Chapter 23 – The Test of Faith
Isaiah 43:2 (NIV)
"When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze."
---
Dawn came wrong.
The air over Mahogany was heavy, like something unseen had taken a deep breath and refused to let it out. The mountain stood in silence, its wide shoulders casting long, unmoving shadows across the misty rooftops. Even the birds forgot to sing.
The sky bore a pale amber cast — Lunara's half-light, soft yet watching — and the scent of damp earth mixed with pine. Elena rose before the others, her shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders. The world outside her window was gray and trembling.
She stepped quietly into the courtyard, the stone still cool beneath her bare feet. Beside the well, she stopped and whispered her prayer, a short one: not for strength, but for clarity.
A soft wind came from nowhere, lifting her dark hair and tugging at her shawl. Her eyes — deep brown, steady — lifted toward the mountain. The well's surface rippled, though nothing had touched it. The pattern spread outward in perfect circles before stilling again, like breath.
Something unseen was moving toward them.
---
Teuwa woke before sunrise. His chamber was stifling, the air thick with incense and sleepless fear. For six days, his prayers had returned empty, his gods silent. That silence had grown teeth in his mind.
He dressed in haste. His robe was immaculate, freshly pressed, a show of control to hide the decay beneath. His sandals stirred dust as he made his way toward the village square.
The villagers were waiting. Some came in obedience, others out of habit. Faces wary, voices hushed.
Teuwa climbed the platform and looked down upon them with hollow authority. The light caught on the amulets around his neck — symbols etched with faded power — and for a moment, he almost looked like the priest he used to be.
He raised his hand for silence.
"The miracle of the well," he began, voice smooth as oil, "is incomplete. The gods have watched you rejoice, but they have not yet been honored."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"The gods demand proof that your hearts are loyal," he continued, eyes narrowing. "And what have you done? You drink, you laugh, but where is your offering?"
He paused long enough for the fear to take root. Then his voice dropped lower, weightier. "We will hold the Trial of Flame and Water. Each household will bring a gift of devotion. You will walk through purifying smoke, and the gods will judge who among you are faithful."
His words were not suggestion but law.
The people looked at one another, confusion flickering between them. They remembered the healing of the well, the laughter returning, the warmth. But Teuwa's voice scratched against their peace like sand in a wound.
"What if we have sinned?" an old woman whispered.
"What if the gods are angry?" another asked.
A few nodded. Fear was easy; it asked nothing but surrender.
Then Ye's voice rose, clear and calm. "Have you forgotten?" he said, stepping forward. "The well flows because of mercy, not sacrifice."
Regbolo moved beside him, his shoulders straight. "Have you forgotten the light that remembers? He gave me peace when I was lost."
A few murmured the name they had learned to whisper like hope.
"Yeshua," someone breathed.
The crowd wavered. One widow lifted her hand. "My daughter drank from the well," she said softly. "Her madness left her. She smiles again. That was no curse."
"I can bear witness," her neighbor said.
But a younger man, trembling with fear, shouted back, "You want us to die for this new god? What if He turns away like the others? I will bring my sacrifice!"
"Speak for yourself," Regbolo said sharply.
The argument swelled. Doubt and faith tangled like smoke and wind.
Micah, the old chief, watched from his stool, his staff resting against his knee. His voice, when it came, was low and sorrowful. "Tests made by men are snares."
Elena stood apart, her jaw tight, her eyes burning with quiet disappointment. When Teuwa turned his gaze upon her, she walked forward through the murmuring crowd.
"Why," she asked, her tone steady, "must the living prove what the Creator has already given?"
Teuwa's lips curled. "Do you claim to speak for heaven itself?"
The murmurs thickened; fear rippled again. But Elena's face did not change. Her calm unsettled him more than any outburst could have.
"The true Fire needs no smoke to breathe," she said simply.
---
That should have ended it, but Teuwa smiled — cold, deliberate.
He clapped his hands, and acolytes carried out iron censers filled with herbs that glowed faintly green in the light. The smoke poured out heavy and gray, smelling of iron and rot. It curled low to the ground, thick as fog, twisting as if alive.
Each family came forward, uncertain. They laid down small bags of grain, coins, or scraps of cloth — offerings they didn't understand but dared not refuse.
The smoke grew heavier, swallowing the square. Children cried. Old men coughed. The air felt wrong, heavy in the lungs, as though breathing was an act of betrayal.
Micah tried to rise but stumbled, clutching his chest. Ye reached for him, his arm trembling.
"Something's wrong," Ye said, voice low.
The smoke began to move on its own — swirling, pulsing, forming half-shapes that danced and faded. Faces in the fog, eyes glowing faintly red before vanishing.
Far up the mountain, beyond sight, the witches watched.
---
Their chamber was carved deep into black rock, its walls veined with pulsing light. The altar stood at the center — a slab of obsidian etched with runes that glowed in alternating patterns of red and violet.
Around it, six women knelt, their robes the color of dried blood. The air shimmered faintly with heat, though no flame burned in the room.
In the center, before the altar, stood a clay urn filled with Margaret's ashes. The ashes stirred restlessly, rising and falling like breath. Occasionally, they sparked — a dull red flare, then cold again.
The youngest witch lifted her head. Her face was pale, marked by sleepless devotion.
"Matron," she whispered, "the power wavers. The vessel falters. Teuwa's faith bleeds away."
From the altar came the grinding of stone. The runes flared red and violet, their glow slicing through the shadows.
Then the Matron's voice filled the chamber, not as echo but as presence — thick, alive, terrible.
"Then bind him harder," she commanded. "Feed him more fear. The Fire rises in that village. It must not awaken further."
Ashley bowed deeply, her trembling hands brushing the edge of the altar. "Mother, the ashes stir again," she said softly. "Margaret's rest is restless."
The voice deepened to something colder. "Do not make the mistake of touching what burned your sister. The Living Fire does not bargain — it devours. Look, and remember what defiance costs."
The urn rattled violently, scattering sparks of red light. A faint, ghostly outline of Margaret's face flickered within the smoke, eyes hollow, lips twisted in silent scream.
Ashley recoiled, tears blurring her sight. "Forgive me, Matron."
"See, child?" the Matron whispered. "This is what happens when you fight by sight. You see mercy and call it weakness. But mercy is the Fire's sharpest edge. Fear it."
The witches pressed their foreheads to the floor. The runes dimmed, leaving only the faint hiss of dying embers.
Then, as they turned to reinforce Teuwa's ritual, the mirror-bowl beside the altar flickered. A golden haze crept across its dark surface.
"The Breathlight," one hissed. "It spreads again."
"Push it back!" another cried.
But even as they chanted, the mirror quivered. The image of Mahogany blurred, then flashed white. The bowl shattered with a sound like breaking bone.
---
Back in the square, Regbolo was the first to move. He stepped forward through the smoke, coughing, eyes stinging.
"If the gods demand fear," he said, voice shaking but loud, "they are not gods of mercy. I will not bow to darkness again."
Teuwa spun toward him, rage twisting his features. He lifted his staff, its wooden shaft carved with a serpent coiled in endless hunger.
"You will bow," Teuwa hissed.
But before he could strike, the serpent carving glowed red-hot. The wood cracked, splitting from hilt to head. The sound echoed like thunder in the choking silence.
Teuwa dropped it with a cry.
The crowd gasped. Some fell to their knees, not in worship but fear.
Ye caught Regbolo by the arm and pulled him back. "You've broken something far greater than a staff," he said quietly.
The smoke faltered. Its movement grew sluggish, uncertain.
Elena walked forward, unhurried, The Canticle pressed against her chest. She opened it, her fingers trembling only slightly.
Her voice was not loud, but it carried.
"The flame purifies all it touches,
and the faithful shall walk through it unburned.
Every lie shall meet its maker,
every heart shall show its true color in the heat.
The proud will call it wrath,
the humble will call it grace."
As she spoke, the gray smoke thinned, folding in on itself. The light from the well began to shift — faint gold at first, then brighter, until the water gleamed like molten glass.
The witches' chant cut off halfway through a syllable. In their mountain hall, the altar cracked down the center, spilling light instead of ash.
Back in the square, the villagers stared as the heavy smoke turned to mist, rising harmlessly into the air.
Teuwa staggered backward. The voices that had guided him screamed in his head, then fell silent. He clutched his temples, eyes wide with terror.
"No… no…" he whispered.
The golden light spread across the stones, soft and warm. A woman near the well dropped to her knees. "The Fire remembers," she said, barely audible.
Others took it up. "The Fire remembers."
It became a rhythm — quiet, reverent, alive.
Teuwa fell to the ground, his staff splintered beside him, his hands burned red where he had tried to grasp it. He stared at them in disbelief, the marks glowing faintly like brands.
Elena closed the book. The echo of her reading lingered in the air like the last note of a song.
She turned to the people, her face calm, her voice clear. "No shadow can ask for what has already been given. Faith is not proven by pain."
Micah bowed his head. Ye closed his eyes and whispered thanks.
The sun crested the ridge at last, spilling real light over the square.
The well's reflection showed both moons faintly above, now balanced again — one silver, one gold — resting together in quiet peace.
The air smelled clean. The fear was gone.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, beneath the witches' broken altar, the ashes of Margaret cooled at last.