Dawn came too soon.
I did not sleep. I sat by the narrow window of our chamber in the scribes' quarter, wrapped in a woolen shawl, watching the sky bleed from black to gray over the palace roofs. The city was quiet—no drums, no criers, no sign that a man had vanished in the night. It was as if the empire had swallowed my father whole and suffered no indigestion.
By first light, I went to the Hall of Records.
It was empty. Cold. The long tables stood like altars without priests. I walked to my father's place, the one near the eastern window where the morning sun touched the papyrus first. His inkwell was still open. A single feather—dark, from a desert hawk—lay beside it, as if he had dropped it mid-sentence.
I closed the well. Placed the feather inside.
Then I turned to the archive chest. The false bottom was undisturbed. The scrap of papyrus—"The serpent rises at dawn"—was still sewn into my sleeve, a secret against my skin.
I needed to know who had spoken against him.
The records of the royal court were kept in triplicate: one set for the king, one for the treasury, one for the archives. My father had access to all. I did not. Not officially.
But I knew the system.
I found the ledger for the Council of the Seven, the king's closest advisors. It listed their meetings, their proposals, their votes. I flipped to the last entry—three days prior.
There it was.
A motion proposed by Vizier Kardax: "On the matter of foreign loyalties within the royal administration."
No names mentioned. No specifics. But the intent was clear.
And the vote? Unanimous. Even my father had signed.
I ran my finger down the page. The signatures were pressed with seals, not written by hand. But I knew them all. The lion of Harpagus. The sunburst of Tanshar. The coiled serpent of Kardax.
I had seen that seal before.
Not in the records.
In my father's private journal.
I hadn't meant to read it. He kept it locked in a cedar box beneath his sleeping mat, wrapped in a cloth of indigo. But once, when he was ill with fever, I had opened it, searching for a name—a physician, a contact in Jerusalem. And I had seen a sketch, drawn in haste: a serpent coiled around a crown, with the words "Beware the man who wears loyalty like a mask."
I had thought it metaphor. Now I knew it was a warning.
Kardax.
I closed the ledger. My hands were steady, but my breath came fast.
He had moved against my father in council. Then had him arrested the next day.
Coincidence? No. This was a blade honed over weeks, maybe months.
I needed to see him.
Not from a distance. Not in a dream. I needed to watch him. To learn how he moved, how he spoke, how he held power.
There was only one place to do that: the Royal Audience.
It was held every third day in the Hall of Columns, where the king received petitions from governors, merchants, and foreign envoys. Attendance was restricted, but not absolute. Junior scribes were allowed to stand at the back, to record minor decrees or copy petitions.
I had done it before. I could do it again.
I changed into a plain robe of unbleached linen, tied my hair back with a leather thong, and smeared a little ash on my cheek to dull my skin. I took a stylus and a small wax tablet—just enough to look official.
The Hall of Columns was already half-full when I arrived.
It rose three stories high, supported by twenty-four great pillars of black stone, each carved with lions and griffins. The floor was polished alabaster, reflecting the torchlight like water. At the far end, on a dais of white marble, sat the king.
Artaxerxes.
He was older than I remembered—his beard streaked with gray, his shoulders slightly bent. But his eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd with the patience of a man who had heard every lie imaginable.
To his right sat the queen, Tirzah, daughter of a Median noble house. She was young, perhaps ten years my senior, with dark hair braided with silver threads. She did not speak. Did not smile. But she watched. Always watched.
And to the king's left—standing, not sitting—was Kardax.
I saw him before I recognized him.
He was tall, yes. But not imposing. His robes were fine, but not gaudy—deep blue, edged with silver, the color of twilight. No gold chains, no jewels. He wore no crown, no badge of office beyond a narrow sash of office.
But the room bent toward him.
When he leaned in to speak to the king, the king turned. When he gestured, the guards shifted. When he remained silent, the petitioners hesitated.
Power was not in the throne. Not today.
It was in the shadow beside it.
I took my place at the rear, near a pillar, and lowered my eyes.
A governor from Babylon pleaded for relief from the grain tax. Kardax responded—softly, reasonably.
"The empire feeds its people," he said. "But it must also be fed. The tax is not a punishment. It is a balance."
His voice was calm. Measured. Almost kind.
But when the governor pressed—"The people starve, my lord"—Kardax's eyes flickered.
Just once.
A coldness. A flash of contempt.
Then it was gone.
He smiled. "Then let them plant more wheat. Or pray to their gods for rain."
The king chuckled. The audience moved on.
I wrote nothing on my tablet.
Later, a Jewish elder from the western quarter approached—the same man falsely accused in the tax ledger. He bowed deeply.
"Great King," he said, "a decree was issued last week requiring all foreign-born scribes to swear loyalty to the fire temples. My son is a scribe. He cannot bow to idols. It is against our law."
The king frowned. "Is this true?"
Kardax stepped forward. "It is a formality, Majesty. A gesture of unity. No one is forced to worship. Only to honor the king's gods."
"It is not a small thing," the elder said. "To us, it is everything."
Kardax tilted his head. "Then perhaps your son should serve in another capacity. The empire has many needs."
The king waved a hand. "The decree stands. Next."
The elder stepped back, his face pale.
I did not move. Did not breathe.
After the audience ended, I lingered, pretending to review my notes. I watched Kardax descend the dais, flanked by two attendants. He spoke briefly with a Babylonian priest—short, bearded, dressed in white. They exchanged a scroll, sealed with red wax.
I could not see the seal.
But I saw the priest's hand tremble as he took it.
I waited until they were gone. Then I approached the elder.
"You are Benyamin, son of Asher," I said, using the Hebrew form.
He looked at me, wary. "You know me?"
"My name is Elara. Zev's daughter."
His eyes widened. "Your father—"
"Was arrested last night."
He exhaled. "Then you know."
"Know what?"
He glanced around. "That Kardax has been gathering names. Not just scribes. Merchants. Elders. Anyone who refuses the new oaths. They say he's preparing a list. A final reckoning."
"For what?"
He lowered his voice. "For impurity. For disloyalty. For being… what we are."
I thought of the forged letter. The erased governor. The way Kardax had dismissed the elder's plea.
This was not about loyalty.
It was about erasure.
I returned to the scribes' chamber. The day's work was waiting—petitions to copy, records to file. I sat at my father's table and began to write.
But my mind was not on the words.
It was on the serpent.
On the way he moved without noise. On the way he smiled while planning ruin.
And on the one thing I now knew for certain:
My father had not been chosen at random.
He had been targeted.
Because he was a Jew.
Because he was trusted.
Because he was a symbol.
And now, I was alone.
That night, I lit a small lamp behind a curtain, shielding the flame with my hands. I took a blank scroll and began to write.
Not a copy. Not a decree.
A record.
Day One of the Silence.
My father, Zev, was taken on false charges of treason.
The accuser is Vizier Kardax, a man who wears reason like a blade.
He speaks of unity, but his law divides.
He claims order, but his justice is selective.
He does not hate us for our weakness.
He fears us for our persistence.
I do not know if I can save my father.
I do not know if I can stop what is coming.
But I will not be silent.
And I will not forget.
Let this be my oath.
I rolled the scroll. Placed it in a clay jar. Buried it beneath the loose brick behind the oil shelf—where my father once hid a letter from Jerusalem.
Then I blew out the lamp.
The darkness was complete.
But for the first time since my father was taken, I did not feel lost.
I felt awake.