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| The City That Remembers |
A city. A memory. A choice.
Tucked into the hills outside Jerusalem is a quiet settlement shaped by covenant and restraint—built to endure when kingdoms falter.
When Obadiah returns to the city during the reign of King Manasseh, he finds a people who still remember what was entrusted to them, even as discernment comes later than it once did.
The jump nearly tore Luk-el apart.
The air folded wrong—too tight, too resistant—like time itself didn’t want them passing through. Luk-el gritted his teeth, wings flaring just enough to keep them aligned. Obadiah felt it immediately. The strain. The cost.
“Enough,” Obadiah said, gripping Luk-el’s forearm. “Set us down.”
“I can finish—”
“You already did.”
They landed hard.
Stone beneath their feet. Dry earth. The sound of wind threading through narrow streets.
Mishkanor.
Obadiah hadn’t stood here in centuries.
The city was quieter than he remembered—not empty, just held. Homes pressed close together as if sharing warmth. Clay lamps burned though the sun had not yet fallen. Somewhere, a loom clicked. Somewhere else, water poured steadily into a basin.
Life continuing.
Luk-el steadied himself, breathing slow. “You felt that too.”
Obadiah nodded. “Yes.”
Not danger.
Pressure.
Something pushing forward without announcing itself.
They had barely taken three steps when the city noticed.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
Work slowed. Voices softened. A man at a well froze mid-pour. A woman holding bread pressed her palm to her chest without knowing why.
Then someone whispered his name.
“Obadiah.”
It moved like a ripple.
No one bowed. No one cried out. They simply made room—stepping aside, clearing a path as if it had always been there.
An elder emerged from between two stone dwellings, his hair silvered by years, his eyes sharp despite them. He looked at Obadiah the way one looks at a horizon long memorized.
“You took your time,” the elder said gently.
Obadiah swallowed. “Eliab.”
The elder nodded, accepting the answer without judgment. “We kept the lamps burning.”
“I see that you did.”
They walked together now, deeper into the city. Luk-el followed, quiet, alert—his gaze moving, measuring. He felt it too now. The misalignment. The way the air carried weight without sound.
“Tell me,” Obadiah said at last, “what has changed?”
Eliab did not answer immediately. He stopped near the city’s center, where a low stone marker bore no inscription—only wear from generations of hands resting upon it.
“We still pray,” the elder said. “We still listen.”
Obadiah waited.
“We just don’t hear as early as we once did.”
The words landed heavier than any accusation.
Luk-el’s wings twitched. “How late?”
Eliab met his gaze. “Late enough that we now respond instead of prepare.”
Obadiah closed his eyes.
Fire, somewhere else. Rage mistaken for purpose. Authority twisted until restraint felt like weakness.
He felt it at once—not as vision or prophecy, but as pattern.
“I should have been watching,” Obadiah said quietly.
Eliab shook his head. “You were never our watchman.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then the elder did something unexpected. He placed his hand over Obadiah’s heart.
“You taught us how to survive in Mishkanor. We will never forget that.”
Luk-el inhaled sharply.
Obadiah felt it then—the ache he had carried folding inward, not tightening, but settling. He had not failed them.
Something moved.
A tremor passed through the ground—not an earthquake, not destruction. Just a warning—one the city was no longer early enough to name.
Luk-el turned toward the outer ridge. “It’s in motion.”
Obadiah opened his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, he did not reach for power he believed he had lost.
He reached for what remained.
Discernment.
“Then we move,” he said.
Eliab stepped aside. The city followed.
And above them, unseen, folded wings shifted—just slightly—as if remembering they were never clipped.
___
They stood in the lower chamber beneath Mishkanor’s council hall, where maps were kept rolled instead of hung and names were spoken only when necessary.
No one else was present.
“We didn’t summon angels,” Eliab said. “Why do you come?”
Obadiah didn’t soften the truth.
“Because King Manasseh broke his word.”
Eliab’s face tightened—not in surprise, but recognition.
Luk-el stepped forward. “As you know the amulet was divided. One half entrusted beyond the reach of men. The other kept under the king’s authority.”
“And now?” the elder asked. “What has happened?”
“The half under the king’s authority has found its way into Antioch’s hands,” Obadiah said.
Silence stretched.
“At the time,” the elder said slowly, “the king insisted the half remain close. Not worn. Not displayed. Guarded.”
“By whom?” Luk-el asked.
“Not a priest. Not a prophet.” The elder exhaled. “A keeper. Someone he trusted. No one knew who it was.”
Obadiah nodded. “That was the agreement.”
Luk-el’s jaw tightened. “Then we need to find out who he trusted. That’s the only way we can find out how Antioch got his hand on the amulet.”
The elder picked up a map. “You won’t find that knowledge by force.”
“I know,” Obadiah agreed.
“Then how do you intend to enter the palace?”
Obadiah lifted his eyes.
“We don’t.”
Eliab frowned. “Then—”
“We need someone from the palace to help us,” Obadiah said. “A runner. A supplier. A servant who already moves among the walls.”
Luk-el caught on instantly. “Someone won’t be noticed.”
“And who can disappear without suspicion,” Obadiah finished.
The elder studied them both. “You’re asking us to place one of our own inside Manasseh’s house.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Obadiah said steadily.
The elder didn’t answer at once.
Then Eliab turned toward the doorway and spoke a name.
“Asher.”
A young man stepped forward from the shadows—dust still on his hands, eyes sharp with the kind of awareness learned by watching, not commanding.
“He supplies stone and grain to the palace,” Eliab said. “Carries ledgers. Delivery seals. He enters through the lower courts.”
Obadiah looked at him. “I know you heard what we discussed. You move in and out of Manasseh’s house without being remembered,” he said. “Do you know how to stay unseen?”
Asher nodded once. “I’ve survived the palace this long.”
“Let’s hope a while longer,” Luk-el said.
Obadiah met Asher’s gaze. “We just want information. A name.”
“I understand,” Asher said quietly. “You want to know who touched it last.”
“Yes.”
“And if I find that name?”
Obadiah’s voice was calm. “Then we will know how Antioch got his hands on the amulet.”
Asher bowed his head. “Then I’ll go.”
When Asher was out of sight, Luk-el said softly, “If this fails—”
Obadiah interrupted. “We wait and see.”
Eliab watched them both. “And King Manasseh?”
Obadiah faced Eliab.
“Leave him to me.”
___
Later that evening, Obadiah stood just beyond the city’s outer ridge, where stone gave way to earth. Luk-el leaned against the rock face nearby, watching the road Asher had taken until it disappeared into shadow.
“You think he can do it?” Luk-el asked.
“Too late to doubt now,” Obadiah said.
Luk-el straightened slightly. “Our brother is here.”
Obadiah nodded. “I feel him.”
A footstep sounded behind them.
Not hurried.
Not concealed.
Just present.
Neither angel turned.
They already knew.
Gabriel stood a short distance away, hands folded at his back, his expression unchanged by time or distance. No light marked his arrival. No sound followed it. He might have been there for minutes—or only just now.
“You found Mishkanor intact,” Gabriel said.
“We did,” Obadiah replied.
“And the agreement?”
“Broken,” Obadiah said evenly. “But not beyond repair—and not unknown to Heaven.”
Gabriel’s gaze followed Asher’s retreating figure. “He’s already within the palace.”
Obadiah nodded. “Then it’s begun.”
A pause.
Gabriel said, “You did not look to Heaven.”
“No,” Obadiah replied.
Luk-el exhaled softly.
“Heaven will wait,” Gabriel said quietly. “But it will not look away.”
Obadiah met his eyes. “Then stay close.”
Gabriel inclined his head once. “I already am.”
No wings unfurled.
No command was given.
When Obadiah turned back toward the city, Gabriel was no longer there.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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