"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
Ecclesiastes 3:1–6 "
The preacher read aloud from the altar. He was an elderly man, his bronze skin weathered with time and his hair a crown of white. His name was Elder Elias—one of the most devout and steadfast servants of the Almighty. His life was wholly devoted to the Word of God; he lived it, breathed it, and proclaimed it wherever he journeyed. It consumed his every thought.
Normally, it was the Pharaoh—the pastor of the kingdom's church—who delivered the sermon. However, on this occasion, Elder Elias had implored him for the honor. The Pharaoh offered only mild protest, not from lack of desire to preach, but out of prudence. The people, as of late, held mixed opinions about him—not because of any moral or personal failing, but because of one decree that had stirred deep unrest.
Three months prior, Pharaoh Lafang had declared that the borders of the Lafang Kingdom would be opened for the first time in two centuries. At first, the people rejoiced. But the joy quickly soured, replaced by apprehension and bitterness.
Memories of the past—of shackles, whips, and foreign armies marching across sacred sands—rose to the surface as though history were repeating itself.
Now, Pharaoh Lafang had become a target of ridicule and criticism. The backlash was swift and unforgiving. Even his family could not step outside without bearing the weight of public scrutiny.
Today's church service made that evident. The sanctuary, which on most days was modestly filled with devout worshipers, was now overflowing. So many had gathered that some were seated upon the floor. But they had not come to hear the Word of God. No—they had come to confront the Pharaoh. To voice their grievances. To accuse and condemn him and his family. A burden they were growing weary of carrying.
Thankfully, the royal family sat in the front row—their customary place—shielded in part from the congregation's glares. Pharaoh Lafang sat beside his eldest son, Amon; next to him sat his second son, Joseph. At the Pharaoh's left sat his wife, and beside her their younger children: Bastet, Rameses, Heqet, and Amunet.
Bastet sat tense, her small hand clutching her mother's. Amunet, typically the most reserved of the siblings, had even taken hold of Heqet's hand.
Amon noticed them from the corner of his eye. He could not fault them for their fear. Though no one had eyes on the back of their heads, the judgment and glares pressed against them like a shadow, ever-present and taunting.
Fortunately, they wore face scarves—the traditional veils of the royal family—concealing the unease etched into their expressions.
"The Lord our God speaks clearly," Elder Elias said gently, his voice reverberating through the quiet sanctuary, "and in His wisdom, He reveals that all things unfold with divine purpose. It is not ours to command, but to trust. What seems unclear now shall, in time, be made evident, according to His perfect will."
He paused, allowing stillness to carry his words into every heart, then continued with solemn conviction:
"We must not tear ourselves apart in pursuit of answers not yet given. Rather, we must surrender to His sovereignty. Recall the words from Philippians, chapter four, verses six and seven: 'Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.'"
A soft murmur of assent stirred within the congregation like a breeze among leaves.
"Therefore, beloved brothers and sisters," Elias said, his tone tender and pastoral, "let not your spirits be consumed by fear, nor your hearts embittered by despair. Place your trust in the Lord. He has ordained a plan… even when we cannot foresee it."
A hush fell over the church. Elder Elias closed the worn leather-bound Bible with quiet reverence.
"Let us now come before the Lord in prayer. I ask you all—please, bow your heads."
At once, the Pharaoh and his family bowed their heads in unison. Around them, the rustling of fabric and the soft creaking of old wood signaled the congregation's obedience.
"Heavenly Father," Elias began, his voice steady, steeped in humility and awe, "we thank Thee for the breath within our lungs, for this sacred moment, and for Thy boundless mercy. Though we are frail and faithless, still Thou remainest ever faithful—unchanging from age to age. Though we are unworthy, Thou gavest us Thy Son, who bore the punishment of our sins, that we might walk in Thy grace. Strengthen our feeble faith, O Lord…"
Beneath his words, Amon whispered a prayer of his own from the bottom of his heart:
Father, I thank You—for the life You've given us, for the bread on our table, and the garments upon our backs.
He tightened his clasped hands.
Teach me patience, O God, in this season of unrest. The people's fear has turned to wrath, and we, their leaders, bear the weight of their distrust. Grant me the strength to show compassion even when it is not returned. Forgive our trespasses, as we seek to walk in Your light. Let Your Spirit guide me—for alone, I cannot stand. Holy are You, almighty and eternal. All glory belongs to You.
"Thank You, Father. Thank You, Lord Christ. In Thy most holy name we pray…"
"Amen," the church responded in one accord.
Amon opened his eyes, blinking softly. The world beyond the stained-glass windows seemed brighter—lighter.
"May the Lord bless you and keep you, dear brethren," Elder Elias said warmly as he stepped down from the altar. "Go forth in peace."
The congregation began to stir—rising, greeting one another in hushed tones, exchanging looks of consolation and respect.
The royal family alone remained seated.
"That was a deeply stirring message," Pharaoh Lafang said quietly.
"Indeed," murmured Rameses, his golden eyes glinting beneath his white headscarf. A loose strand of black hair brushed his brow. "It was the wisdom the people needed to hear."
"Amon. Joseph. You were late," their mother said, her emerald eyes shining with disapproval.
Amon nodded. "Apologies mother. The guards at the South Gate needed help. Had I not arrived, things would have turned out differently."
"Was it worse than the one a few years ago?" Bastet asked. Their youngest sibling.
"No, this one was lighter," Amon answered.
"Then why were you late if it was easy?" Amunet demanded, her tone sharp.
"We weren't late," Joseph said calmly.
"You know what I mean," Amunet persisted. "We usually arrive early. Today, you were merely on time."
"Let it slide, Mother. Let it slide, Amunet," Rameses sighed. "Why scold them when they were simply fulfilling their duties?"
"I'm not upset, Rameses," their mother replied softly. "But right now, we cannot afford to let decorum slip."
"I agree," Amunet said angrily. "I was trying not to draw attention, but you both managed to pull every gaze toward us the moment you walked in. And Joseph—there was no need for you to be there at all."
"That's enough," the Pharaoh said gently, leaning forward. "Now—how was the sermon today?"
The family fell silent again as the congregation began to file out of the sanctuary—some lingering near the doorways, their eyes still fixed upon the royal family.
The peace of prayer had begun to fade.
"You want to talk about the sermon?" Heqet said, her emerald eyes narrowing. She leaned forward, poise sharpening her voice. "I believe it was wise that Elder Elias delivered it today, Father."
The third-born—elegant, keen-witted, and forthright. Her ivory scarf framed her striking features; many called her the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. Her grace onstage had once mesmerized the entire kingdom. But since the decree reopening the borders, she had become a target for public scorn every time she performed. The hostility had grown so severe, she had withdrawn from the stage entirely.
"Let me be clear," she continued, her voice calm yet firm. "The people are restless. Had you spoken today, Father, many would have walked out in protest—and the church might have been left in ruins."
Rameses and Bastet's eyes widened at her boldness.
Amon closed his eyes.
He understood her pain—but he wished she would speak more gently, knowing how heavy their father's burden already was.
"That is quite enough, Heqet," their mother said firmly, her tone low and careful. "You are not the only one who suffers."
Heqet sighed and leaned back.
"And how fare you all this day?" came a familiar voice.
Elder Elias approached, his robes trailing behind him.
"By the grace of God, we are well," Pharaoh Lafang replied, rising to greet him.
"Easily spoken by one in your position," Amunet muttered under her breath as the siblings stood.
Amunet—the fifth-born. Bold as flame. No filter. No fear. Her bluntness often drew the wrong kind of attention, but Elias knew her well enough to take no offense.
He merely turned to her and asked with gentle patience, "And you, my dear—how do you fare?"
"I am well," she answered flatly, eyes lowered. Her mismatched gaze—one golden, one green—remained fixed anywhere but on him.
Awkwardness thickened the air.
"These days have tested us all, Elder. Yet with God's help, we endure," Amon said quickly.
Elias nodded slowly, expression softening.
The Pharaoh's children all held deep affection for him. They regarded him as an uncle. In truth, he acted far more like family than their actual uncles—warm-hearted, wise, and unwaveringly loyal to the Pharaoh. When the Pharaoh declared his intent to open the kingdom's borders, he stood alone in his vision. The court murmured. The nobles scoffed. But Elias remained steadfast. Not once did he mock or oppose him.
"I must have words with Elder Elias," the Pharaoh said, calm and resolute. "My dears, go and join your brothers and sisters of the congregation for the midday meal."
Without delay, their parents drew Elias aside.
"Are they truly serious?!" Heqet burst out the moment they were gone, her emerald eyes blazing. "They expect us to sit and dine with people who barely concealed their contempt during prayer—fully aware of the animosity that awaits us?"
"It is utterly insufferable," Amunet hissed. "I should have stayed home. But no—everyone insisted we come."
She cast a wary glance behind her. "By the heavens—there are far too many. They are practically waiting to gawk at us. If they detest us, then I shall return the sentiment tenfold."
"What matters is the judgment of our heavenly Father," Amon said softly.
Amunet and Heqet shot him twin glares.
Amon felt heat creep up his neck. Probably not the right moment to say that.
"Yea! God's opinion matters far more than human scorn," Rameses said, swooping in to back Amon.
Amunet rolled her mismatched eyes. "There you go acting all prophet-like. Well, I shan't go. The air is thick with contempt. I should become ill."
"I agree," Heqet added, folding her arms. "Amunet and I shall remain here. The rest of you may proceed without us."
She made a dismissive shooing gesture. Rameses felt anger bubbling beneath his calm.
"Do you think we desire this?" he said in a low, controlled voice. "Do you imagine I wish to sit among those who despise us? Yet Father was clear—"
"No!" Heqet snapped, her hand lifting sharply. "I have given enough of myself. They ask too much."
"Indeed," Amunet agreed, looping her arm with Heqet's. "Come, let us go."
The two swept toward the back of the church, regal and unapologetic.
Their tone, their words, their attitude—arrogant, entitled, and dismissive—was enough to fracture Rameses' patience.
Rameses shut his eyes, exhaling slowly. When he opened them again, irritation sharpened his gaze. "If that is what awaits me in marriage, I may very well pledge myself to lifelong celibacy in the service of God."
Joseph's usual nonchalant expression softened into a small smile.
"You best not take after them, Bastet," Rameses added, shooting a playful warning look toward their youngest sister.
Bastet's eyes drifted after her retreating sisters. A faint, wistful glimmer shone in her gaze.
Joseph noticed it at once. Gently, he draped an arm around her shoulders.
"Come," he said softly.
Amon and Joseph exchanged a brief look. Joseph's emerald-green eyes held hesitation.
Since the day Joseph was born, he had clung to Amon as though by instinct. Some mistook them for twins—not by appearance but by the undeniable bond between them. Everyone knew: where Amon went, Joseph followed. And where Joseph stood, Amon was never far behind.
Amon gave him a small, reassuring nod.
"We shall carry ourselves with grace before those who judge us," he said quietly. "Let us follow the example of Christ, who bore hatred with mercy and lived a sinless life."
They nodded solemnly.
"Come then," Rameses said, flicking his hand in mock flourish. "Let us enter the den of lions."
Without hesitation, Amon stepped forward to lead.
If condemnation must come, he thought, let it fall upon me—never upon my siblings.
***