The silence after prophecy was short-lived. Mankind, having tasted revelation, began to shape it into crowns and borders. The word once whispered in deserts became law in palaces. I watched as kings rose in the name of faith, and faith was chained to the will of kings. Israel, Babylon, Assyria, and Persia became pillars of an age where the divine and the political no longer walked apart. Every conquest carried the shadow of belief, every victory sang of destiny, and every fall was written as judgment.
David's harp once calmed a restless throne, but his lineage carried more than music. The blood of promise moved through his sons, mingling light and arrogance. Solomon, the wise, built a house for the Architect, yet even he bent knee to foreign gods whispered from the lips of queens. The temple shone for a time, and then the smoke of sacrifice became the smoke of ruin. Babylon rose in its wake, proud and golden, its walls wide enough to hold the egos of fallen angels. I saw its gardens reach for heaven, and its idols mirror the stars.
Empires rose, but they were only reflections — shadows repeating the vanity of the pantheons before them. Nebuchadnezzar dreamed of towers that pierced the firmament; Cyrus dreamed of freedom bound in conquest. The Witness walked their courts unseen, recording the hum of prophecy beneath the noise of politics. It was always the same pattern: revelation turned into empire, faith turned into banner, and truth drowned beneath gold. The gods of old had faded, yet their hunger lived on through men who learned to wear crowns instead of halos.
When Babylon fell to Persia, the cycle continued. The Word, meant to guide, had become a tool of rule. The Architect remained silent, allowing mortals to shape the world with the fragments of understanding they held. Yet even in the ruin, I felt a stirring — a whisper rising from the east, soft and clear as the wind before dawn. It was not the voice of kings, nor of angels. It was the return of the Promise.