The world had grown weary of gods and weary of kings. The temples stood, but their walls echoed hollow prayers. Empires ruled from marble thrones while the hearts of the poor trembled beneath their weight. It was in that darkness that the whisper became flesh.
He came not with fire, but with gentleness; not in gold, but in humility. I saw Him walk among the dust of Judea, and the dust itself seemed to recognize Him. The Eternal Word had taken form, not as a conqueror, but as a servant. Heaven bent low to speak in the voice of a man.
I followed unseen as He spoke of light that no shadow could quench. The heavens watched in silence, the old gods trembled in exile, and even the Fallen grew still, sensing the turning of the great design. The Word walked among creation once more, but this time, it did not command — it listened, healed, and forgave.
The rulers of the earth could not bear it. The same hands that built temples now forged nails. The same mouths that praised now spat in contempt. And so the world crucified its own redemption. The sky dimmed, and the earth quaked. But death, once the proudest servant of the Fallen, faltered before the living Word. The veil tore. The echo became eternal again.
I saw the stone rolled away. I saw the light rise where none should. And I knew that the war between Heaven and Shadow had changed forever. The First Word, once distant, now beat within the hearts of those who believed. For the first time since the beginning, creation had begun to remember its source.