Redemption of Eva

Then I saw in my dream that I walked along the River of Life. The water ran beside me clear and bright, just as it had in the beginning, like at the dawn of the dream. The Interpreter walked with me, silent and sure, as though he’d never left my side at all.

Seeker stood before the cottage, calm as morning light. He had grown so much since I first beheld him in Uncertain—stronger in bearing, steadier in soul. A quiet smile rested on his face, and in his hands he held a new Book.

Beautiful leaned against him, a shadow of sadness still softening her gaze—but her beauty had only grown more radiant. Not a line touched her face. Not a strand of silver threaded her hair.

Nearby stood Bright, leaning lightly on his staff. His long black hair drifted in the breeze, and though pain still lingered in the way he held himself, his face shone with the light of a tender heart.

Wonderful had grown more lovely—fairer than any in the land. Yet even that beauty was outshone by her knowledge and skill.

And Seeker lifted his voice and sang a new song:

I once was known as Seeker-for-Truth,
And I come from Uncertain, My new name is Satisfied, and I am bound for Beulah Land
In my years of searching, I have discovered that truth lies
In all that is Beautiful, Bright and Wonderful!

As I walked, my heart grew heavy for Satisfied, Beautiful, Bright, and Wonderful. For word had reached me of a beast rising in the Lands of Doubting—speaking blasphemies against the Most High, breathing out threatenings against His people. And its foolish babblings had deceived even the Elect.

At the beast’s side stood the False Prophet, who rose from Coveting, demanding all take his Mark upon their hand or forehead. Many pilgrims were seized, bound, and cast into the dungeon beneath his rule.

Rumors had spread that Plague had gathered his kin and was slaying all who came near. Fear tightened within me, for the way to Beulah ran through those very lands.

I turned to the Interpreter, my voice barely more than a breath. “What will become of them?”

He looked upon me gently. “Even now,” He said, “a place is being prepared for them in Beulah Land.”

The whole world seemed to hold still—water paused in its flowing, wind resting among the trees. We waited for his next words.

“The King has decreed they shall walk in safety. He sees every sparrow that falls from the sky. How much more, then, His cherished children?”

Then I came near to Satisfied, and he placed his Book in my hands. It was bound in blue, with letters of gold.

Tears of the Elect.

In it he had written his life and all the wisdom he had found, and he gave it to me to keep.

I looked into his eyes, and I loved him.

And in that moment, I knew—I was Satisfied.

So I awoke from my sleep, and behold—it had been a dream!

Comfort

November 26, 2025 by K. Blackthorn

Seeker sat smoking his pipe, eyes settled on the crystal-clear water shining beneath the sun, and beyond it the cottage tucked among the fruit trees. The plums—if that was even the right word—were all but gone, and the not-quite apples pressed through gold-tipped leaves.

There was a kitchen for Beautiful. A stillroom for Wonderful. Bright, content as ever, wandered with the lambs by the riverside. And for Seeker—a study, with real paper and a waiting pen. He turned his Book slowly in his hands. Apollyon’s dart had passed straight through it—only the armor beneath had stopped it.

Your own Book will rest by the River of Life. The Interpreter’s voice echoed softly through memory. He had written of leaving Uncertain behind. Of how he’d found the Staff of Opinions, only to find it useless in Stupidity. Of how Companion had drawn him out of Despond. How he’d fallen in love with Beautiful. Of Thoughtful. Of Bright and Wonderful. And of Wrath—how Forgiveness had brought the giant low.

It had been hard to write about Charm. Hard to set down how close he had come to losing everything in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He wrote of Plague. He wrote of Vanity. And still the ink didn’t lessen the weight of it.

Seeker closed his eyes, drew slow smoke, and let peace settle over him like warm sunlight on stone. He already knew what he must write next. Eva and Perry.

When he opened his eyes, Comfort sat beside him as though she’d always been there. She smiled, blue eyes bright as river-light.

He studied her quietly. Not a day older than when he first met her—that slight familiar sadness still resting behind her smile. Her hand found his, warm and gentle. How long had he overlooked how beautiful she was, lost in his obsession with Charm? She leaned closer, eyes soft, breath warm against his skin, lips close to his.

Beautiful! The thought struck him like cold water, snapping the spell in an instant. The Necklace of Conscience lay warm against his skin, and the scars Charm had carved into his back pulsed sharply beneath his shirt. Never forget!

He slipped his hand from Comfort’s and drew back, breath tight in his chest.

Tears welled in Comfort’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks unchecked. “Haven’t I always been there for you?” her voice trembled. “I brought you lunch when you were worn out. I healed you after my sister hurt you.” She drew a shaking breath.

“You were supposed to be mine,” she whispered—then a sob broke through. “That night… you were to marry me. My father promised.” Her hands twisted in her lap, pleading. “But I brought you back to Beautiful. I would never take you from her.”

“No,” Seeker said—soft, but unshaken. “I know who you are.” His fingers brushed the place where Apollyon’s dart had pierced his Book. “Adam-the-First had three daughters. Has three daughters. Pride-of-Life. Lust-of-the-Eyes. And…”

“Lust-of-the-Flesh,” she finished for him. The air around her wavered—like heat above desert stones—and her beauty split like a shell breaking open. In an instant he saw her as she truly was: a succubus, swollen and foul. Horns curled from her brow. Her skin blistered and sloughed like diseased flesh. When she smiled, blackened gums and rotting teeth glistened.

She laughed—softly, almost kindly, yet edged with mockery.

“Good for you, Seeker.”

She turned and made her way toward a low door set into the hillside. Odd—he couldn’t remember seeing it there before. Her steps were slow, wheezing, her form still that warped, diseased parody beneath the illusion. When she pulled the door open, heat shimmered from within, rippling the air like a furnace-breath from below.

At the threshold she paused, looking back over her shoulder—one last lingering smile.

“Oh, don’t worry, Seeker,” she murmured. “There are no satyrs. I’m not cruel like my sister.” Then the door shut with a heavy thud, and she was gone.

Seeker grasped the necklace medallion in his palm—it was still warm. He let out a slow, quiet breath of relief.

His back no longer ached.

Yet even here, in rest and peace and sunlight, stood a door to Death.

The Love of Money

November 23, 2025 by K. Blackthorn

With a heavy heart, Seeker trudged along the Narrow Way, leaving behind the Plain of Ease—and the cherry tree beneath which his friend now slept. The path ahead blurred; the weight behind him dragged heavier than any burden he had ever carried.

“Where’s Merry?” Bright asked quietly.

“He’s… sleeping,” Beautiful answered, her eyes flat, her voice hollow.

“Mother!” Wonderful hissed under her breath, anger and grief tangled together.

Bright nodded, though his gaze drifted to the ground, unconvinced… and hurting.

They walked on. Silence settled over them—thick, suffocating—as if the very air carried the shape of their loss.

–

Up ahead, Seeker knew from his Book, rose a small hill called Lucre, and near it the Village of Coveting. The Interpreter had told him that Mammon had moved the capital from Vanity to Coveting. And when Seeker saw the city rising before them, he understood why.

It had grown to rival Vanity in size—perhaps even surpass it. At its center yawned the great silver mine, the very pit where Demas had lured countless pilgrims to their ruin. Seeker felt a chill run through him as he looked upon it, a familiar heaviness settling low in his chest.

Or their enslavement. The desire of money is the root of all evil, he thought wryly. They pierced themselves through with many sorrows. The words felt less like a proverb and more like something he was watching unfold before his eyes.

Men and women in tattered clothing trudged in and out of the mine, faces smeared with dust, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of pickaxes and exhaustion. They returned with their backs bent under sacks stuffed with what must have been silver ore—each bundle stamped with the familiar M sigil. The same brand he had seen in Deceit, in Difficulty, in Humiliation. Mammon always left his mark.

In the shadow of the hill sprawled the so-called village where the workers lived. The board-and-batten buildings stirred old memories of Stupidity—where he’d been robbed and left with nothing. He could almost hear the bitterns in Despond again, their harsh calls echoing the voices of Blunt, Slip, and Mutter. But Stupidity had only been a scattering of hovels. This was no village anymore. It had grown into a town—crowded, grim, and sprawling. And rising in its midst, stood a graceful cathedral tower.

The sigh of the oppressed creature. The heart of a heartless world. The soul of soulless conditions. His gaze drifted from the cathedral’s soaring beauty to the weary faces of those shuffling in and out of the mine, their backs bowed beneath sacks of ore. The contrast struck him like a blow—hard and merciless, as heavy as the silver they carried. The opium of the people.

From within the mine came the sound of clapping—sharp, rhythmic, unmistakable. A chill crept over Seeker’s skin. He knew that rhythm.

He could almost hear the faint tink of whetstones striking steel… almost see Charm again in the tall grain fields, keeping time for the mowers as they swung their scythes. For a heartbeat the memory rose so vividly it felt as though she stood just beyond the mine’s mouth, waiting. He swallowed hard and forced the thought away.

“Lunch!” a voice cried out. Crowds surged toward several carts painted with the familiar smile of Delight.

“One per person! There’s enough for everyone!” shouted a man as he handed out loaves of bread.

“Look,” Bright said, pointing at a colorful banner flapping in the breeze—an advertisement for a circus back in Vanity. “I wonder if they have chimpanzees?”

Wonderful rolled her eyes, a soft huff of disbelief escaping her.

Seeker followed Bright’s gesture, taking in the painted smiles, the glittering costumes, the exaggerated promises of marvels and wonders. A hollow feeling tightened in his chest.

How cliché, he thought. Bread… and circuses.

On the other side of the Narrow Way stood rows of timber-frame houses—close enough to overlook the “village,” yet distant enough to pretend they weren’t part of it. And beside them rose a second cluster of homes, smaller but far finer: walled courtyards, manicured hedges, guards posted at each gate. Above them all, a magnificent palace dominated the skyline, marble gleaming in the midday light.

Lord Demas? Seeker wondered. Or Mammon himself?

So this was how Coveting sustained itself. A handful lived behind high walls in effortless luxury while the masses bent their backs in the mines and slept in hovels. One thing bound the whole machine together. The silent mortar between each stone of suffering. Hope.

Hope that maybe, with enough toil, they might someday cross from the “village” to the mansions. Hope that glittered like silver ore and enslaved more effectively than chains.

It all reminded him of the beginning of his journey. Uncertain had been made certain—only now on a vast, sprawling scale. Stupidity, Destruction, Carnal Policy… all of them seemed gathered here, pressed into one monstrous whole.

–

As they continued along the Narrow Way, they came upon a monument set squarely in the middle of the road. It was a woman—frozen mid-stride—her body twisted back toward Vanity. She was made entirely of salt.

Weather had worn the letters from her head, long since faded beyond reading. She stood upon a marble pedestal gilded in gold, and on its front—still untouched by time—were engraved the words: “Be Diligent.”

At the base of the statue lay offerings—coins tarnished by sweat, rusted tools, scraps of parchment covered in hopeful scrawls for prosperity.

“Gruesome,” Seeker muttered.

Beautiful tugged at his hand. “Come,” she said softly. “It’s not much further now.”

Together they pressed on, step by steady step, until at last the grind and clamor of Coveting faded behind them—the shouts, the clatter of pickaxes. Seeker exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders as though a weight had slipped free. He was glad—grateful to leave that dreadful place behind.

Ahead, the land opened wide. And before them stretched a mighty river, clear as crystal, its surface catching the afternoon light like living glass.

A stone bridge arched over the river ahead, its stones warm in the sun. Water flowed beneath it with a soft, musical echo. The air here was different—sweet, light, threaded with birdsong and the distant bleating of lambs drifting across the fields. Bright’s face softened. A faint smile touched his lips.

Lilies dotted the meadows along the riverbank, white petals swaying in the soft breeze. Wonderful knelt beside a cluster of bright green leaves, their scent cool and sharp in the air. “It grows near clean water,” she said.

Fruit trees lined the banks. What looked like wild limes hung in clusters, their skins faintly yellow with sun. Here and there, the pale remnants of last season’s lemons clung to the branches, and small green plums had begun to swell among the leaves.

Seeker dropped to his knees on the bank and plunged his face into the river, drinking deeply. The water was cool—so cool it sent tingles through his arms and spine. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the meal at the Interpreter’s House… and before that, the stream in the ravine.

The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up. The words rose unbidden in his mind—lines from one of his books, which the Interpreter had quoted so unexpectedly.

Water splashed across his face, pulling him from his reverie. Beautiful had waded into the shallows, shoes abandoned on the bank, her laughter ringing like bells over the water. She lifted her skirt to keep the hem dry and kicked up another spray, sunlight dancing in the droplets as they fell.

She caught Seeker’s hand and tugged him down beside her onto a smooth riverstone. Her handbag landed softly at her side as she slipped her feet into the current, toes skimming the cold water with a delighted shiver. Then she reached inside the bag and drew out a small linen parcel, placing it carefully between them.

“Make one for your husband,” she said. Color flooded her cheeks at the word, and she turned her head with a soft, helpless giggle.

“Beautiful…” Seeker breathed.

She looked so damn cute when she did that.

“I love you,” he whispered.

The Price We Pay for Love

November 16, 2025 by K. Blackthorn

I saw in my dream that even before Seeker, Beautiful, Wonderful, and Bright reached the gates of Vanity—walking slowly for Bright’s sake—rumors had already arrived in their place. The tale of thunder in the Valley, of lightning splaying across the sky, spread through the streets like a fever. By the time they drew near, fear had taken root in the hearts of many.

Mr. Envy was the first to give shape to the fear. “He draws lightning down upon us,” he muttered to anyone who would listen. “He brings giants to our very gates. His son drives beasts out of the hills! And how long before that Valley-ward turns and condemns us all?”

Lying took up the tale at once. “I heard he summoned the dragon,” he whispered to a knot of listeners. And a moment later, to another, “I heard he slew a dozen innocents.”

“We don’t want trouble,” said Mr. Inconsiderate. “People like that ruin neighborhoods. One family shouldn’t endanger the rest.”

As they walked through the streets, shutters slammed shut and whispers rose behind them like rustling leaves. When they reached their home, a small crowd barred the way.

A low growl rumbled from Seeker’s chest, his fingers curling instinctively around the hilt of his sword. Beautiful laid her hand over his.

“That’s not what that’s for,” she whispered.

Still, the crowd stepped back, opening a narrow path toward their door. Mr. Envy moved to the front, chin lifted just enough to show he wasn’t afraid—only eager.

“It would be best,” he said, “if you… moved along.”

***

Beautiful let out a long trembling breath the moment the door closed behind them. The muffled rumble of the crowd finally faded, leaving only the sound of her own pulse hammering in her ear. She stood for a moment in the quiet, her hand on the latch, as though making sure the door would hold.

Wonderful guided Bright to his bed, moving with the steady competence she’d learned from Mr. Skill.

Seeker all but collapsed onto the couch, the exhaustion of battle settling over him like a heavy cloak. He pressed his palms to his face.

“What now?” he asked, voice thick, frayed at the edges.

Her dream. Beautiful straightened, heart giving a small jolt. In everything that happened—the journey, the mob, Bright’s injuries—she had completely forgotten. She hurried into the bedroom. There on the bed lay the scroll, right where she had dropped it in her haste.

She lifted it and loosened the silver thread with trembling fingers. Inside, etched in shimmering silver letters, was a deed—the very cottage the Shining One had shown her by the River of Life. Beautiful drew in a sharp breath. It bore the seal of the King.

She hurried back into the main room, the deed raised in her hand. Seeker looked up, astonishment breaking through his exhaustion.

“A Shining One—Gabriel, I think—gave this to me,” she said breathless, the words tumbling out. “He said it was prepared for us.”

Seeker blinked, taken aback. Then a tired laugh escaped him.

“Slow down, Beautiful. Start from the beginning.”

Beautiful told him—halting at first, then with growing clarity—how the Shining One had appeared in her dream, how he had led her to the cottage beside the River of Life, its fruit-laden trees shimmering in the light. She told him how he had sent her and Wonderful to them, and how she had woken with the scroll pressed to her heart.

Then she placed the deed into Seeker’s hands.

He traced the silver letters with his fingertips, reverent, almost unbelieving.

“The King provides,” he said softly.

Beautiful lifted her chin. “We leave as soon as Bright is well enough to walk.”

“And not a minute before,” Seeker said with a wry grin, his gaze flickering toward the sword propped by the door—as if daring the world to argue otherwise.

She swatted his hand lightly, a small laugh escaping despite everything. “Oh, stop that.”

***

Preparations came together quickly. Seeker had no burden now, and Beautiful insisted they pack only what they needed for the journey—food, water, and little else.

Bright’s strength returned faster than Seeker expected. Wonderful tended him with quiet determination, mixing herbs, checking wounds, and reprimanding him gently whenever he tried to stand too soon.

Before they left, she visited Mr. Skill to bid him farewell. Seeker watched from a distance as she hugged the healer, promising she would return to finish her training.

It was the same Vanity they entered years before—yet not the same at all. Merchants still cried out beneath their bright banners, fabric snapping in the breeze. But as Seeker and his family stepped onto the Narrow Way, the air shifted. Glares followed them. Voices fell to murmurs. People drew back as though their very shadows carried danger.

Not a single soul approached them—not a farewell, not a word of blessing—not until the city lay behind them and the noise faded into the wind.

The Narrow Way stretched ahead of them—smooth, straight and washed clean by the morning. Wild grasses swayed in the cool breeze; their blades beaded with a clinging silver mist. Hares and rabbits darted through the tall stems, flashes of brown and gray before vanishing back into the green.

Amidst the tall grasses, wildflowers swayed in scattered bursts—bluebells nodding in the shade, buttercups gleaming in the sun, poppies trembling whenever the breeze touched them. Herbs grew in gentle clusters along the way: the feathery fronds of yarrow, chamomile with its small pale blossoms, and the sweet drifting scent of meadowsweet carried on the wind.

Seeker and Beautiful walked hand in hand, their steps falling into a familiar rhythm. Bright leaned on his staff, chattering as they went. Every so often Wonderful stopped to study a plant—snipping a bud here, a leaf there—and slipped each one into her pack before hurrying forward again.

Merry walked at their side. He was old now—moving slower, no longer trotting ahead the way he used to. When they neared a wild cherry tree—its branches heavy with blossoms like pale clouds—he stumbled, then eased himself down onto the path and would not rise again.

“Good boy,” Wonderful murmured, leaning down to pat his head. “Come on, Merry. Let’s keep going.” He didn’t move. He only lay there, sides trembling, and let out a soft, pitiful whimper.

“You want me to carry you?” Wonderful whispered as she knelt beside him. She eased her arms under his ribs and lifted him gently. A frail wheeze slipped from him—more breath than sound—his body sinking weakly against her.

“Let’s rest awhile,” Beautiful said gently. She spread a cloth beneath the cherry tree, the blossoms drifting down like pale snow, and laid out the sandwiches she had prepared that morning. But no one moved toward them. The food sat untouched—every eye kept drifting back to Merry.

Wonderful took a small bottle from her satchel and poured several drops into a tiny spoon. When she tried to feed Merry, he turned his head away. She offered him a treat instead. He snapped it up eagerly. But when she held out a second one, he only looked at it—bright eyes dimming, as though the effort had slipped from him.

Merry lay cradled in Seeker’s arms. Seeker drew him close, trying to gather every moment, to fix each small detail—how soft his fur was, how warm his little body felt—into memory before it slipped away. He remembered how Merry used to lick his fingers without stopping, and he lifted one now, offering it. Merry only rested his head against his palm, too tired for even that.

Bright sat with Beautiful, speaking softly. Seeker brought Merry to him. Merry’s eyes brightened when he saw Bright, and his tongue flicked out, giving Bright’s cheek a small lick.

Concern flickered across Beautiful’s face. Bright was too weak for this—not now, not like this. She looked from Merry to Seeker, their eyes meeting, grief quietly passing between them. She slipped her hand around Bright’s arm and guided him away, walking with him across the Plain.

Seeker eased Merry into Wonderful’s arms. She nestled her head against Merry’s and whispered something into his ear. Seeker leaned heavily against the tree trunk, and Wonderful gently placed Merry back into his arms.

His heart ached so badly. Worse than the Slough. Worse than the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He listened to Merry’s ragged breaths, willing every second to slow—willing it to last a little longer.

Merry closed his eyes for the last time. Silence settled over them. Seeker’s chest tightened—his own heartbeat faltered, as if it, too, had forgotten how to go on.

Then Seeker dug a small, deep grave beneath the cherry tree and laid Merry gently inside. He covered him with earth, pressing each handful down with trembling hands. And there, in the quiet shade, Seeker sang a low, broken lament:

    Merry, true and loyal,
    Constant companion of Wonderful,
    Source of joy and inspiration to Bright,
And faithful friend to our whole family.

As he pressed the last handful of earth into place, something inside him broke. Seeker began to sob—loud, unguarded, like a child who no longer knew how to hold anything in.

Wonderful wrapped her arms around him and held him steady, standing firm and brave. “Merry will always be with you, Daddy,” she whispered.

Overhead, a skylark lifted its trembling song into the air—soft, mournful, promising they would keep watch over his dear friend, and that Merry would never be forgotten in their songs.

Wonderful — Chapter 2

November 16, 2025 by K. Blackthorn

The path before him was pure darkness as Seeker stepped into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Instinctively, he reached for his Phial—then froze. Of course. He’d given it to Bright. Without its light, the Valley pressed in heavier than before—thick, suffocating, alive with unseen weight.

The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots assured him he still walked the Narrow Way. His feet seemed to know the road, step by step, without the aid of sight.

As he took a step forward, his boots shifted of their own accord, drawing him slightly to the right. He couldn’t see his hand before his eyes, much less the path ahead. Yet his mind saw it clearly—the bones, the traps, the snares that had haunted this place the last time he’d passed through. He knew they were still here.

The Interpreter’s words echoed in his mind: We walk by faith, not by sight. He drew a slow breath, closed his eyes, and let his feet guide him.

“Oh, Seeker… did you come back to me?” Charm’s laughter rippled through the darkness—low, taunting, impossible to place. It mingled with the howls of unseen fiends. Fear tightened in his chest as the sounds drew nearer. A sudden brush of wings grazed his shoulder, and he staggered back, unsheathing his Sword.

The Sword blazed to life in his hands, flooding the darkness with a silver radiance that bled across the twisted ground. Shadows leapt and shrank away. The light burned brighter than the Phial had ever shone. Above him, drakes wheeled and shrieked in fury; before him, a legion of fiends gathered—countless shapes massed in defiance of the light.

The fiends swarmed him. A squat, leathery creature lunged—the moss-mottled hide of its body glistening in the silver light. It swung a jagged blade with surprising speed. Its teeth were needle-sharp, its ears long and pointed, its eyes burning with a feral cunning that spoke of hunger rather than thought.

It will guide your hands. The Sword rose of its own accord, meeting the goblin’s strike with a flash of silver light. His boots pulled at his feet, urging him left—just follow the lead. He turned as a drake swooped low, its claws raking the air where he’d stood a heartbeat before. The Sword arced in answer, cleaving through its neck. The creature crashed to the ground, twitching at his feet.

The goblins closed in around him. Feet. Sword. Let go. He moved without thought—light and motion as one. A single sweep of the blade, and they were flung back in every direction.

Howls. Shrieks. Endless. The battle became a dance with death: swing, block, step forward, fall back. The longer he fought, the brighter his sword burned. Then a dragon swooped in from the dark, its wings splitting the air. Seeker raised his blade—and lightning leapt from it, striking the beast mid-flight. It crashed to the ground, lifeless before it touched the earth.

Ten. A hundred. A thousand—he lost count. There was only the dance. The air around him crackled; the hair on his arms rose. Seeker cried out—ΔΕΞΑΙ! Waves of lightning cascaded from the Sword in torrents, and he dropped to his knees. No fiend remained standing. Mangled corpses surrounded him.

“Oh, brave warrior…” The voice drifted through the stillness, lilting and cruel. “Come and play with me.” Play with me. Play with me. Lay with me. Charm’s mirage shimmered in the distance—her green eyes gleaming through the dark like twin lanterns of deceit.

Out of the shadows emerged tall, broad-shouldered shapes—bodies lithe and powerful, half-shrouded in coarse brown hair. From the waist up they bore the form of men, beautiful in a savage and terrible way. But below, their legs were those of goats—corded with muscle, ending in cloven hooves that struck sparks from the stone.

From their brows sprang horns that curved backwards like a ram’s. Their eyes gleamed amber and wild, pupils slit and threaded with crimson. When they smiled, their teeth were too sharp—too human to be fangs, too bestial to belong to men.

They circled him in a wild dance, flutes and pipes shrieking in discordant joy. Goblets sloshed with dark wine as they spun and leapt. “Rest, Seeker, Rest,” they chanted. “Drink. Dance. Play with us.”

They pressed close—so close he could smell the mingled scent of sweat and wine on their breath. The satyrs spun around him, brandishing their flutes like daggers. His boots refused to join their rhythm. He swung his sword, but they slipped past each stroke with mocking grace. Step by step he forced his way forward. The Necklace had grown warm against his chest, and the old stripes on his back began to burn. Never forget.

Yet his Sword stayed steady in his hands, and his boots carried him onward—calm, unhurried—until he passed beyond that place and came to the straights between the sulfurous bog and the abyss.

From the depths rose specters—faces of men, half-formed, flickering in and out of substance. Moans drifted through the air, tangled with whispers. Then came the thoughts—unbidden, relentless. They hissed like steam in his head. Curses. Blasphemies. Accusations. His mind reeled beneath them. Despair. Shame. Guilt. He could neither fight nor flee.

Then the words of the Interpreter returned to him: This is not I. At once, the specters—and the thoughts that carried them—wavered, thinned, and sank back into the abyss from which they had come.

Seeker did not look back when he reached the far side. The air turned sweet, fragrant with lilies, and the gentle murmur of running water welcomed him.

He was covered head to toe in blood, yet not a single tear marked his garments, nor a scratch marred his skin. It was good to stand once more in Humility. First, he would wash—then find Bright.

Seeker stripped off his shirt, then the chain mail hidden beneath. He crouched beside the stream and dipped the linen into the running water. The white fabric—once beautiful—should have been ruined by the blood and gore that covered it. He worked it gently between his hands until the water cleared. When he lifted it from the stream and held it to the light, not a single trace of stain remained—the white gleamed pure, the gold still shone.

He spread the shirt carefully across a sun-warmed rock to dry, then took up his trousers, using them to wipe the blood from his boots and sheath before rinsing it in the stream. When both garments were laid out to dry, he stepped into a still pool where the water had gathered and washed himself from head to toe, scrubbing away every trace of battle.

His clothes were already dry. He’d never seen a fabric like it—sturdy, unstainable, and quick to shed the water. He dressed swiftly and started toward the Prince’s country house. If Bright was still in these parts, Seeker knew where he’d be—beneath the old tree by the still pool across from the house.

As he walked, Seeker met a youth with bright cheeks and a lamb slung across his shoulders. The boy’s eyes lit up the moment he saw him.

“Hello!” he called out. “You must be Bright’s father!”

“I am,” Seeker said with a nod. “How is he? Is he well?” He smiled faintly. “His mother’s worried sick about him.”

“He’s more than well,” said the youth, grinning wide. “You should’ve seen him—he smacked the lion that tried to steal one of our sheep! It slunk back into the mountains, tail between his legs.”

Seeker laughed at the thought of Bright fighting a lion. “Oh, he’s added lions now—to go with the coyotes and bears?”

“Oh, I’m Meek, sir…” said the youth.

“Just call me Seeker,” he replied with a nod.

“You came just in time, Mr. Seeker,” Meek said brightly. “Bright’s been talking about traveling on—to the Delectable Mountains. I’ll tend the flock when he’s gone. He’s been teaching me everything I need to know.” Meek’s whole face lit as he said it, the words tumbling out like sunshine.

The lamb on Meek’s shoulders gave a pitiful bleat. “Oh, hush,” said Meek with a grin. “You’re lucky a coyote didn’t get you. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before wandering off.”

“I’m glad you’re here to go with him,” Meek went on. “Coyotes are one thing, but…” He gave a slight shiver. “You should hear the sounds that come from that place at night.” His eyes flicked toward the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then back—lingering on the sword at Seeker’s side. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmured.

Seeker gave a quiet chuckle. “Let’s just say I know more about that place than I’d like to.”

–

When they reached the camp by the still pond, Bright was tending a pot of black beans simmering over the fire, the smell of cumin in the air. He looked up, startled—and the ladle slipped from his hand.

“Dad!” He ran to Seeker and threw his arms around him. “You’re just in time for supper!”

“Mr. Seeker can have my plate,” Meek offered quickly.

Together they ate. Bright had chopped several tomatoes and prepared rice seasoned with herbs and spices. Sheep grazed contentedly nearby—at least twice as many as when Seeker was there before. He listened as Bright spoke of how he’d sought out the scattered sheep one by one and driven back the coyotes on his own. How he’d met Meek. And how he planned to journey onward, leaving the flock in Meek’s care.

–

That night, Seeker slept peacefully beneath the open sky, a soft breeze cooling the summer air. Overhead, the Great Bear and Little Bear wheeled in their slow procession, the Dragon gliding between them—King and Queen shining beside them.

***

In the morning, Bright gave Meek his final instructions, and together they set out. Never forget. The Shining One’s words echoed through Seeker’s heart as they passed through Forgetful Green and stepped once more into the darkness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

The path was too narrow for them to walk side by side, so Seeker went first—his Sword raised, light glinting along its edge. Bright followed close behind, staff in one hand, Phial lifted high in the other. Together their lights filled the Valley—silver and gold intermingling with the restless red glow of the fires below. Bright’s voice rang out over the chasm, clear and fearless, untroubled by the stench of sulfur that thickened the air.

Seeker was grateful that no hobgoblins stirred this day. Perhaps their joined light kept such shadows at bay. Of all the trials in the Valley, that had been the worst—the voices that spoke in his own mind, each one wearing the sound of his thoughts.

Seeker’s necklace grew warm against his chest as they neared the second half of the Valley. The ground ahead was strewn with bones—bleached remnants of Plague’s victims. Then there, astride the Narrow Way, stood Giant Wrath—waiting, blocking their path.

“Little Bright,” the giant sneered, “come to play with your daddy’s staff? I was gentle with you last time.” His gaze shifted to Seeker. “And you—do you believe that puny weapon will save you?”

Something had emboldened him. Wrath stood unflinching in the mingled light of Forgiveness and Wisdom. Fear’s icy fingers brushed Seeker’s spine, but the warmth of the Necklace of Conscience held them back—steady, sure, and near his heart.

The giant’s face contorted with rage. “Wherever you go, I will follow—and I will destroy you! I am the curse that haunts your blood. Your father, and his father before him—I was their undoing. I am your curse… both of you.”

With a roar, Wrath heaved a boulder high above his head and hurled it toward Bright. The air slit with its passing. Bright dove aside, the stone crashing where he’d stood an instant before, shattering the ground in a spray of dust and shards.

Seeker felt the gentle pull of his boots and the weightless guidance of the Sword. He closed his eyes, breathed a prayer to the King—and surrendered. Then he moved. In a single heartbeat he surged forward, faster than thought, the Sword flashing in an arc of silver light. Wrath’s head parted cleanly from his shoulders.

The earth trembled as the giant’s body struck the ground, dust billowing skyward. The severed head rolled to Seeker’s feet; its face still locked in shock—as if disbelief had followed him into death.

Bright collapsed to his knees, trembling. The Valley fell silent. Even the air held its breath. Then they saw what had emboldened Giant Wrath. Out of the shadows emerged a monstrosity—towering, terrible, alive with malice. Its body was scaled like a dragon’s, wings vast and leathery, the hands and feet those of a bear, each claw longer than a man’s forearm. The head was that of a lion, with fangs that gleamed like burnished iron. Smoke coiled from its belly, rising in choking waves, and sparks leapt from its jaws with every breath. And its eyes—its eyes burned with a hatred so pure it seemed to strip the world of light.

Apollyon.

“You are my subjects—yet you have defied me.” His voice rolled across the Valley like thunder breaking mountains, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. In his right hand he held a bundle of fiery darts, their shafts of black iron glowing at the tips with molten light.

Seeker planted his feet and raised his Sword, the weight of it steady in his hands. Nothing in his Book had prepared him for this. Did he possess the being to stand firm before such a power?

“I am the Lord of Destruction,” he declared, his voice echoing like fire through iron. “Yet I am not without mercy.” He spread his claws in a gesture of mock compassion. “Bow to me, swear fealty to Mammon—the King of this world—and I will spare your lives. I will even grant you fortune… and fame.”

Apollyon stretched his mighty wings until they seemed to span the valley. He roared, “If you will not, your blood shall soak the ground, and your corpses will join the heaps of those who have fallen here.”

Seeker turned to Bright with a wry smile. “I’m glad to have the vanquisher of bears and lions at my side—now let’s chase off this damn coyote.”

Seeker closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to the King—strength for himself, protection for Bright. Then he sprang into motion. Fiery darts hissed through the air, but his feet found their path with unearthly precision. Lightning burst from his Sword, striking toward Apollyon. A dart hurtled straight for him—his blade rose in time, deflecting it with a crack of light.

While Seeker held Apollyon’s gaze, Bright struck from behind. He swung with all his strength, but the staff glanced off the creature’s scales—he did not even flinch.

The ground trembled beneath Apollyon’s steps. Lightning split the sky, and thunder answered—mingling with his terrible roars.

The battle dragged on—an endless blur of dodging and parrying. No matter how he pressed forward, he couldn’t land a single blow. His arms ached, his breath came ragged, and his strength ebbed with every heartbeat.

Seeker froze in horror. From the shadows, Plague bounded forth on all fours and leapt upon Bright, dragging him down. That single instant was all Apollyon needed. A flaming dart slammed into Seeker’s chest, driving him backwards. His armor caught the blow, but the force crushed the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, Sword spinning from his grasp. He clawed for breath that would not come, vision narrowing, the world dimming at the edges as he fought to stay awake.

Apollyon pounced, slammed Seeker against the ground beneath the crushing weight of his body. “I have you now!” he roared. Sparks spat from his jaws, the fangs stopping inches from Seeker’s face—so close their heat seared his skin. The stench of smoke and sulfur filled his nostrils as the world shrank to claws, fire, and breath.

Seeker felt the Book pressed against his chest—and beneath it, the Necklace of Conscience pulsing with life. Christian’s words stirred in his heart, not as thought but as truth itself: Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy. “When I fall,” he whispered, calm amid the storm. His left hand found the hilt of his Sword. Strength surged through muscles long forged by tread-wheel and timber. “I shall arise!” With a cry that split the air, he drove the blade upward with all his might, plunging it deep into Apollyon’s chest.

A hideous cry tore from Apollyon’s throat as the blade struck true. He lurched backward, wings thrashing in pain, the air shuddering with his roar. Smoke poured from his belly as he clawed at the wound. Then, with a final scream that shook the Valley, he spread his wings wide and plunged headlong into the abyss.

Seeker rolled to his feet. Bright lay beneath Plague’s weight, the creature’s claws tearing at him. A surge of fury ignited in Seeker’s chest—not the black rage of Giant Wrath that poisoned the soul, but a righteous fire that blazed with golden light.

He charged, Sword raised high, and struck with every ounce of strength. Plague shrieked and lashed back, a miasma of sickness spilling from its wounds. The air burned his lungs. He coughed, choked—but kept swinging, fighting with all his might.

Claws raked against him, scraping sparks from his armor but finding not purchase. Seeker struck again and again, each blow echoing through the Valley like thunder. The creature’s hide bore the scars of countless battles—marks left by warriors who had come before—yet still it would not fall. With a final cry, Seeker gathered all his strength and drove the Sword downward. Plague shrieked, rearing back, its body convulsing in pain. Then wailing, it turned and fled into the darkness, leaving behind a trail of black vapor that dissolved into nothing.

Bright lay sprawled among the scattered bones—eyes closed, unmoving, his body bloodied and broken. Seeker dropped to his knees beside him, gathering him into his arms. The faintest groan escaped Bright’s lips as Seeker tried to lift him, but he felt the bones shift beneath his hands and froze, terror tightening his chest.

Seeker bowed his head against Bright’s chest, a cry tearing from his throat as grief overwhelmed him. “Bright… oh, my Bright.” The words broke apart into sobs. Bitter tears fell freely, mingling with the dust and blood beneath them.

Beautiful lay alone in bed, fear gripping her heart. For more than twenty years, Seeker had always been beside her. Now—silence. She wished Wonderful would come creep into her bed, as she had so many times as a child. The thought of going to her crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside.

She had been worried for Bright—now she had to worry for Seeker as well. He no longer had his Phial to light the way. She prayed the sun was shining on him as he passed through the Valley. It had been days. Surely by now he had found Bright… and soon, they would both be home again.

She tossed and turned for what felt like half the night before sleep at last claimed her—fitful, uneasy, and thin as breath.

Then the air itself seemed to still, as though the whole world held its breath—and a Shining One stood before her. He appeared like sound made visible, a harmony given form. His garments shimmered like woven light—silver threaded with faint hues of rose and pale gold.

“Fear not, daughter of faith,” he said.

The colors around him seemed to move with his voice—each word carried weight, leaving ripples in the air. Her fear melted away. His voice was soft, yet unescapable—ringing with music, as though a thousand harps trembled in harmony.

His face was beautiful yet unreadable—like sculpted flame. His eyes were blue-gray, the color of dawn seen through rain, filled with both promise and sorrow. He seemed at once infinitely near and infinitely far away.

His wings were vast and translucent, feathered with argent light that shimmered as he moved—leaving behind a faint trail of radiance, like moonlight rippling over water.

He took her by the hand and led her out of the city of Vanity, across the Plain of Ease, until they came to the River of Life. Along its banks stood a small cottage, nestled among trees heavy with violet fruit that glowed like amethyst in the soft light. Then he placed a scroll in her hands—its words written in silver, bound with a slender thread of the same.

“Go now—you and your daughter, Wonderful—to the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Your beloved fights for his life there, and he is in need of your help.”

“As you command, my Lord,” she said, bowing low. Then she woke in her own bed, the scroll still clutched to her breast.

Thunder crashed, and the whole house trembled. The scroll slipped from her hands onto the bed as she rushed outside. Over the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the heavens had grown black—lightning tore through the clouds in wild flashes, and the ground quaked beneath her feet.

Wonderful had already loaded a donkey with herbs, bandages, and other supplies for her usual rounds with Mr. Skill. She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes lifted to the darkened heavens, terror etched across her face.

“Come—your father and brother need us,” Beautiful said.

Wonderful nodded, fear still glistening in her eyes. She slung her satchel over her shoulder and together they set out.

The city was in chaos. Some stood frozen, staring toward the Valley; others ran wildly through the streets, colliding with them as they passed. Many had already barred their doors and shuttered their windows against the storm.

They left the city behind and pressed on, step by step, toward the mountain pass that led into the Valley. The nearer they drew, the clearer the sounds of battle became—the clash of steel, roars and shrieks echoing through the heights. Wonderful guided the donkey with a firm hand, whispering soft words of comfort as it trembled beneath the weight of the noise.

Fear not. The Shining One’s words settled deep in Beautiful’s heart, steadying her spirit and filling her with quiet courage.

Suddenly, the thunder and the lightning faded, and even the ground grew still. A deathly silence fell over the plain—no cry of bird, no whisper of wind. A terrifying void.

They came to the gap between the mountains. Before them lay only darkness—thick and impenetrable. Still, they pressed on.

Wings stirred overhead, and the clouds drew back. Sunlight poured over the Valley, illuminating the path before them.

They moved carefully, step by step, avoiding the snares and bones that littered the way. The donkey balked, ears pinned and trembling yet still followed—reluctant but obedient to the gentle pull of Wonderful’s hand.

The body of a giant lay sprawled across the path, headless and still. Nearby, Wrath’s severed head stared upward, its face locked into a grotesque sneer—as if death itself had only deepened his hatred.

Not far ahead, two figures lay in the dust—one motionless, the other bent low over him.

“Daddy!” Wonderful cried, letting go of the rope and racing forward.

Beautiful froze. Bright lay still on the ground, and Seeker was draped over him, sobbing without restraint. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. Was he dead? No—no, he couldn’t be.

Wonderful took command. “Light a fire,” she said, pointing to the bundle of wood on the donkey, then to a kettle and waterskin. She pressed the back of her hand to Seeker’s forehead, assessing the heat before pulling a small packet from her satchel.

“This will bring down his fever—and counter the poison,” she said, handing it to Beautiful.

Then she knelt beside Bright. Yarrow first—to stop the bleeding. She worked quickly, her mind moving faster than her hands. Splints for the bones—several were broken. Comfrey once they’re set. She reached for her pouch, sorting through the familiar scents of earth and leaf. Balms for the cuts, salves for the bruises…. And there—the faint, sickly trace she dreaded most. The mark of Plague. She knew it instantly, just as Mr. Skill had taught her.

Beautiful cradled Seeker in her arms. His face was pale, streaked with tears.

“Bright’s going to be fine, Daddy,” she whispered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. He swallowed the medicine Beautiful held to his lips, and little by little, color began to return to his cheeks.

Bright’s eyes fluttered open. His lips moved faintly. “Wonderful,” he murmured.

When Wonderful was certain Bright could be moved, Seeker helped him onto the donkey. Together, they left that Valley behind—forever.

Fear Not, Daughter of Faith

November 9, 2025 by K. Blackthorn