Late spring in the Blackwood was a vibrant awakening, the forest humming with the Architect's quiet pulse. The air was rich with the scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh sap, the trees alive with new leaves that rustled in the warm breeze. Our oak hollow, where Elara and I had carved our interlocking spirals, remained a sanctuary, its roots cradling the woven mat we sat upon, the spirals swaying above, their aetheric glow a soft beacon in the morning mist. I was nine, Elara eight, and the vision from weeks ago—a future where the Blackwood fell to a hungry mob if I stayed too long—still burned in my mind, urging me to act. My Bible, its leather cover worn from years of use, rested in my satchel, its pages filled with truths I'd penned at seven: principles of balance, reason, and action, including the Ten Commandments, not as divine edicts but as universal ethics to guide our choices. After speaking to the clan, my words had sparked both hope and doubt, and now I faced the unconvinced—those who saw no need for my Deistic path, yet whose actions could shape our survival.
The clan's central clearing buzzed with evening activity, the communal fire casting a warm glow across woven tents and busy hands. Elara walked beside me, her steps light but steady, her hazel eyes scanning the crowd. "They're talking about you," she whispered, her voice tinged with pride. "Some believe, some don't. Elder Mara's been loudest against you." Her hand brushed mine, a fleeting anchor, and I felt the faint pulse of her aether, stronger now after months of practice. Her woven map, tucked beside my Bible, was a testament to her trust in me, but this moment called for reason, not faith—a reason rooted in the Commandments, the moral core of my teachings.
Elder Mara sat by the fire, her silver hair braided tightly, her eyes sharp as she mended a fishing net with deft fingers. She was not cruel, but her skepticism was a fortress, built from decades of tradition. Nearby, Taryn, a young hunter with a quick laugh and sharper temper, honed a spear, his glances toward me laced with doubt. They were the clan's heartbeat—respected, practical, rooted in the Blackwood's ways. If I could reach them, not with belief but with the Commandments' call to action, the clan might stand stronger against the storms I'd foreseen.
I approached, Elara at my side, my Bible in hand. The firelight danced across its cover, and I felt the Blackwood's aether, a steady hum urging me forward. "Elder Mara, Taryn," I said, my voice clear but gentle, a boy's yet weighted with purpose. "May I sit with you?"
Mara's eyes narrowed, but she nodded, her fingers never pausing. "Speak, Elias," she said, her tone clipped. "Your talk of patterns and storms has the clan in knots. What do you want from us?"
Taryn snorted, his spear glinting as he tested its edge. "He's a child with dreams, Mara. Let him play prophet elsewhere." His words stung, but I saw the curiosity beneath his scorn, the same spark I'd seen in Bren when I'd taught him stronger knots.
I sat, Elara settling beside me, her presence a quiet strength. "I'm no prophet," I said, meeting their gazes. "I don't ask you to worship or kneel. My Bible, written when I was seven, holds truths for living, not chains to bind you. It includes the Ten Commandments—not as divine laws, but as choices we make to strengthen our clan, to act with reason." I opened the Bible, its pages rustling, and read: "Do not steal, for it breaks the trust that holds us. Do not murder, for it tears the pattern of life. Honor your parents, for their wisdom guides us. These are not prayers, but actions, ways to root ourselves in the world's balance."
Mara's hands stilled, her eyes on the Bible. "Old rules," she said, her voice softer but guarded. "We've lived by such without your book. Why do we need it now?"
I leaned forward, the fire's warmth on my face. "Because the world beyond is breaking," I said. "In the Duke's Keep, I saw the Montala Church's greed—tithes that starve farmers, lies that bind minds. Hunger is coming, Mara, not from the forest but from men. My vision showed a mob, desperate, tearing through the Blackwood. The Commandments—'Do not steal,' 'Do not murder'—aren't just rules; they're how we protect each other, how we act to survive."
Taryn laughed, but it was hollow. "A vision? You sound like Montala's priests, Elias, with their holy threats."
I shook my head, my heart steady. "No priests, no threats. The Architect—the force behind the world's patterns—judges us by what we do, not what we believe. 'Do not bear false witness,' the Commandments say. That's truth, Taryn, like tracking deer by honest signs—broken twigs, shifted earth. My Bible is a guide to act rightly, to make us stronger, whether you name the Architect or not."
Elara spoke, her voice clear, cutting through the tension. "Elias helped Bren weave stronger nets," she said, her eyes bright. "And Fael hunt better, by seeing the forest's truth. He's not asking you to pray, but to think, to do better—like 'Honor your parents,' learning from those before us." Her hand rested on my arm, her aether a warm pulse, and I felt a surge of gratitude. She was my anchor, my voice when mine wavered.
Mara frowned, but her eyes softened. "Show me, then," she said. "Not words, boy. Action, like your Commandments say."
I nodded, seizing the chance. "Your net," I said, pointing to the half-mended weave in her hands. "It tears in the river's current, yes? 'Do not steal' means not taking strength from the net's design. Let me show you a pattern." I knelt beside her, Elara watching closely, and traced the net's fibers, letting a trickle of aether highlight its weak points. "Weave like roots," I said, echoing my advice to Bren. "Not one thick knot, but many small ones, interlocking, sharing the strain. It's reason, not faith, like the forest's own design."
Mara hesitated, then followed my guidance, weaving smaller, tighter loops. I let a faint pulse of aether flow, not to force but to clarify, making the net's new strength tangible. When she tugged it, the weave held firm, stronger than before. Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking her skepticism. "This… works," she admitted, her voice grudging but honest. "Like your 'Do not steal'—giving the net its due."
Taryn watched, his spear forgotten. "And hunting?" he asked, his tone less sharp. "What's your Commandment there?"
I turned to him, the Blackwood's aether humming in my veins. " 'Do not murder,' Taryn, means respecting life's balance, even in the hunt. You track deer by their signs, but they move with the forest's rhythm—wind, leaves, the silence before they pass. Feel that rhythm, like the pulse in your blood." I focused my aether, creating a subtle echo of the forest's currents, a fleeting sense of a deer's movement. Taryn's eyes narrowed, then widened, as if sensing the shift. "That's the Architect's design," I said. "Not a god to worship, but a truth to act on. Try it tomorrow—watch the forest, not just the ground."
He nodded slowly, his skepticism wavering. "I'll try," he said, his voice low. "But I'm no believer in your Architect."
"I don't ask you to be," I said, closing the Bible. "The Commandments—'Honor your parents,' 'Do not bear false witness'—are choices, not chains. Believe or don't, but act with us, for the clan."
The fire crackled, the clan's murmurs rising as others listened, some nodding, others uncertain. Mara set the net aside, her expression softer. "You've a strange way, Elias," she said. "But there's sense in your Commandments. We'll see what your actions prove."
Elara squeezed my hand, her smile a quiet triumph. As the clan dispersed, we returned to the hollow, the spirals glowing faintly above us. The Blackwood's aether hummed, a song of balance, and I felt its approval, not as worship but as alignment. "You reached them," Elara said, her voice soft but proud. "Not all, but some."
"Not alone," I said, my throat tight. In my first life, I'd been a solitary mind, ended by a crash. In that false reality, I'd been a threat, alone against a system. But here, with Elara, I was more—a weaver of truths, not for worship, but for action. The vision of the Blackwood's fall lingered, a warning of inaction's cost. Montala's greed, Valerius's schemes, the hunger beyond—these were storms we'd face, not with prayers but with hands and minds united, guided by the Commandments' call to reason.
I opened my Bible, its pages catching the starlight, and read a final passage to Elara: "The Architect judges us by what we build, by the choices we make—'Do not steal,' 'Do not murder,' 'Honor your parents.' These are the roots of our strength." She nodded, her hand in mine, her aether a warm thread weaving with my own. The spirals swayed, a vow of action, of reason, of us—a foundation for a kingdom not of temples, but of choices, rooted in the Blackwood's heart.