6.The Prophet’s Fate
"Kill him?" the first man said,
his voice sharp like steel against stone.
"We cannot let him live.
His words cut through the silence,
like a knife through the heart of the people,
tearing apart what we've built,
what we've kept safe for so long."
He paced, his hands trembling in the light,
a shadow cast on walls that bore witness
to this moment of choice,
where faith and fear danced too close.
"The people believe him," he hissed,
"they kneel at his feet, drink from his words
as if they are water, as if they are life.
But what if they are poison?
What if he is the undoing of all that we've known?
What if he leads them away from us,
away from the path we've carved with blood,
with sweat, with sacrifice?"
The second man, calm as the stillness before a storm,
lifted his gaze to meet the fire in the other's eyes.
"You speak of fear, but what if it's truth
that you fear the most?
His words, yes, they cut—
but maybe they cut away the rot,
the lies we've let grow thick
over the truth we've forgotten."
"Truth?" the first man spat,
pacing now with a fury
that burned hotter with every step.
"Whose truth? Yours? His?
The truth is what keeps us strong,
what keeps the people loyal.
His words are a threat,
an arrow aimed at the heart of our power.
If we let him live, he will tear us down."
"And if we kill him?"
The second man's voice was soft,
like a breeze that barely stirs the leaves.
"What then? Do we kill the truth with him?
Do we bury his voice in the earth
and hope it never rises again?
Can we silence what is already in the hearts
of those who follow him?"
The first man clenched his fists,
his breath short, sharp.
"We have to try.
If we let him speak,
he'll turn them all against us.
He'll make them believe
that we are the ones who've lied,
that we are the ones who've betrayed them."
His eyes darkened, shadowed by doubt,
but his voice did not waver.
The second man sighed,
and for a moment, the room was still,
thick with the weight of unspoken truths.
"He speaks of justice, of hope,
of a world where the chains are broken,
where the oppressed rise.
Maybe that world is not so far
from the one we've dreamed of,
but have forgotten how to reach."
"And what of our world?"
The first man's voice cracked,
desperation bleeding into his words.
"The world we've bled for, fought for—
is it to be discarded,
tossed away for the sake of a dream?"
"We haven't bled for the people,"
the second man's voice was low,
like a confession whispered in the dark.
"We've bled to keep them bound.
And maybe that is the sin
we've refused to see,
the lie we've wrapped in the flag of righteousness."
The first man's hand fell to his side,
his body trembling with rage.
"We've kept them safe," he growled,
"safe from the chaos, safe from themselves.
Without our hand to guide them,
they would be lost."
"And maybe," the second man replied,
"maybe they must be lost
to find the path they truly need.
Maybe he is not the enemy
you believe him to be.
Maybe he is the light we've turned away from,
because we've grown too used to the dark."
Silence wrapped around them both,
a stillness thick and cold,
as if the walls themselves were listening,
waiting for the answer neither could speak.
The first man's eyes flickered with doubt,
his breath shallow, his fists loosening.
"He'll ruin everything," he whispered,
"everything we've built."
"Or," the second man said,
"he'll build something better."
The room held its breath,
and for a moment, time seemed to stop,
as if the weight of their decision
had drawn the world to a standstill.
Neither spoke. Neither moved.
The question hung between them, heavy,
like the blade they both feared to wield.
"Do we kill him?" the first man asked again,
but now, his voice was thin, uncertain,
as if the answer had slipped
from his grasp like water.
The second man met his gaze,
and in his eyes was neither fire nor fear,
only the quiet calm of one
who has already made peace
with the truth.
"We let him live," he said,
"and we see what comes of it."