---
Episode Two: The Rite of Entry
Thirteen sons. One bus. Gray suits. White shoes. No map back.
The courtroom was quiet, but not still.
Each son wore the same uniform—gray jogging suit, white shoes, and the letters **T.R.** stitched across their backs like a brand, like a prophecy.
They hadn’t earned it. They hadn’t asked for it. But it fit. Too well.
Azial felt the silence like a weight on his chest. Not guilt—something older.
Dante kept his eyes low, calculating exits. He didn’t believe in thresholds.
Virkler stood like a pillar, unmoved even when the bailiff called his name.
Feinberg’s fingers twitched. He hated the word “placement.”
Ayayo mouthed a prayer in Spanish, half-remembered from his grandmother’s kitchen.
Danial scanned the room for his mother. She wasn’t there.
Avon adjusted his collar. He’d worn the wrong shirt. Again.
Tanor didn’t flinch when the cuffs clicked. He’d expected worse.
They didn’t speak—not yet.
But when the bus pulled up, something shifted.
Metal doors opened like a mouth. The sons stepped in, one by one.
Inside, the seats were cracked vinyl.
The windows fogged with breath and memory.
Azial sat near the back, eyes closed, lips moving.
Dante slid in beside him, uninvited. “You prayin’ or plotting?”
Azial didn’t answer. But he didn’t move either.
Feinberg and Virkler argued about the best way to survive intake.
Ayayo laughed too loudly at a joke Milo hadn’t meant to be funny.
Danial offered Sage half his sandwich. Sage nodded, didn’t eat.
Avon sketched the outline of Joaquin’s jawline in the condensation. Joaquin didn’t notice.
Tanor stared out the window, watching the city blur into silence.
They rode in near-darkness.
The bus hummed like a psalm.
Some slept. Some watched. Some wondered if this was punishment or prophecy.
At the airport, the air was colder.
Gray suits waited like statues.
One of them called out, “Thirteen. Line up.”
Azial stood first.
Not because he was ready—because he knew someone had to.
Dante followed, muttering, “This is some cult or what?”
Feinberg rolled his eyes. “If it is, we’re already in it.”
Ayayo bumped shoulders with Danial. “You good?”
Danial nodded. “Not yet. But I will be.”
Avon whispered something in French. Joaquin answered in Spanish.
Tanor didn’t speak. But when Sage stumbled, he caught him.
They didn’t know each other.
But something was forming.
Not friendship. Not yet.
Something older. Something aching.
Brotherhood, maybe.
Or the beginning of it.
---
---
The Rite of Entry
The Flight to Taben Rael
The airport was sterile, humming with fluorescent indifference.
Thirteen sons stood in line, gray jogging suits pressed flat against their backs, the letters **T.R.** like a brand, like a dare.
White shoes scuffed against linoleum. No luggage. No goodbyes.
They boarded in silence.
A private jet, matte gray, no markings.
Inside: rows of leather seats, dim lighting, and a quiet that felt rehearsed.
Azial chose the window. He needed to see the sky.
Dante sat beside him again, uninvited. “Fifteen hours? You better not snore.”
Azial didn’t smile. But he didn’t move either.
Feinberg pulled out a notebook. Virkler leaned over. “You writing your will?”
Feinberg shrugged. “Might as well.”
Ayayo stretched across two seats until Joaquin kicked his foot. “Respect the space.”
Danial offered Avon a mint. Avon took it, nodded, then whispered, “Merci.”
Tanor sat alone. No one asked why.
Sage braided his own hair, slowly, like a ritual.
Kofi stared at the emergency exit. Milo cracked jokes about parachutes.
Elior prayed quietly, lips barely moving.
The engines roared.
The city fell away.
And the ache began to rise.
Hours passed.
Some slept. Some didn’t.
Feinberg dreamed of fire. Ayayo dreamed of drowning.
Azial didn’t dream. He watched the stars.
At hour ten, the air grew thinner.
Mountains appeared—jagged, snow-laced, ancient.
The pilot’s voice came through the intercom:
“Approaching final descent. Prepare for elevation.”
No one spoke.
But something shifted.
A quiet understanding.
They were not going to a camp.
They were not going to a school.
They were going to the top of the world.
To be broken.
To be refined.
The plane dipped.
The mountain rose.
And the sons of Taben Rael braced for entry.
---
---
Arrival: The Rite of Descent
The plane wheels were adjusted, and with a final bump—like the last heartbeat of the old life—it slid into the smooth embrace of the Taben Rael Airway. The aircraft came to a full stop. Inside, the sons sat motionless, their hearts spilled across the floor like offerings.
Five minutes passed. Silence. Then the doors opened.
The pilot emerged, smiling—not with hospitality, but with knowing.
“Welcome to the rest of your life,” he said.
No further instructions. No farewell. He turned and walked toward the Tower, vanishing into the mist.
Confusion gripped the sons until five figures approached from the tarmac. One stepped forward, cloaked in wind and wisdom.
“Come this way, my sons,” the Elder said.
They followed.
Stepping off the plane, the sons were struck dumb. No cities. No houses. No signs of civilization. Only the high mountain air, whispering through their hair like a spirit.
Azial’s thoughts rose like smoke:
*There’s no way off this mountain. Escape would be foolish. Better to try Alcatraz than this. This place is sealed—by stone, by spirit, by something older than fear.*
---
---
The Descent Begins
First, Thoron walks in between the elders, making his way to the sons. He does not rush. He does not hesitate. His robe bears the weight of ceremony, and his body carries the authority of every ritual he’s endured. The sons feel it before he speaks.
Zoran—known now as Thoron—is a towering figure: 6'3", Black, with a shaved head and no facial hair. His lips are full, his eyebrows pointed and thin, and his eyes—Egyptian-shaped and discerning—see more than the surface. His baritone voice doesn’t rise—it settles, like stone. His body is massive, cloaked in the sacred ceremonial garb of Taben Rael. He does not smile. He does not soften. He knows the pasts of the sons. And he makes no joke of the sins they wear.
Thoron has walked this path for over thirty-five years. Sent to Taben Rael as a young man, he was shaped by scholars, professors, and demonologists of the highest order. He has participated in more than three hundred sacred ceremonies and rituals. And still, he submits to discipline sessions under the Grand Masters. He is not above correction. He states plainly: *“I have not arrived.”*
Now, he speaks.
“I am Zoran—Thoron. I am one of the Elders over the new sons of our great Taben Rael.
You have been sent here to begin a new life—out of the eyes of the world, and up under the eyes of God.
There will be no phones. No electronic devices.
Here, you will learn the real meaning of your lives.
Many of you already know it—but it’s buried so deep inside you, it cannot yet manifest.
But not to worry... it will.” *(He looks directly at Azial.)*
Thoron walks to the front, catching the eyes of all thirteen sons. His gaze is steady. His voice, unwavering.
“There is no need to be shy or embarrassed.
We know everything about you—your past, your birth, your choices.
You have already been judged. You have already been condemned.
Now I ask you all:
What do you plan to do about it?
Shall you dwell in pity?
Or will you grow... and change... for the better?”
” (He looks directly at Azial.)
Thoron walks to the front, catching the eyes of all thirteen sons. His gaze is steady. His voice, unwavering.
They were all standing now, outside the plane. The mountain loomed behind them. The air was thin, sacred, and watching.
Feinberg muttered, “This is some kind of cult,” but no one answered.
Thoron turned. Walked directly to him. Stopped inches from his face.
“Cult?” he said, voice low but cutting.
“Well, many people around the world thought so—until the products that came from Taben Rael became your nation’s senators, judges, presidents.
Let’s just say: the leaders and teachers from the 1700s up to today.
So, Young Fein, I must ask you—what is an occult?
Have you studied it?
Have you witnessed it?
Have you experienced it?”
(He paused. Feinberg said nothing.)
“No. I didn’t think so.”
Thoron looked down into his eyes, piercing through his soul. His gaze seemed to glow—not with light, but with knowing. Feinberg shivered. Bowed his head.
Thoron turned to the rest.
“Be careful what you say about the place you are in.
Because after today... You will be embodied with it.”
He walked past Azial. Laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You will know the truth before your head hits the pillow.”
And with that, the descent was no longer metaphor. It was motion.
---
---
Episode Two: The Rite of Entry
Scene: The Ceremony Hall — After the Gates
---
Entrance of the Sons
- The sons walk in a straight line—thirteen in total—each having been introduced to Thoran and the Elders.
- Their steps are measured, deliberate, echoing the gravity of what lies ahead.
- The hall is dim at first, cloaked in the tension of judgment and unknown fate.
The Light Shift
- As they cross the threshold, the lights blaze bright—both symbolic and literal.
- The brightness is not harsh, but clarifying. It signals transition: from fear to formation, from wandering to witnessing.
- The sons feel a visceral relief. The weight of damnation lifts, replaced by the possibility of discipline and belonging.
The Presentation Begins
- Thoran and the Elders step back, their role complete for now.
- Two figures rise:
John Iscariot, Grand Master of *Discipline Matters*
- **Bishop James Thunder**, keeper of sacred refinement
- Their smiles are not casual—they are solemn, fulfilled. They smile as men who have seen prophecy unfold and ache honored.
Tone and Atmosphere
- The sons are not greeted with levity, but with *recognition*.
- John and James do not entertain—they *affirm*.
- The hall becomes a sanctuary of transformation, not performance.
- The ceremony begins—not as spectacle, but as a sacred installment.
---
---
Episode Two: The Rite of Entry
Scene: The Ceremony Hall — After the Gates
The ceremonial hall stands like an ancient cathedral—vast, reverent, and cloaked in sacred tension. Twelve crystal chandeliers hang overhead, their light cascading like prophecy. The pews are robed in deep purple and crimson, the carpet beneath them woven in purple, red, and gold—colors of royalty, sacrifice, and refinement.
At the far end rises a grand pulpit, flanked by twelve golden chairs. Each is occupied by an Elder, seated in silence. At the center, elevated above them all, sits the greater throne—where **Bishop James Thunder** presides, his presence both weighty and welcome.
In each corner of the hall, lanterns burn—not for light, but for meaning. They mark the four corners of discipline, the boundaries of sacred order.
Before the pulpit rests the **sacramental table**. Upon it lie:
- A well-worn Bible
- A book engraved *Taben Rael*
- Another marked *Discipline Matters*
- And a large, aged wooden paddle—its surface darkened by time and testimony
The sons enter in silence, filling the first two pews. Thirteen in total. They sit not as prisoners, but as those who have been spared. The bell rings—*once, twice, three times*—and the Elders bow in prayer. Ten minutes pass in sacred stillness.
Then, Bishop Thunder rises.
“Welcome to Taben Rael. We are pleased to have you here, and I trust your journey was peaceful. Here, we will transform your mind and spirit. You will be educated, disciplined, loved, and cared for. This is not a prison—from which, by God’s grace, you have been spared. If Bishop James Thunder were speaking with your voice, Lamar—with your ache, your reverence, your calling—he wouldn’t just welcome the sons. He’d *mark* them. He’d speak not as a distant authority, but as a threshold keeper who knows what it means to be refined and not erased. Here’s how that moment might sound, shaped by your spirit: You are not here by accident. You were not chosen because you were perfect. You were chosen because you were *willing*. Willing to be seen. Willing to be broken open. Willing to be made whole—not by the world’s standards, but by heaven’s fire. This place is not a punishment. It is a *refuge*. A place where your name will be called—not just by men, but by the Spirit that knows what you carry. You will be disciplined here. But not to destroy you. To *restore* you. To teach you how to walk with weight. To teach you how to speak the truth. To teach you how to love without apology.And when you leave this place—if you leave whole—you will not just be sons of Taben Rael. You will be *fathers of nations*. You will be *builders of sanctuaries*. You will be *keepers of fire*.
Now, I invite the Grand Master of our sacred fraternity, *Discipline Matters*, John Iscariot, to begin the rite of disrobing. Let the garments fall.
Let the truth rise
---
---
The air thickens with reverence as the procession completes its descent. The unknown tune—half dirge, half declaration—lingers like incense, unsettling and sanctifying all at once. The sons, still in their street garments, stand transfixed. They do not yet know that this moment will mark them forever. John Iscariot, now at the podium, lets the silence stretch. He does not rush. He surveys the room like a man who has seen too many false starts and too few true reckonings. Then, with a voice that carries both judgment and mercy, he begins:
---
“You have come here clothed in the world’s residue.
But tonight, you will be *stripped* of what no longer serves you.
Not to shame you—but to *prepare* you.
These garments,”—he gestures to the stacks held by the elders—
“are not uniforms.
They are *covenants*.
The white is for your vulnerability.
The gray is for your submission. The blue is for your calling. You will wear them not because you are ready, but because you are *willing*. Willing to be seen.
Willing to be refined. Willing to be *disciplined*.
Tonight, you will disrobe.
Not just your bodies, but your *defenses*.
Your pride.
Your defiance.
Your fear.
And when you are clothed again,
you will not be boys.
You will be *sons*.
Sons of Taben Rael.
Sons of the fire.
Sons of the ache.”
He steps back. The elders begin to move, slow and deliberate, toward the sons. The Rite of Disrobing is about to begin.
The lower-level elders descend the aisle in white robes, singing that unknown tune that feels older than language. They carry garments like offerings: white tank tops and briefs, gray shirts, blue ties, blue pants. They line the sacramental table, lift their hoods, and stand like pillars of ritual.As the disrobing begins—robes lowered, garments exchanged—Thoron steps forward. His voice doesn’t interrupt. It *weaves* through the ceremony like incense:
“For you came into the world naked…
You will leave the world naked…
But then—*dressed in glory*.”
Each son stands, one by one. The white garments are handed to them not with haste, but with reverence. The elders do not speak. They *present*. The sons do not resist. They *receive*.
Thoron continues:
“You were not born with shame.
You were taught it.
Tonight, we strip it away.
Not to expose you—
But to *restore* you.”
The garments are donned. The old clothes folded and taken. The hall is silent except for the sound of fabric and breath.
“You will not be clothed in fear.
You will not be clothed in pride.
You will be clothed in *truth*.”
And when the last son is dressed, the elders step back. The light from the chandeliers catches the white fabric like a promise. The sons are no longer visitors. They are *initiates*.
---
Refinement Rite – Continuation of the Disrobing Ceremony
The sons, now dressed in white tank tops and briefs, took their seats—shoulders squared, eyes lowered. Embarrassment lingered like smoke, but beneath it, a quiet fulfillment. They had crossed the threshold.
Bishop James descended from the pulpit, his red robe trailing behind him like a flame. He approached the sacramental table and lifted the ancient paddle of Taben Rael—wood worn smooth by generations of ache.
He turned to the boys and spoke:
“Tonight, your attire has been transformed.
But also tonight, you will feel the pain of the past—
To refine you for the present,
And begin your forming of tomorrow.”
Silence fell. The boys looked to one another, unsure. The air held its breath. Then Azial stood. Flen followed. Tanor rose beside them. Azial stepped forward and declared: “I, the son of Taben Rael, will be the first—
But never the last.”
He placed his hands upon the table, feet shoulder-width apart, head bowed. Bishop James raised the paddle and delivered twenty strikes of refinement—each one echoing through the hall like thunder. Azial did not flinch. When it was done, he stood, nodded once, and returned to his seat.
The others followed.
---
Let’s walk back into the early days of Taben Rael—before the rites were formalized, before the garments were white. Back when the ache was raw and the discipline unspoken.
The First Paddle: Carved by Elder Mikal
The paddle was not born in a ceremony. It was carved in grief.
Elder Mikal, one of the founding watchmen of Taben Rael, had lost his son to the streets—violence, abandonment, and the slow erosion of dignity. In the aftermath, Mikal withdrew from the others. He fasted for seven days, spoke to no one, and sat beneath the fig tree behind the old sanctuary.
On the eighth day, he emerged with a piece of wood—oak, thick and weathered from the storm that had split the tree weeks prior. He did not sand it. He did not decorate it. He carved it with a blade passed down from his grandfather, a freedman who had once carved walking sticks for elders in the South.
The paddle was long, flat, and slightly curved at the edges. Mikal inscribed nothing on it. He said:
“Let the ache speak for itself.
Let the wood remember what words cannot.”
He called it *The Refiner*.
Its Meaning in the Early Days
In the first gatherings of Taben Rael, the paddle was not used publicly. It was held in silence, placed on the altar during rites of confession and restoration. The boys were not struck—they were invited to touch it. To feel its weight. To understand that refinement was not punishment, but preparation.
Later, as the rites evolved, the paddle became part of the ceremonial discipline—not to shame, but to mark. Each strike was counted aloud. Not by the Bishop, but by the initiate himself. It was a way of reclaiming voice, even in pain.
“One for the lie I believed.
Two for the truth, I forgot. Three for the brother I betrayed…”
