(continued from previous scroll)
Bel-iddin waited near the scriptorium entrance, arms crossed, as if he had been standing there for some time.
“Well?” he asked. “Another tale of angels and dreams?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And what did the old man see today?”
“An image of gold, silver, bronze, iron, and clay. And a stone that shattered them.”
Bel-iddin laughed. “So now rocks are prophets.”
I said nothing.
He watched me. “You’re beginning to believe him.”
I met his gaze. “I’m beginning to wonder if I ever believed anything.”
That silenced him.
I entered the scriptorium and sat for a long while without writing.
When I finally copied the record onto a fresh tablet, I pressed each line deep—so that no flood, no fire, no hand could erase it.
As darkness fell, I set the stone Daniel had given me beside my sleeping mat.
I did not pray.
But I did not chant to Nabu either.
The stars above Babylon were sharp, unfamiliar. The sky seemed taller that night, as though something ancient had lifted from the city’s shoulders.
I lay awake, the stone cool against my palm, and thought of Daniel’s voice: steady, grave, yet never desperate. He did not try to win me—only to bear witness.
When I finally drifted into sleep, I dreamed of a mountain—but it was not one I knew. It reigned beyond rivers and moons, higher than ziggurats, uncut by hands. From its summit came a sound not of thunder, but of memory, calling me by name.
And for the first time, I did not answer with certainty.
But I did not run.