The village could no longer hide its division. By day, the fields were worked in silence, neighbors avoiding each other's eyes. By night, low voices carried from door to door—whispers of doubt, arguments behind closed shutters, prayers spoken with trembling lips.
I felt the weight of it pressing in from all sides. Whenever I walked to the well, some greeted me warmly, while others turned away as if my presence was a curse. Children, once eager to play, now watched me with uncertainty, their parents pulling them close.
Darius moved like oil upon water, slipping into every crack. His words were smooth, his laughter easy, but his presence sowed unrest. He began to hold small gatherings outside the tavern, telling tales of false prophets and the ruin they brought. Though he never named me directly, everyone knew where his arrows were aimed.
One evening, as the sun bled red across the sky, Elias gathered the men in the square. Samuel urged me to stay home, but I went anyway. I knew the time for silence was past.
Elias's voice boomed across the crowd. "This village has stood for generations, guided by wisdom and guarded by God. But now we harbor a stranger who divides us. Is this the will of heaven, or the hand of deceit? Tonight, we must decide!"
Shouts rose—some calling for my banishment, others insisting I be heard. The voices clashed like thunder until Elias lifted his hand for silence.
"Alfred," he said, his eyes fixed on me, "speak now. Convince us, if you can, that you are no deceiver. Otherwise, you leave at once."
The crowd parted as I stepped forward. My heart pounded, but a calm settled over me. I raised my voice so all could hear.
"You demand proof, yet proof was given when the fire was quenched. You demand certainty, yet no sign will satisfy a heart already hardened. I was sent not to argue but to warn. Whether you hear or refuse, the message stands: repent, for the time is short."
The words struck like a hammer. Some bowed their heads, moved to tears. Others clenched their fists in anger.
Darius stepped forward then, his smile thin, his eyes glinting in the fading light. "Bold words," he said smoothly. "But words alone cannot save a village. Tell us, Alfred—why hide your past? Why speak of visions none can see? If you are truly sent, reveal the full truth."
The crowd leaned in, waiting. I felt the angel's charge heavy upon me: You are not permitted to tell them the appointed day. My throat tightened, but I spoke firmly.
"Not all truth is given to be revealed. What I know, I cannot share. What I have seen, I cannot show. I am bound, not by fear, but by obedience."
A murmur rippled through the people—some understanding, others enraged. Elias's face darkened. "Then you admit it—you withhold from us! What good is a messenger who speaks in riddles?"
Shouts rose, louder than before. Some cried, "Let him stay!" Others, "Cast him out!" The square became a storm of voices, anger colliding with faith.
In the chaos, Samuel stood beside me, his hand firm on my shoulder. "Enough!" he cried. "This man has done no harm. He has prayed, he has helped, he has saved us from fire. Will you cast him out for not feeding your curiosity?"
But even his words could not quiet the turmoil.
That night, as the crowd dispersed with heavy hearts, I knew the village had reached its breaking point. No longer was it merely about me—trust itself was unraveling. Families stood on opposite sides, and the bonds that held the people together were straining to their limit.
And in the shadows, I caught sight of Darius, watching with satisfaction. His smile told me plainly: he had achieved what he came for.