The River of Intent.

Stage Two – The River of Intent

The air was colder here.

Serah stepped through the archway of iron and roots into a land dim and silent. Before her, a vast black river flowed—not with water, but with a thick, silver ichor that shimmered like memory.

Across its surface drifted images—choices she'd made, words she'd spoken, sermons delivered. But here, the masks were stripped away. This river carried intent, not action.

The reaper stood beside her.

"This is the River of Intent. Here, your heart speaks louder than your deeds."

Serah approached the edge. Ripples pulsed outward, and a vision floated into view:

A young girl, twelve, praying in the chapel alone.

Serah remembered her.

She had promised the girl protection from her abusive uncle. Had sworn the church would help.

In the vision, Serah smiled warmly, placed a hand on the girl's shoulder—and then, in her office, later that night, shredded the report.

Why?

Because the man was a major donor.

Her lips hadn't trembled. Her conscience hadn't stirred.

"The path to heaven must be funded," she had written in her planner.

The river churned.

Next vision: a dying man in a hospital bed, begging her for the truth. Serah sat at his side, praying loudly with cameras rolling.

But her eyes had darted toward the nurse—checking if the donation had been processed.

She had whispered, "You're going to a better place," not from conviction, but from habit.

The water boiled now, flickering with more visions.

—A rival preacher she blackballed with a rumor.

—An employee she fired for asking too many questions.

—A woman she refused to forgive, just to preserve her pride.

Serah's knees buckled. "It wasn't all bad," she gasped. "I gave hope. I saved—"

The river surged upward, rising like a tidal wave.

"Your deeds were seeds, but your intent was poison."

"You fed your ego while claiming to serve the divine."

"You wanted worship, not redemption."

The wave crashed into her, and suddenly she was inside the river, pulled through its depths.

She saw through her own eyes—her younger self, freshly anointed, full of fire and love.

"God, use me," she had once prayed, honestly.

But as her fame grew, that voice dimmed.

Now she was drowning in the consequences.

She surfaced, gasping.

The reaper stood on the bank.

"Few enter this stage and leave unchanged. You may still be transformed."

Serah crawled from the river, soaked in silver ichor, breathing hard.

The archway to the third stage formed before her—twisting vines and burning scripture.

But behind her, the river whispered:

"What you do for show will burn away. What you did for self will bind you."

----

Earthbound – The Choice of the Living

The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows through the glass walls of Serah's estate. Caleb Monroe sat frozen in her office chair, the black leather journal heavy in his hands.

Around him, the room felt colder—like the house itself was ashamed of what it had witnessed.

He stared at her handwriting, still open to a page where she'd written, "Appearance is salvation. Doubt is weakness. Control the narrative."

His fingers curled around the edges of the journal. For a moment, he considered lighting a match.

"Let them believe the myth," he muttered. "Let her rest in peace."

But another voice answered from deeper inside him—quieter, firmer.

"And what of the ones she hurt?"

He stood slowly, placing the journal on the desk. His mind spun with the weight of what he now carried: enough evidence to shatter her saintly image, to unravel the legacy being etched in stone by city officials and media alike.

The doorbell rang.

Caleb stiffened. Wiped his eyes. Walked to the door and opened it.

A woman stood there. Late thirties. Nervous.

"You don't know me," she said. "My name's Leah Briggs. I—I was part of Reverend Serah's healing circle five years ago. My sister... she came to her for help. Serah promised she'd protect her."

Caleb didn't speak.

"She's dead now," Leah continued. "But before she passed, she told me to look into Serah's private files. Said something wasn't right."

She looked past him, eyes resting briefly on the glowing light of Serah's study.

"Did you find anything?" she asked.

Caleb's jaw clenched. He stepped aside.

"Come in."

Truth Is a Blade

Inside, Leah sat with trembling hands as Caleb laid out the documents: rerouted donations, silenced victims, bribery, smear campaigns.

Each sheet cut deeper.

"They're building a monument for her," Caleb said bitterly. "Bronze statue. Eternal flame. Scholarships in her name."

Leah stared at the proof in silence.

Then:

"Will you expose it?"

Caleb didn't answer immediately. He walked to the window, staring at the street below. People still gathered around candles and portraits, humming hymns and reciting quotes from Serah's sermons.

"If I do," he said, "people will hate me. They'll call me a liar. A jealous brother. They won't want the truth. They've already made her a god."

Leah rose and joined him at the window.

"Then do it for the ones who never got a voice."

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Caleb nodded—slowly.

"Help me put it all together," he said. "And when the world sees what she really was… we'll let them decide what kind of saint they built."

What next?..... Caleb muttered to himself.

-------

Sanctified Lies

The news broke three days after Caleb handed the files to a local investigative outlet.

The headlines were timid at first:

"Monroe Legacy Questioned: New Claims Emerge"

"Whispers Behind the Pulpit?"

But the black journal—its pages scanned and published online—set the city ablaze.

Caleb expected outrage.

He expected gasps of betrayal, mass mourning turned to fury.

But what he got... was denial.

"Fake."

"Jealous family."

"She's not even cold in the ground and they're already trying to destroy her."

An online video went viral—an old clip of Serah cradling a dying child, whispering prayers, eyes glassy with tears.

"This is who she really was," the caption read. "Not whatever her bitter brother claims."

Thousands shared it.

Some called for his arrest.

Others marched outside his apartment with candles and protest signs.

"Her blood speaks holiness!"

"Saint Serah Forever!"

Caleb sat in his dim apartment, watching the madness unfold.

His phone buzzed non-stop—journalists, hate mail, even veiled threats.

His inbox filled with messages like:

"Keep talking and you'll join her."

But not all voices were cruel.

A few were quiet. Survivors.

They sent private emails:

"Thank you for believing me."

"She buried my truth. You're digging it up."

"I thought I was crazy… but now I know I wasn't alone."

Caleb held onto those.

Even as the world built shrines around a lie.

A Statue of Ash

City Hall went forward with the monument.

The unveiling drew hundreds. A choir sang Serah's favorite hymn. Golden banners waved in the breeze. Leaders praised her vision, her "unshakable virtue."

And as they spoke, Caleb stood across the street, in the shadows, holding a single placard.

"Truth Matters."

Few glanced his way. Fewer still met his eyes.

A child ran past him, holding a candle.

The monument towered behind her—unmovable, perfect.

But Caleb saw the cracks no one else did. And he knew...

It would all burn eventually.

Because truth has a way of catching fire.