The Prophet

The Prophet did not dream as other men did.

When he closed his eyes, the visions always came, taking over his mind.

Sometimes they were glimpses of what had been. Other times, what would be. He saw fire in the reeds, shadows moving where no light should touch, faces of those he had never met but somehow knew.

Most of the time, the future visions never came to pass, and he would tell the villagers lies that would make them feel content.

Tonight was different. The marsh spoke louder than before.

He sat alone in his temple, the wooden structure swaying faintly as the winds carried the scent of damp earth and decay. 

The candlelight flickered against the rough carvings lining the walls—symbols of the old gods, of the waters that had given him life. He traced one with his finger absentmindedly, his breath slow and steady.

Then, the vision struck like a slap to the face.