, Ren, Coleman everyone rushed toward the stage, blood pounding, pulses drawn tight with expectation. The crowd surged like a single living body, shouting my name until it lost all meaning and became pure sound. Their voices collided, layered, dissolved into noise meant for something larger than a man. But they didn't know this part. They didn't know that beneath the white and gold, beneath the ritual calm, I was crying—not from fear, not from doubt, but from joy.
"Savior."
"Prophet."
"Bringer of Light."
The titles struck me in waves, each one heavier than the last. I had never heard such names spoken about anyone, let alone myself. My legs trembled as I stepped down among the people, the ground suddenly feeling unreal beneath my feet. Hands reached for me from every direction, fingers brushing my sleeves, my wrists, my shoulders, as if prayer itself had learned how to move.
Meeting commoners should not have felt like this. It should not have mattered so much. But we were never allowed to do it. Disciples did not walk among the public without the Goddess's command. We stayed inside Celestia's walls clean, obedient, untouched by doubt or dirt or hunger. And who, truly, would dare cross the Goddess's word? That was sin. That was erasure.
Yet here I was.
Allowed. Chosen.
I walked through them, and they parted instinctively, like water giving way to something sacred. I taught them how to kneel. I taught them how to pray, the same verses my Prophet had drilled into me when I was barely tall enough to stand straight. The words flowed without effort, as if they had been waiting in my mouth all along. They listened. They believed. They bowed—not because they were ordered to, but because they wanted to. Surrounded by devotion warm enough to suffocate, I felt something settle deep in my chest. Not doubt. Not fear. Certainty. I really was chosen. Truly. Completely. The Goddess saw me. And now, the people did too.
I had never felt so alive.