Chapter 23: The Prophet of Dust
The land beyond Aurel's Gate was dry and cracked, as if the gods had once spilled their wine across it and never returned to clean the mess. For days, Wale, Chris, and Grey moved through the sunless dunes, the wind hissing in their ears like a half-forgotten curse.
The broken Blade of Covenant now hung at Wale's side, fastened with threads of memory and shame. It pulsed faintly, a reminder of the oath he'd failed, the friend he had lost, and the cost he still owed.
Chris squinted ahead, shielding her eyes from the whipping sand. "This isn't just desert," she said. "It's... dead land. Like someone bled the world dry."
"They did," Wale replied grimly. "Or one man did. We're near the territory of the Dust Prophet."
Grey muttered under his breath. "That lunatic priest who eats bones and tells fortunes in sand?"
"No," Wale said. "The man who once believed in salvation. Until I told him it wasn't real."
They arrived at dusk, as the last light disappeared behind a jagged ridge known as the God's Spine. There, among piles of shattered idols and drifting ash, stood a crooked tower made of sandstone, bones, and broken promises.
At its peak, a pale banner flapped—a black circle scrawled with a red line through it.
Chris grimaced. "The symbol of silence. That's a rejection of the gods."
"No," Wale said quietly. "It's a rejection of me."
Grey raised an eyebrow. "What exactly did you do to this prophet?"
Wale's mouth tightened. "I convinced him the gods had never spoken to him. That all his visions were just echoes of madness."
"And were they?" Chris asked.
Wale hesitated. "No. They were real."
They climbed the slope to the tower's base, where stone faces stared from the dirt—warped expressions frozen in agony. No guards, no traps, no welcome. Only the wind, and the taste of ancient regret.
As they reached the entrance, the tower door creaked open without touch. From within, a voice rasped like sand dragged over glass:
"Welcome back, Wale. Prophet-breaker. Word-thief."
They entered.
Inside, the tower was hollow. Its center was a pit spiraling downward in rings, each step carved with prophecy in dozens of dead languages. The walls were decorated not with banners or weapons—but scrolls, bones, and burnt books.
Sitting at the center of the chamber on a throne of dust was the Prophet.
He wore no crown. His eyes had long been seared shut. But his mouth—oh, his mouth was wide and cracked from too many truths shouted into the void.
"I wondered how long it would take for your lies to bring you back," he said without turning his face. "I knew you would return. It was written in the bones of a dove I crushed a century ago."
Chris flinched. "Charming."
The Prophet's smile was wide. "She has fire. I like her better than you."
Wale stepped forward. "I didn't come to argue. I came to admit I was wrong."
The Prophet laughed—an ugly, broken sound. "Wrong? Wale, you didn't just lie. You stole. You reached into my visions and ripped them apart, told me my faith was madness—and made the world believe you."
"I know," Wale said. "And I'm here to give your words back."
"I don't want them," the Prophet hissed. "They're tainted now. Touched by you."
He stood—his robes flaring around him like smoke—and gestured toward the pit at the heart of the tower. "But if you truly seek penance, then descend. Let your truths be measured in the dust of what you buried."
Wale didn't hesitate. He stepped onto the spiral path and began to descend.
Chris moved to follow, but the Prophet raised a hand. "No. He goes alone."
Wale looked back. "Stay. If I don't return in one hour... burn this place."
Grey scowled. "That's not a joke I appreciate."
"It wasn't one," Wale said. Then he disappeared into the pit.
The descent was endless.
Each layer of the spiral showed glimpses of prophecy Wale had once destroyed. He saw cities drowned because he altered a tide. He saw children born without fate because he severed their threads. He saw Kaelen, over and over again, dying in different ways.
And at the bottom—he saw himself.
Not in a mirror.
In a cell of sand.
Trapped.
Waiting.
He stepped toward it.
The cell melted.
And in its place stood a boy.
He was ten, maybe eleven. Dirt-smudged, eyes wide, hair tangled. He held a book too heavy for his arms.
Wale's breath caught. "I know you."
The boy looked up. "You used to be me."
Wale knelt. "Are you the memory?"
"No," the boy said. "I'm the part of you that never wanted to lie."
Wale was silent for a long time.
Then he said, "I needed to lie. To protect people. To survive."
The boy frowned. "But you stopped protecting. You started controlling. Deciding who deserved truth."
"I know."
"So what now?" the boy asked. "Will you kill me? Bury me again?"
Wale shook his head. "No."
He reached out.
And embraced the boy.
Above, the Prophet felt it.
He gasped, reeling as the dust shifted. The scrolls on the walls flared with sudden light—truths rewritten, then remembered.
Chris ran to him. "What's happening?!"
The Prophet wept.
"He's not rewriting," he whispered. "He's restoring."
Moments later, Wale climbed from the pit—older, perhaps, but straighter. Clearer. The boy was gone—but his eyes had remained in Wale's gaze.
The Prophet bowed, though he could not see.
"You returned what you took."
Wale offered his hand.
"No. I remembered what I stole."
The Prophet took the hand.
For the first time in decades, dust fell from the walls and green shot through the cracks of the tower. The silence lifted.
Outside, the land began to breathe again.
Chris watched the horizon glow faintly gold. "That's two debts."
Grey nodded. "Three to go."
Wale stared into the dawn.
"They only get harder from here."