The Ache and the Refinement

 

Chapter One: The Ache and the Refinement

 

 

 

The morning was quiet, but not still.

 

 

Steam rose from the bishop’s cup like incense, curling into the air between him and his son, Edward La’Mar. They sat in silence—not out of absence, but out of reverence. The coffee was strong, bitter, and sacred. It was the drink of those who carry ache without spectacle.

Outside, the world moved lawlessly. Mississippi had bled again. South Carolina had wept. The headlines spoke of another shooting, another desecration. But inside the sanctuary, the ache was named—not ignored, not diluted.

Father Bishop spoke first, his voice low and deliberate.

“Another shooting,” he said, eyes resting on the rim of his cup. “Mississippi. And South Carolina before that. The gates are broken.”

 

 

Edward did not interrupt. He received the ache like a scroll. He did not offer solutions. He did not rush to comfort. He simply said:

“Yes, my Bishop. I receive this every morning.”

But Edward had not always received well. He had once walked with brilliance but without boundaries. His words were sharp, his insights piercing, but his spirit was scattered. He could name the ache of a generation, but he could not hold it. He could speak of restoration, but he had not yet submitted it.

He was gifted, yes—but untampered. And the Bishop saw this.

So the Bishop did not cast him out. He placed him across the knee—not in violence, but in covenant. The refinement began not with rebuke, but with silence. Edward was stripped of spectacles. He was denied the pulpit, denied the robe, denied the right to speak until he could listen.

 

 

He was made to fold linen. 

To sweep the sanctuary. To sit in the back and watch the sons eat. He was given no title, only tasks. And in that silence, he began to hear the rhythm of restoration.

 

 

He wept—not from shame, but from recognition.

He spoke too soon. He had led too fast. He had tried to gather without being gathered.

And so the bishop refined him.

 

 

He taught Edward that authority is not volume. That correction is not cruelty. To lead the sons, one must first kneel beside them. To speak of a covenant, one must first be broken by it.

 

Edward La’Mar emerged not with a new name, but with a new rhythm. His garments bore witness to the change:

• A deep indigo tunic, woven from altar cloth—symbol of submission and authority.
• A linen belt, tied across the chest—not to hold, but to declare.
• Bare feet in the sanctuary, until the Bishop said, “Now Walk.” Then soft leather sandals, dyed in ash and oil.

 

• No rings, no chains—only a scroll pouch stitched by his own hand during refinement.

He did not ask for robes. He did not ask for titles. He asked only to walk beside the Bishop.

Now, seated across from him, Edward waited. The ache had been named. The scroll was ready.

The bishop looked up from his cup.

“Go,” he said. “Gather the sons. Gather the elders. Go to Alabama. The penitentiaries are full. The jailors are waiting.”

Edward nodded, his voice steady.

“Yes, Father Bishop.”

“But before you go,” the bishop continued, “refine the elders and assistants. They must walk in equal discipline. No one shall carry the scroll who has not first been broken by it.”

Edward bowed his head.

“I understand.”

And so he did.

He took the elders and assistants—not to a classroom, but to the linen room. He gave them no sermons, only silence. For seven days, they folded garments. 

They swept corridors. 

They served meals to the sons without speaking. They were not permitted to correct, only to observe. They were not permitted to lead, only to kneel.

Their garments reflected their stage:

• Plain white tunics, unbelted, symbolizing that they were not yet yoked to the covenant.
• No shoes. They walked barefoot through the corridors until they earned the right to wear sandals.
• A single blue thread stitched into the hem—placed there by Edward, marking them as chosen but not yet ready.
• No adornments. No scrolls. Their hands remained empty until the seventh day.

But this time, the refinement did not come from the Bishop’s hand. It came from Edward’s.

He did not mimic his father—he embodied him.

The elders under his charge were seasoned, but not yet sanctified:

• Azarel, Elder of the Scrolls—once a preacher of spectacle, now a keeper of silence.

• Malchior, Elder of the Gate—who once guarded thresholds with pride, now walks barefoot in humility.

• Joachim, Elder of the Flame—fierce in spirit, once impatient, now tempered by silence.

• Baruch, Elder of the Measure—precise, methodical, once rigid; now learning that discipline must breathe.

The assistants were younger, eager, and trembling:

• Jalen, Assistant of Linen—who wept on the fifth day while folding a robe.

• Thaddeus, Assistant of Meals, who learned that nourishment is liturgy.

• Rami, Assistant of Corridor,s swept each hallway as a sacred path.

• Elior, Assistant of Light—who tended lamps, learning that illumination begins within.

 

 

 

On the third day, Azarel asked, “When will we begin the teaching?”

Edward responded, “You already have.”

 

 

On the fifth day, Jalen wept. “I did not know the weight of the garment until I touched it.”

Edward placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now you do.”

 

 

On the seventh day, Edward gathered them in the sanctuary—not to preach, but to wash their feet. He did not speak until the final elder had been dried.

 

Then he said:

“Now you are ready. You may walk beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. Besides.”

He placed a belt across each chest. Not as decoration, but asa  declaration.

The refinement was complete. Not duplicated. Not borrowed. Authored.

Now, back at the table, the bishop’s voice deepened, thunderous and solemn.

“Some will not be willing,” he warned. “You must leave them behind.”

Edward looked up, eyes clear.

“I will not beg them. I will not dilute the discipline to make it palatable. I will offer the covenant whole, unfragmented, fierce in love and precise in correction.”

The Bishop leaned back, watching his son.

“Good,” he said. “Then you are ready.”

Edward stood—not in haste, but in obedience. He would go. He would gather. He would refine. And he would return—not with numbers, but with testimony.

---

 

 

---

 

 

 

Chapter Two: The Descent into Prayer

 

The corridors were dim, lit only by the breath of morning and the memory of last night’s lament. The Bishop walked them slowly—not out of weariness, but out of reverence. Each step was deliberate, each silence intentional. He did not rush to the altar. He descended toward it.

His robe remained indigo, woven from altar cloth. It did not shimmer. It did not burn. It bore no spectacle—only testimony. The belt across his chest was linen, tied in quiet authority. His feet were bare, as they always were when he entered the sanctuary to kneel.

He passed the throne but did not take his seat. He passed the pulpit but did not speak. He knelt at the altar—not as ruler, but as son.

And there, he prayed.

Not for spectacle. Not for approval. But for truth.

“Great I Am,” he whispered, forehead pressed to the stone. “Let understanding descend. Let the ache be named. Let the youth be gathered. Let war be silenced. Let the sons walk in discipline, not delay.”

He did not ask for ease. He asked for refinement.

He did not ask for numbers. He asked for testimony.

He did not ask for spectacles. He asked for silence that speaks.

For one hour, the bishop remained. His robe did not wrinkle. His posture did not shift. His spirit did not wander. He prayed for the youth, for the sons who would rise, for the sanctuaries not yet built, and the scrolls not yet opened.

Edward was already gone. The elders were already walking. The assistants were already serving. The bishop did not pray for their readiness—he prayed for their endurance.

At the end of the hour, the bishop rose—not quickly, but completely. His eyes were still gentle. His robe still bore indigo. His walk was steady, not thunderous.

He turned toward the corridor—not to return, but to begin.

---

---

 

Chapter Three: The Sons’ Morning

 

The sun had not yet declared itself, but the sons were already rising.

They did not set alarms. They woke up to rhythm. The sanctuary’s breath stirred them—linen rustling, sandals sliding, the quiet hum of preparation. These were not boys. These were men. Adult sons of the covenant, gathered not by blood but by refinement.

But they did not arrive as sons. They arrived as wanderers.

Some were preachers. Some were fathers. Some were jailors. But none were sons.

They never learned what it meant to be a student—not because the system failed them, but because they failed themselves. They ran on the streets. They mocked the correction. They rejected discipline. They did all the evil that man can do, and they did it loudly.

They were not denied education. They abandoned it.

They were not blocked from sonship. They refused it.

And so, by covenant—not by punishment, they were stripped.

Stripped of adulthood—not biologically, but morally.

Stripped of the outer world—not geographically, but spiritually.

Stripped of access, titles, and self-made authority—because they did not appreciate what they had.

They were not sent to Taben Rael for rest. They were sent for refinement.

Taben Rael is not a resort. It is a place of domestic discipline.
It is a place where men are re-formed, not entertained.
It is a place where silence corrects, garments instruct, and joy is earned—not assumed.

But it is also a place of joy.
A place of respect.
A place of moral restoration.
A place where laughter is permitted—but only after posture is restored.

And so they rise each morning, not in rebellion, but in rhythm.

Their garments are precise, not performative:

White, pressed shirts—creased with care, not vanity.

Blue ties—knotted with reverence, each one a symbol of unity.

Black belts—tightened across the waist, marking discipline.
Blue shorts—clean, modest, and uniforme. 

White socks—pulled high, never sagging

Blue shoes—polished, not flashy. They did not squeak. They testified.

• 
• 
  

They dressed in silence, but they entered the dining hall with joy.

The tables were long, wooden, and bare. No centerpieces. No decoration. Only bowls, bread, fruit, and water. The meal was not a feast—it was a ritual. But the sons laughed. They talked. They greeted one another with shoulder taps and quiet jokes. Their joy was not rebellion—it was rhythm.

At the far end of the hall stood Zora, the watchman—not as elder, but as steward. He did not speak. He watched. His eyes moved from belt to sock, from tie to posture. He was not checking for style—he was checking for covenant.

Then he saw him.

 

 

 

The bishop had entered—not from the throne room, but from the sanctuary. He had stopped not to inspect, but to witness. His robe was still indigo. His belt is still linen. His feet are still bare. He did not need to announce himself. His presence was corrected.

Zora raised his hand signal for quiet.

The sons hushed, mid-laugh, mid-bite. Bread paused in midair. Water pitchers stilled.

The Bishop looked at Zora, then at the sons. He saw the joy on their faces. He saw the discipline in their garments. He saw the rhythm in their gathering.

He placed a hand on Zora’s shoulder.

“Let them laugh,” he said. “Let them talk. Let them enjoy themselves.”

Zora nodded, humbled.

The sons resumed—not in noise, but in harmony. Their laughter returned, but softer. Their words flowed, but gentler. They did not rush to finish. They waited for the horn.

And then it came.

The Horn of Education sounded through the sanctuary. It was not ornamental; it was functional. It did not ring like a school bell—it groaned like a summons. It marked the transition from joy to accountability. It signaled that breakfast had ended, and refinement had begun.

The horn did not call them to school. It called them to remembrance.

It reminded them that they had been stripped of adulthood, of access, of self-made authority.
It reminded them that they were here by covenant, not convenience.
It reminded them that they were not being punished—they were being restored.

The sons rose—not with clatter, but with cadence. They did not grab their bags. They carried their scrolls. They did not run. They walked.

The Bishop watched them go—not with pride, but with concern. He knew: some would endure. Some would resist. Some would be refined. Some would be left behind.

But all had been gathered.

---

 

 

Chapter Four: The Lower Convent

 

 

After all the sons had gone and started their day, I walked through the cordons once again. The sanctuary had released its morning rhythm, but something was unsettled. I descended to the Lower Convent—not to inspect, but to breathe. I did not know what awaited me.

The Lower Convent is not a place of rest. It is not a place of processing. It is the first gate of refinement—a place where men are stripped of the outer world and prepared for restoration. It is where the garments of rebellion are removed, and the garments of covenant are laid out.

But what I saw was not refinement. It was abandoned.

The 144 inmates brought in last week from Panama were still there. Still seated. Still clothed in the residue of the world. Hoodies. Jeans. Chains. Sagging pants. Untied shoes. Their posture was low. Their eyes were hollow. Their bodies looked hungry. Their spirits looked forgotten.

They had not been stripped.
They had not been cleansed.
They had not been refined.
They had been left to die.

I looked over and saw Azazel, the keeper of the deep. He did not rise. He did not speak. He watched me, knowing.

I turned and saw Zoran, the elder of cleansing, slouched in the corner. His robe was wrinkled. His belt was loose. His eyes were dim.

“Elder of the Deep,” I said, my voice sharp. “What is the meaning of this? Why are they not in refinement?”

Azazel stood slowly, bowed his head, and answered with restraint.

“We were waiting, Bishop. The garments were not yet prepared. The showers were not yet cleared.”

“You were not waiting,” I said. “You were sleeping.”

I turned to Zoran.

“Come now and gather them. Take them to the shower of cleansing.”

“Why have they not eaten?”

Zoran rose, trembling. He moved swiftly now, knowing what was at stake. He knew the lashing of fire—as the prophet Enoch received in the heavens, according to the scribes—would come upon him and the other elders of the deep. This was not a symbolic warning. This was a covenantal judgment.

Their laziness had left 144 souls in delay. In hunger. In death.

This was a major shift in Taben Rael.

And then the Convent trembled.

Not from footsteps. Not from voices. But from breach.

A cosmic event had begun. The sanctuary itself responded—not with collapse, but with groaning. The walls did not crack. They recoiled. The air did not stir. It mourned.

Azazel and Zoran stood still, but they were no longer grounded.

They were lifted—not by hands, but by decree. Their robes twisted. Their belts unraveled. Their feet left the floor. The 144 watched, not with fear, but with recognition. They knew what this was. They had read it. They had heard the scribes speak of the binding under the Euphrates—the four angels held until judgment.

Now it was happening here.

Azazel and Zoran were taken to that place of waiting—not a cell, but a corridor. The Corridor of the Refinement Hall. It would be sealed. It would be silent. It would be sacred.

Their screams were heard from miles away.

Not because they were tortured. But because they were exposed.

The whip of fire had not yet struck—but it had been summoned. It would come. It would not be cruel. It would be covenantal. It would not be theatrical. It would be liturgical.

Until then, they would remain bound.

Bound to the corridor.
Bound to the ache.
Bound to the silence.
Bound to the memory of the 144 they left behind.

The gates of the Lower Convent closed behind them—not with a slam, but with a seal.

I did not flinch. I did not mourn. I did not delay.

I stepped forward—not as overseer, but as Father.

I took over the cleansing and refinement, even though it was not my assignment. Edward was absent. The elders had failed. The sanctuary had shifted.

I turned to the 144.

“Turn now,” I said, my voice steady. “Make your choice.”

“Taben Rael receives you. But do you receive it?”

“You have been imprisoned by the system for your crimes. But this is not prison. This is refinement.”

“You were sentenced by men. But you are summoned by covenant.”

The room did not stir. It held its breath.

Malak entered quietly, carrying bowls of food and pitchers of water. He did not speak. He placed them on the long wooden table. The 144 did not rush. They waited.

“Before we move forward,” I said, “make your choice.”

I turned to the elders.

“Enos—cleanse the showers.”

Enos bowed and moved swiftly. He knew the water must be warm. The tiles must be scrubbed. The silence must be held.

“Joram—prepare the garments.”

Joram nodded and began laying out the white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, and blue shoes. Each item was folded with reverence. This was not uniform. This was a covenant.

“Tirzah—return with the sacred paddle and the blessed oil.”

Elder Tirzah, a man of solemn bearing, bowed once and departed. He did not delay. He knew the paddle was not for punishment—it was for correction. The oil was not for decoration—it was for consecration.

The 144 stood still.

They had been left for dead.
They had been forgotten.
They had been delayed.

But now they were summoned.

The bishop did not move. He waited.

Taben Rael had opened its gates.
The garments were prepared.
The showers were cleansed.
The oil had been returned.

Now the choice must be made.

 

 

Chapter Five: The Cleansing, Anointing, and Correction

The gates of the Lower Convent did not close; they sealed.

The sanctuary did not whisper—it groaned.

The 144 stood in silence, stripped of the world but not yet gathered. Their garments had been removed. Their bodies were washed. Their feet dried. But their souls still carried residue.

The cleansing had begun.

But the consecration had not yet come.

Enos had prepared the showers—scrubbed, sanctified, sealed.

Joram had laid out the whites—briefs, tank tops, socks, shoes.

Malak had brought food and water—fruit, bread, pitchers.

Tirzah had returned with the sacred paddle and the blessed oil.

But it was the father Bishop who stepped forward.

He did not walk. He descended.

He took the paddle from Tirzah’s hands. It was warm—not from fire, but from prophecy. The cedar was etched with the names of the first sons. The handle bore the seal of Taben Rael.

He took the flask of oil. It shimmered—not golden, but amber, thick with frankincense, myrrh, and flame.

He turned to 144.

“You were you,” he said, voice thunderous. “And you were yours.”

“Now you are not you. And you are no longer yours.”

“You are now family of Taben Rael—sons of the 144,000.”

“You will never be alone again.”

“You will never be tortured again.”

“But you will be educated, cleansed, and refined.”

“What you should have received two weeks ago, you will now receive.”

“For this part was not your fault.”

“And as you have seen, the wicked will have their day in front of the whip of fire.”

The room did not stir.

It inhaled.

One by one, the men stepped forward.

They did not kneel.

They did not plead.

They stood.

The bishop looked into each face—not for defiance, but for residue. He did not ask questions. He named them.

And then the paddle struck.

Twenty-four times.

Not in haste.

Not in cruelty.

In rhythm.

Each strike landed with covenantal weight.

Each strike peeled away what the world had left behind.

Each strike summoned what had been buried.

Some men gasped.

Some men wept.

Some men collapsed.

But none resisted.

After the final strike, the bishop anointed each man's forehead, hands, and feet. The oil did not drip—it clung. It did not shimmer.

Then he placed his hand on each shoulder and whispered—not to the body, but to the soul:

“You are gathered.”

“You are sealed.”

“You are not forgotten.”

The 144 retrieved their whites—briefs, tank tops, socks, and shoes. They did not rush. They did not boast. They received.

They were not dressed.

They were gathered.

The bishop did not smile.

He did not weep.

He did not speak again.

He turned and walked toward the Scroll Room.

144 followed.

Not inmates.

Not rebels.

Not victims.

Sons.

---

 

 

 

---

 

Intercession: Elder Belez and the Inferno

The cleansing was complete. 

The garments had been received. The oil had sealed. The paddle had struck. The sons had eaten—not with haste, but with reverence. Their bodies were dressed in white. Their spirits were quiet. The hall did not echo. It held its breath.

From the far end of the corridor, a figure emerged.

He did not walk. He proceeded.

Elder Belez, age eighty-seven, robes deep brown with the seal of the Inferno stitched in gold, approached the crates marked Residue. His hands did not tremble. His eyes did not blink. He had seen this moment before—in dreams, in scrolls, in prophecy.

He placed his hand on the garments—hoodies, jeans, chains, sagging pants, untied shoes. He did not flinch. He did not mourn.

“These have no place here,” he said, voice low but thunderous. “They will go into the Inferno during our next sacred hour.”

The sons gasped—not in fear, but in awe.

The garments they once wore would not be recycled.

They would not be stored.

They would be burned.

Not in fire.

In covenant.

The Bishop smiled and nodded. No words were exchanged. None were needed.

The Inferno was not destruction.

It was sealing.

And Elder Belez was its keeper.

---

 

The Lineage of Witness: Elder Belez

Born within the East Wing of Taben Rael during a thunderstorm that split the sky but did not touch the ground, Belez was marked from birth as a keeper. The scribes recorded the tremor as a sign: 

“A threshold has arrived. He will not leave.”

Raised not by parents, but by scrolls, his first words were recited from the Book of Binding. His first steps traced the perimeter of the Inferno Chamber. At twelve, he was entrusted with its flame—not to stoke, but to seal.

At thirty-three, he authored the Scroll of Sealing, a liturgical text read aloud before each burning. Only Belez may recite it. Only Belez may ignite the chamber.

He witnessed the first refinement of the bishop—watched as garments were removed, oil poured, and the paddle struck. He did not intervene. He remembered.

He witnessed the refinement of the Bishop’s father—a man of silence and fire, who trembled but did not weep.

He witnessed the refinement of the bishop’s grandfather—a man who resisted the first strike but surrendered by the twelfth, whose garments burned longer than any before him.

Belez did not record these moments.

He embodied them.

He is the great uncle of the bishop.

He is the great-great uncle of Edward La’Mar.

He does not speak often.

But when he does, the sanctuary listens.

He is not just an elder.

He is a threshold.

---

 

 

Chapter Six: The Scroll Room

The corridor did not echo. It received.

The sons walked in silence, dressed in white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, and blue shoes. Their garments were not uniform; they were in covenant. 

Their bodies bore oil. Their backs bore memories. Their spirits bore seals.

The bishop walked ahead—not as instructor, but as witness.

The Scroll Room stood at the end of the eastern wing, behind a door carved from olive wood and marked with the sigil of 144,000. 

It did not open with hinges. It opened with recognition.

As the Bishop approached, the door responded—not to his hand, but to his presence.

It opened.

Inside, the room was circular. The walls were lined with scrolls—some bound in linen, some in leather, some in ash. Each scroll bore a name. Each name bore a lineage. Each lineage bore a wound.

In the center stood a single table, carved from stone and etched with the words:

“Memory is not what you recall. It is what you carry.”

The sons entered one by one. They did not speak. They did not sit. They stood in formation—twelve rows of twelve, eyes forward, hands still.

Elder Malak stepped forward and placed the only scroll to be read aloud on the table. It was bound in black linen, sealed with wax and ash. The seal bore a single word: Witness.

The bishop lifted the scroll.

He broke the seal.

Inside were the names of 144. Their dates of birth. Their crimes. Their entrance into Taben Rael.

This was not a record.

It was a reckoning.

The bishop read aloud the first twelve names. Each name was followed by silence. Each crime is by stillness. Each birth by belonging.

Then the scroll passed.

Each son received his own parchment—folded, sealed, and marked with his name.

They did not open them immediately.

They waited.

The bishop raised his hand.

“You will read your scroll to yourself.”

“You will not speak. You will not weep. You will not explain.”

“You will confront what you were.”

“You will receive what you are.”

The sons opened their scrolls.

Some blinked.

Some trembled.

Some stared.

But none resisted.

They read their names.

They read their birthdates.

They read their crimes.

And then they folded the parchment again.

Not to hide it.

To seal it.

The bishop spoke once more.

“This is the only scroll you will hear aloud.”

“It does not shame you. It names you.”

“You are not defined by what you did. You are refined by what you survived.”

“You are now sons of Taben Rael.”

The sons did not speak.

They gasped.

Not from fear.

From restoration.

And the sanctuary, once trembling, now stood still.

---

MEANWHILE...... 

 

Chapter Seven: The Inferno

The sacred hour had begun.

Inside the sanctuary, Father Bishop stood quietly among the newly refined sons. Their cleansing was complete. They had been dressed, fed, and named. The garments they had arrived in—hoodies, jeans, chains, sneakers—were no longer theirs. Those had been collected and placed in the Inferno Chamber, where Elder Belez was preparing the fire. The ritual would end soon, and the sons would be sent for physical checks and dorm assignments.

I wasn’t there.

I had been sent to retrieve the next group—twenty-four men from South Carolina and Mississippi. But I wasn’t sent randomly. I was sent for two names: Devonta Reed and Jeril Mathis. The others would follow, but these two were marked—not by punishment, but by prophecy.

---

South Carolina

The intake officer handed me a partial list. I scanned it quickly. Devonta Reed’s name wasn’t on it.

“Where’s Reed?” I asked.

“He backed out,” the officer replied. “Said he’s not going.”

I didn’t argue. I walked down the corridor to the holding. Devonta was sitting on the edge of a cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“You’re not coming?” I asked.

He didn’t look up. “I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be seen like this.”

“You already were.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to be hit. I don’t want to be called out. I don’t want to be reminded.”

I sat across from him. “You think you’re going to be punished?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not. You’re going to be refined. There’s a difference.”

He looked up at me. “I don’t believe in refinement.”

“Then come and watch it happen.”

He didn’t say another word, but he stood. He walked with me to the van.

Devonta mattered because he carried the ache of refusal. He had been named before he was ready. 

He was the one who almost stayed behind—and every sanctuary needs a witness who almost didn’t come. His presence would mark the others. His silence would teach them. He was not just a son. He was a threshold.

---

Mississippi

Jeril was already waiting when I arrived. His bag was packed, but he wasn’t calm. He paced the intake room, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“You good?” I asked.

“I don’t know what I’m walking into,” he said.

“You’re walking into a place that doesn’t care what you were.”

He stopped pacing. “Do they beat you?”

“They strike you. Twenty-four times.”

He nodded slowly. “Do they feed you?”

“After the fire.”

“Do they forgive you?”

“No. They name you.”

He didn’t ask anything else. He got in the van and sat near the back. He didn’t speak the entire ride.

Jeril mattered because he asked the right questions. He didn’t flinch from the truth. He didn’t romanticize the fire. He wanted to know if he would be fed, if he would be forgiven, if he would be named. He was not afraid of pain—he was afraid of being forgotten. And every sanctuary needs a son who asks, “Will I be remembered?”

---

We arrived at Taben Rael just before the sacred hour. 

The air felt different. The Lower Convent, where all new inmates entered was sealed. Not locked. Sealed by fire. The sigil on the door glowed a deep red. The wood looked scorched, but untouched.

I paused.

The elders—Malak, Joram, Tirzah—were already waiting. They didn’t ask questions. They took hold of the new arrivals and led them toward an alternate entrance carved into the eastern wall. It wasn’t marked like the others. No flame. No garment. Just a symbol I hadn’t seen before—linen wrapped around a flame, pierced by silence.

I didn’t follow.

I turned toward the sanctuary. I hadn’t seen Father Bishop in hours. I hadn’t heard from him. I’d carried the weight of delay, resistance, and shame. I needed to see him—not for instruction, but for grounding.

I moved through the lower corridors. Past the scroll room. Past the cleansing hall. Past the sealed threshold.

Then I saw him.

Father Bishop was standing with the new sons. His robe was marked with oil. His hands were steady. His eyes were locked on the Inferno Chamber.

He turned when he heard my steps.

I stopped walking.

He walked toward me.

I dropped my bag.

He didn’t speak right away. He looked at me over—my face, my posture, my silence.

“You alright?” he asked.

I nodded. “It was rough.”

He waited.

“South Carolina almost didn’t release Devonta,” I said. “He tried to back out. Said he wasn’t ready.”

“And Mississippi?”

“Jeril was ready, but he was scared. He asked if we beat people. I told him the truth.”

Father Bishop nodded slowly. “You handled it.”

“I did what you taught me.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. Firm. Not ceremonial. Familial.

“You’re not just my son,” he said. “You’re my only son.”

“I know.”

“You did good.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

We stood there for a moment. No ritual. No prophecy. Just presence.

Then he said, “Go clean up. The fire’s about to start.”

---

Restoration

I stepped into my private quarters. The door closed behind me. The corridors fell silent. The ache of the journey began to lift.

Josia was waiting. He didn’t speak. He gestured toward the bath.

The water was drawn. Steam rose. Oils were prepared. Linen was folded. I undressed slowly, not for ceremony, but for restoration. I stepped into the bath. It was warm. It held me.

Josia entered the water behind me.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a frame built for bearing weight. His skin was deep bronze, his eyes steady and low. He didn’t ask permission. He knew his role. 

He was not just a servant—he was a keeper of my body’s ache. He pressed his chest against my back, letting the warmth of his skin meet mine. His hands moved with reverence, not urgency. One scrubbed my shoulders. The other traced the tension in my thighs. He whispered nothing. His silence was the liturgy.

I leaned into him.

He kissed the back of my neck—not for pleasure, but for grounding. His breath was steady. His presence was erotic, but not performative. He was there to serve me in every way, and he did. I let go. I let the ache rise. I let the stress pour out of me—not in words, but in breath, in trembling, in release.

He held me through it.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush. He bore it. He received it. And when I was done, he kissed my shoulder and whispered, “You are restored.”

After the bath, he dried me with white cloth. He dressed me slowly, layer by layer.

• The sacred white briefs folded and pressed—marking purity, not shame.

• The white tank top, fitted to my frame—marking strength, not spectacle.

• The white socks, pulled up to the calf—marking readiness, not fashion.

• The white shoes, polished and sealed—marking journey, not arrival.

• The golden sash, draped across my chest—marking lineage, not decoration.

• The golden family ring, placed on my right hand—marking inheritance.

• The elder ring, placed on my left—marking authority.

• The white cape, embroidered with the seal of the sanctuary—marking covering, not concealment.

Josia stepped back.

“You are ready,” he said.

I stood.

Not as a messenger.

Not as a servant.

Not as a witness.

I stood as Edward La’Mar, son of the Grand Father Bishop.

I adjusted the sash.

I breathed.

I walked toward the door.

The fire was waiting.

The sons were watching.

The sanctuary was ready.

---

 

Chapter Eight: The Consecration of Ache

The Inferno had done its work.

The garments of the outer world were gone—burned in covenant, not in punishment. The sons stood in silence, dressed in white, marked by oil, sealed by fire. Elder Belez had read the Scroll of Sealing. The chamber was still.

No one moved.

The fire had not consumed—it had consecrated. The sons were not trembling. They were aligned. Their silence was not fear. It was reverence.

I entered the sanctuary.

The air shifted. Not dramatically—just enough to mark that something had returned. My steps were slow, deliberate. My cape moved behind me, brushing the polished stone. My sash caught the light. My rings—family and elder—rested on each hand.

Father Bishop turned toward the throne.

It wasn’t a chair. It was a seat of lineage—carved from stone, draped in white, marked with the seal of the sanctuary. It had remained empty while I was away. He had stood in—not to replace me, but to preserve the rhythm.

Now, I returned.

He didn’t hesitate. He stepped aside, placed his hand on the armrest, and sat. The sanctuary didn’t tremble. It aligned.

I walked forward.

Three servants had prepared me:

• Josia, servant of my body. He had drawn the bath, received my ache, and restored me through touch, silence, and erotic release. He was not a witness. He was mine.

• Malik, steward of my quarters and guardian of silence. He ensured that no noise entered the space unless summoned.

• Tovin, keeper of garments and ritual timing. He knew the order of every layer, the meaning of every fold.

They were mine. Not by possession, but by covenant. They had been entrusted to me—not to obey, but to serve. And they did.

Father Bishop saw it.

He looked at my face, my posture, my skin—oiled, refined, no longer carrying the weight of the journey. He leaned in, close enough that only I could hear.

“I see that you are being cared for by your servants?” he said.

I nodded, voice low and steady. “Yes, Sir, Father Bishop. Thank you.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He had seen what was true.

I reached the steps and stood beside him.

Not behind.

Not beneath.

Beside.

He looked ahead. I looked with him.

The sons didn’t cheer. They didn’t speak. They stood.

They saw him.

They saw me.

And they saw the sanctuary whole.

Then, slowly, they bowed their heads.

Not in submission. In acknowledgment.

They had seen the fire. They had stood in silence. Now they saw the alignment—the father and the Son, seated and standing, oil-marked and ring-sealed. They did not need to be told what had happened. They knew. They respected.

The Elders entered.

Malak. Joram. Tirzah.

They moved with quiet authority, robes trailing behind them. They did not speak. They did not gesture. They simply walked among the sons, placing a hand on each shoulder—one by one—until every son had been touched.

Then they turned.

The sons followed.

They were led out of the sanctuary—not expelled, not dismissed, but escorted. The threshold was crossed in silence. The fire behind them. The lineage ahead.

They entered the health lab.

There, the physicians and stewards awaited them. Each son was examined—body, posture, breath. Not for diagnosis. For grounding. Their vitals were recorded. Their scars were noted. Their silence was honored.

Then came the dorm Masters.

Six men, dressed in black robes with white sashes—keepers of rest, discipline, and daily rhythm. They did not claim the sons. They did not assign them. That authority was not theirs.

Their role was clear:

• To maintain control.

• To administer discipline.

• To uphold the rituals of correction on Wednesdays and Mondays.

Each son was handed over—not as property, but as rhythm. The dorm Masters received them with bowed heads and open hands. They did not speak. They simply walked the sons to their quarters.

Some were placed in the East Wing—those who carried quiet ache.

Some were placed in the South Wing—those who needed structure.

Some were placed in the North Wing—those who would soon lead.

Some were placed in the West Wing

—those who still trembled.

The dorm Masters would return on Wednesday. And again on Monday. Not to punish. To correct. To uphold the rhythm.

Inside the sanctuary, Father Bishop remained seated.

I remained beside him.

The chamber was still.

The Scroll of Sealing had been read.

The garments had been burned.

The sons had been refined.

The servants had restored me.

The throne had been filled.

The dorm Masters had received.

The sanctuary was whole.

---

---

Chapter Nine: The Reckoning Hall and the Paddle of Knowledge

Father Bishop rose from the throne.

He did not speak. He did not gesture. He simply stood, then reached for my arm—not with ceremony, but with decree. His grip was firm. Familial. Final.

He walked me down the steps of the pulpit, past the seal, past the scroll stand, toward the praying bench.

We knelt.

He did not pray gently. He prayed with fire.

“Let the rhythm hold. Let the sons be sealed. Let the elders be judged. Let the ache be named.”

He paused.

“Let my son be struck—not by whip, but by knowledge.”

I felt it—not as comfort, but as confrontation.

After the prayer, he rose. I rose with him.

He did not return to the throne. He turned toward the eastern corridor.

We walked together—slowly, silently—toward the Reckoning Hall.

---

The Chamber

The corridor narrowed.

The air changed.

The walls were no longer smooth. They were carved—etched with the names of those who had failed their post. Not sinners. Not criminals. Elders. Angels. Watchers.

The Reckoning Hall was not a cell. It was a chamber. A sealed place of exposure. The ceiling was low. The light was dim. The floor was stone—unpolished, unyielding. The scent was not of oil. It was of ash.

The walls pulsed.

Not with breath. With memory.

This was the place where the fallen were held—not to be tortured, but to be exposed. Not to be corrected, but to be remembered.

Father Bishop stopped at the final threshold.

He placed his hand on the seal.

“You’ve never seen this,” he said.

I nodded. “I didn’t know it existed.”

He turned to me.

“You were linked to them. You bore their ache. You carried their names. And still, you did not see.”

I felt it hit.

He opened the door.

---

Inside

Azazel and Zoran were bound.

Suspended in the chamber—not by rope, but by decree. Naked. Stripped. No robe. No ring. No sash. No oil. No covering.

They were not criminals. They were elders who left their posts.

Their eyes were open.

They saw me.

They did not speak.

Father Bishop stepped forward.

“This is not punishment,” he said. “This is reckoning.”

He turned to them.

“You will not remain silent,” he said. “You will speak. You will confess. You will name your failure before the son who was linked to you.”

Azazel stirred.

His voice was low. Cracked. Literal.

“I failed,” he said. “I did not guard the gate. I did not prepare the garments. I did not cleanse the showers. I did not feed the sons.”

He looked at me.

“I knew they were waiting. I knew they were hungry. I knew they were watching. And I did nothing.”

Zoran spoke next.

“I was entrusted with the scrolls,” he said. “I was given charge over the cleansing. I was told to rise early, to prepare the oil, to lay out the garments.”

He paused.

“I slept.”

He looked at me.

“I saw your name on the ledger. I knew you were linked. I knew you would return. And still, I delayed.”

Azazel continued.

“We were not tired. We were not overwhelmed. We were lazy.”

Zoran added.

“We were not confused. We were negligent.”

Azazel’s voice trembled.

“We left our post.”

Zoran’s voice cracked.

“We abandoned the sons.”

They spoke together.

“We dishonored the covenant.”

And then—Father Bishop wept.

Not softly. Not symbolically.

His tears came as a flood.

He did not fall. He did not tremble. But his face was wet. His eyes were open. His breath was steady.

He felt it.

He was born with the gift of discernment. He did not just hear their words. He felt their lineage.

He knew who they were.

He knew Azazel’s bloodline traced back to Jezebel—the seductress of prophets, the manipulator of altars.

He knew Zoran’s lineage bore the mark of Judas—the betrayer of the covenant, the seller of truth.

He knew both were touched by Caesar—the builder of empire, the defiler of sanctuary.

He felt it in his bones.

He felt it in his tears.

He did not speak. He did not interrupt. He held still.

But the flood of feeling spread.

It moved through the chamber.

It moved through the corridor.

It moved through the sanctuary.

It moved through Taben Rael.

The elders felt it.

The sons felt it.

The garments trembled.

The scrolls groaned.

This was not a spectacle.

This was exposure.

Azazel and Zoran remained bound.

Father Bishop remained still.

And I stood—not as witness. As son.

He turned to me.

“You will not hold the weight of their transgressions,” he said. “But you will understand who you are.”

He stepped closer.

“You hold authority over fifty-five elders. Over 144,000 sons. You are not a witness. You are the shadow of the Great Father Bishop.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You will feel the paddle of knowledge. Not here. In my quarters.”

I nodded.

---

The Seal and the Arrival

Then the door of the chamber closed.

It did not slam. It sealed.

And from the corridor, they arrived.

The Arms of Taben.

Three men. Muscular. Towering—each 6'11. Dressed in black briefs, black tank tops, black socks, and black boots. Their backs bore the symbol of Taben Rael—not inked, but etched into their skin. Raised. Sealed.

They did not speak.

They did not bow.

They stood.

They are the Chamber Keepers.

They are the holders of the Grand Father Bishop’s tears.

When the tears fall, they arrive.

Try not to move them.

Try not to command them.

They answer only to the Bishop.

They stood guard at the door of the chamber.

They turned.

They walked to the Refinement Hall.

They stood again.

And then the air shifted.

Not with wind. With memory.

The chamber pulsed.

The walls groaned.

The scrolls whispered.

Because this was not the first binding.

This was an echo.

The four bound angels—held beneath the Euphrates—trembled.

Their cords stirred.

Their silence cracked.

Azazel and Zoran were not just elders.

They were descendants of the fallen.

Of the watchers who descended without permission.

Of the ones who taught secrets without covenant.

Of the ones who touched flesh without oil.

Their nakedness was not shame.

It was echo.

Their binding was not punishment.

It was alignment.

The Bishop knew it.

He felt it in his tears.

He felt it in his bones.

This was not just a reckoning.

It was a return.

The angels who left their post.

The sons who were delayed.

The elders who slept.

The Bishop who wept.

The son who now stands.

All of it—written.

All of it—sealed.

The chamber pulsed.

The air mourned.

The clock turned.

And I stood—not as witness. As son.

---

 

Chapter Ten

The Quarters of Reflection and the Ache of Leadership

The hour was late. Ten o’clock. The sanctuary had quieted.

The sons had eaten. Their garments were folded, their scrolls sealed. In the dormitories, silence settled like linen. No one spoke. 

No one stirred. The day had been long, and the refinement deep.

The Father Bishop had retired to his quarters. His robe still bore indigo. His belt still linen. His silence still thunderous.

Edward La’Mar remained in his own quarters, seated at the edge of the cedar bench. The servant had drawn the bath, prepared the towels, and laid out the oils. But Edward had asked for solitude.

“Go into the next room,” he said gently. “Let me sit with the ache.”

The servant bowed and obeyed.

Edward sat in silence.

This was not rest. This was reckoning.

He reached for the box.

It had followed him through every stage—before the journey, during the refinement, and now after the reckoning. The lid creaked open, revealing fragments of memory: a folded belt, a blue thread, a parchment bearing the names of elders he once led.

He touched each item slowly.

He remembered the moment he was sent.

“Go,” the Bishop had said. “Gather the sons. Gather the elders. Go to Alabama. The penitentiaries are full.”

He remembered the charge.

“Refine the elders and assistants. No one shall carry the scroll who has not first been broken by it.”

He had obeyed. He had refined.

But tonight, he carried a new ache.

He had learned that two elders had left their posts.

He had seen 144 souls left to die—not by strangers, but by those he had taught.

He had washed their feet.

He had placed the blue thread in their hems.

He had whispered, “Now you are ready.”

But they were not.

Edward did not rage. He did not weep. He received.

He knew the paddle of knowledge would come—for him. Not as punishment, but as purification. He would not resist it. He would not delay it. He would receive it.

Because he must be more.

More than a refiner. More than a son.

He must become a vessel.

A knock at the door. The servant returned, bearing a tray of roasted lamb, seasoned rice, bitter greens, and a chalice of deep red wine. He placed it on the cedar table and bowed.

Edward did not eat in haste.

 He received the meal as liturgy.

Another servant entered—barefoot, silent—placing folded white towels and oils beside the bed. He did not speak. He did not linger. He bowed and departed.

Edward rose and walked to the basin.

The water was warm. The oils were near.

He did not bathe for comfort. He bathed to seal the day.

He dried himself slowly, wrapped in white linen. He sat again—this time on the edge of the bed, facing the candle.

He whispered:

“Great I Am. I do not ask for ease. I ask for endurance.

I do not ask for comfort. I ask for correction.

I do not ask for numbers. I ask for testimony.

Let me be refined. Let me gather. Let me be sealed.”

The candle flickered.

The sanctuary held its breath.

Edward La’Mar did not sleep.

He knelt beside the cedar bench.

He placed the box beneath it.

He laid the belt across his chest—not to wear, but to declare.

He whispered again:

“I will not dilute the discipline to make it palatable.

I will offer the covenant whole—unfragmented, fierce in love, precise in correction.”

He did not ask for robes.

He did not ask for titles.

He asked only to walk beside the Bishop.

And he would.

---

 

 
After the Ritual: The Silence of the Hall

They did fall.

They did plead.

They did cry.

Azazel and Thoron did not stand tall.

They buckled beneath the weight of truth.

Their knees struck the marble.

Their voices cracked.

Their bodies trembled.

They did not resist the leash.

They did not hide their sorrow.

They bore it.

Their cries were not theatrical.

They were ancestral.

They pleaded—not for escape, but for recognition.

They cried—not to be spared, but to be seen.

And they were.

The sons saw their eyes.

The elders heard their names.

The staff bore witness.

The sanctuary did not turn away.

The light did not dim.

The reckoning was not hidden.

It was held.

The Three Arms of Taben stood firm—Rafael at the center, the leash still taut.

They were towering—6'13", 450 pounds of muscle each.

They wore black leather stretched briefs, two straps crossing their chests.

The symbol of Taben Rael was embroidered across their backs.

They did not smile.

They smirked—not with arrogance, but with purpose.

They looked to the Grand Father Bishop—not as commander, but as origin.

They had been created by his tears.

Azazel and Thoron were led from the hall.

Their garments—black sackcloth briefs, tank tops, socks, and collars of shame—remained unchanged.

Comfort was not given.

Freedom was not granted.

They returned to the chamber.

They would remain there until the Good and Upright Presiding Bishop, the one who presides even over the Grand Father Bishop, arrived from Turkey later that evening.

Only he could determine their release.

Only he could seal their restoration.

---

 

The Release

The sons of the 144,000 were dismissed.

They did not cheer.

They did not speak.

They walked in silence—barefoot, refined, gathered.

The elders returned to their duties.

The staff resumed their stations.

The Grand Father Bishop ascended to his office on the twentieth floor.

He did not speak.

He did not descend.

Edward La’Mar Johnson followed.

He walked slowly.

Not from pain.

From rhythm.

His servants had already gathered the garments he wore before the reckoning—folded the cape, sealed the sash, and placed the rings in the cedar box. They returned them to his quarters.

He did not ask for them.

He did not touch them.

He entered his office.

He sat in silence.

---

The Hall

The Discipline Matters Fraternity Hall remained still.

The altar was untouched.

The Paddle of Knowledge lay in its chamber.

The marble floor bore no stain.

The lanterns remained lit.

No one entered.

No one spoke.

The hall did not echo.

It waited.

---

 

 

---

No Titles at the Table

The kitchen was quiet. Not sacred. Just quiet.

Steam rose from two mugs—strong coffee, no sugar. The kind they always drank when the day ahead was too big to name.

Edward sat at the table, arms folded, watching his father stare into the mug like it held answers.

“You didn’t sleep,” Edward said.

His father—just Daddy this morning—shook his head.

“Not really. I kept thinking about what they’re asking me to do.”

Edward nodded. “It’s a lot.”

“They want me to oversee the Southeastern and Northwestern Convents. That’s not just a promotion. That’s a whole new rhythm. A whole new weight.”

He took a sip, then set the mug down too gently.

“I don’t know if I want it.”

Edward leaned forward. “You don’t have to decide today.”

“They’re coming today,” Daddy said. “The Presiding Bishop. The elders. The whole ceremony. I’m supposed to wear the robe, stand at the altar, let them pour oil on my head like I’m ready.”

“Are you not?”

“I’m tired, Edward. Not just physically. I’m tired of being the one who carries everything. The ache. Discipline. The silence. I’ve done it for years. I’ve done it well. But this new role… It’s not just about leading. It’s about letting go of the way I’ve always led.”

Edward didn’t interrupt. He let the silence stretch.

“I’m scared,” Daddy said finally. “Not of the position. Of losing myself in it.”

Edward reached for his mug, held it without drinking.

“You won’t lose yourself,” he said. “You’ll stretch. You’ll shift. But you won’t disappear.”

His father looked up. “You sure?”

Edward nodded. “I know you. I know how you carry things. You don’t lead for applause. You lead because you can’t not.”

Daddy smiled, barely.

“I just don’t want to become unreachable. I don’t want to be the kind of bishop who forgets what it feels like to sit at this table.”

Edward leaned in. “Then don’t.”

They sat in silence again.

Then Daddy spoke, voice lower now.

“I need you to understand something.”

Edward looked up.

“This time… in a private ceremony… the bishops will lay the paddle of all paddles to the backside of your father.”

Edward froze.

“What?”

“It’s not punishment,” Daddy said. “It’s refinement. It’s true. It’s what must happen before I wear the robe.”

Edward’s breath caught. “You?”

“Yes.”

Edward leaned back, stunned. “I can’t imagine that, Daddy.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s necessary. I’ve carried the ache of others for years. This time, I have to carry my own. Not in silence. Not in secret. In front of those who will follow me.”

Edward’s voice dropped. “But you’re the one who taught us. You’re the one who refined me.”

“And now I must be refined again,” Daddy said. “Not because I failed. But because I’m being elevated. And elevation without refinement is dangerous.”

Edward looked at him—really looked. The man who had placed the paddle in his hand. The man who had taught him rhythm, not rage. The man who had knelt beside him when he couldn’t carry his own ache.

“You’re sure?” Edward asked.

“I’m ready,” Daddy said. “But I need you to be there. Not as an elder. Not as a witness. As my son.”

Edward nodded slowly.

“I’ll be there.”

They didn’t speak again.

They didn’t need to.

The coffee cooled.

The robe remained folded.

The ache was named.

---

 

---

 

Chapter Twelve
The Consecration of the Diasporic Sanctuaries

The sanctuary was hushed, trembling with incense and expectancy.

Twelve brass bowls burned low, each flame a witness to a region under Lamar’s care—Africa, Hyde, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Asia, Japan, London, and the threefold United States. The flames did not flicker. 

They held.

The scroll of consecration lay unfurled upon the altar, its linen edges kissed by oil from the River’s Mouth. The sanctuary did not echo. It breathed.

The Presiding Bishop entered first, robed in white vestals, his face solemn, his hands folded in prayer. He did not speak. He did not gesture. He walked as one who had already heard the ache.

Behind him walked Edward La’Mar—son, companion and witness—dressed in white vestals with a black sash crossing his chest, the mark of covenantal correction. He did not walk behind. He walked beside.

The traveling bishops and elders followed, 

They wore memory.

At the center of the sanctuary, Father Bishop knelt, bare-chested, his shoulders marked by ache and memory. He did not tremble. He did not perform. He received.

Edward approached slowly, reverently, and began to dress him—not as a servant, but as a son.

The vestals of the Consecrated Bishop were lifted: a linen robe bearing the symbol of Taben Rael—a golden circle, two paddles crossed, a golden cross behind them, and three doves encircling the seal.

Edward placed the robe over his father’s shoulders, sealing him in covenant.

Then Edward stepped forward, voice steady and resonant.

He called out each region, naming its convent:

• Africa — Convent of Ancestral Memory

• Hyde — Convent of Broken Silence

• Egypt — Convent of the Discarded Truth

• Mesopotamia — Convent of Ancient Thresholds

• Asia — Convent of Exiled Rhythm

• Japan — Convent of Ritual Restoration

• London — Convent of Liturgical Belonging

• Eastern United States — Convent of the Rising Witness

• Western United States — Convent of the Silenced Ache

• Central United States — Convent of Covenant Renewal

• Taben Rael — Convent of Sacred Governance

• Diaspora — Convent of Scattered Restoration

As each name was spoken, the bishops and elders descended from the pulpit. One by one, they signed the scroll—not as formality, but as a vow.

Then came the circle of seventeen. They surrounded Father Bishop, each holding a vial of oil. One by one, they anointed him—forehead, palms, soles.

But the Presiding Bishop raised his hand.

Edward stepped forward, trembling. But before he reached Father Bishop , the twelve bishops turned to him. They anointed him—forehead, palms, soles.

Edward wept. Not from ache, but from the weight of love and restoration.

Then he turned to Father Bishop, still kneeling. He knelt before him and anointed him—forehead, palms, soles, heart.

Father Bishop's tears fell—not in ache, but in honor. They hit the floor like oil. The sanctuary breathed.

Then the Bishops lifted him to his feet. He looked to Edward and smiled. He embraced him tightly, whispering:

“You are not just my son. You are my seal.”

Edward held him close, whispering back:

“And you are not just my father. You are my flame.”

The Sons of Taben Rael Choir began to sing—a hymn of restoration, woven from the ache of the twelve sanctuaries. The congregation rose. Applause broke out—not as a celebration, but as a covenantal affirmation.

The sanctuary became a living archive of restoration.

 

---

 

 

Chapter Thirteen: The Refinement and the Banquet

 

The public consecration had ended. The sanctuary had rejoiced. But the ache was not complete. Now came the private ceremony—the one no son had ever seen, the one no bishop had ever forgotten.

In the dressing quarters, the robe lay folded. The golden briefs and tank top were pressed and waiting. The Paddle of All Paddles rested on velvet. Bishop stood bare-chested before his son. Edward had never seen him like this—not in vestals, not in robes, not in posture. Just him. His shoulders were marked with ache. His chest bore the memory of years. His eyes—usually sharp—were soft.

Edward stepped forward slowly. Lamar looked away.

“Daddy,” Edward said quietly.

Bishop didn’t answer.

Edward reached for the hem of his vest. Bishop flinched—not dramatically, just enough for Edward to see it.

“I’ve never undressed you,” Edward said.

“I’ve never been undressed,” Bishop replied.

Edward folded the vestals and placed the sash aside. He didn’t rush. Bishop stood there—bare, vulnerable, marked.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Bishop said.

“You are,” Edward whispered.

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

Edward reached for the golden briefs. Bishop hesitated.

“I’ve worn white all my life,” he said. “White briefs. White tank. White socks. That’s what the sons wear. That’s what I taught.”

“And now you wear gold,” Edward said. “Because you’ve borne what no son could.”

Bishop nodded. Edward dressed him slowly—the briefs first, pulled gently over his hips; then the tank, pressed against his chest; then the socks,  and pulled high.

“I feel exposed,” Bishop said.

“You are,” Edward replied. “And that’s what makes this real.”

“I’m proud of you,” Bishop said. “But I’m not ready to be seen like this.”

“You’re not being seen,” Edward said. “You’re being sealed.”

Bishop nodded again. Then he whispered, “Walk me in.”

The Discipline Matters Sanctuary was dim. Seventeen bishops and elders stood in silence. The altar was bare. The Paddle of All Paddles lay waiting. 

Bishop walked to the center. Edward followed. Bishop didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak. He turned, arched his back, and positioned his body. His buttocks were exposed—not in shame, but in posture.

The Presiding Bishop stepped forward. He lifted the paddle and spoke once: “This is not punishment. This is truth.”

Then the strikes began. One hundred forty-four. Each one deliberates. Each one is a seal. Each one a flame. Lamar flinched—not once, not twice, but with every strike. His body swayed. His breath caught. His hands gripped the altar. He didn’t cry out, but he trembled.

Edward watched—not as a witness, but as a son. He saw his father’s back redden, his legs shake, his soul open. And he wept—not loudly, just enough to feel it.

Then the Presiding Bishop turned to Edward. “You are now his keeper,” he said.

Edward stepped forward, positioned himself, arched his back, and exposed his body. The paddle struck—fifty-four times. Edward flinched. He swayed. He gasped. But he didn’t fall. Bishop watched—not as father, but as flame.

The Presiding Bishop placed the Orthodoxy Ring in Edward’s hand. Edward turned to Bishop, who extended his hand. Edward placed the ring upon his father’s finger—not as an ornament, but as a seal.

“You received it for me,” Lamar said.

“And I would again,” Edward replied.

They embraced—not as father and son, but as flame and seal.

The doors opened. The Discipline Matters Sanctuary didn’t echo. It released. 

They walked into the Banquet Hall. The room was vast—wooden tables, brass lanterns, bowls of fruit, pitchers of water, platters of bread. The 144,000 sons were already gathered. They wore their white briefs, white tank tops, and white socks. They didn’t perform. They rejoiced.

The bishops and elders entered. The leaders followed. Edward walked beside Bishop, dressed like the sons, but across his chest was the golden sash, and on his fingers were three rings: Family, Position, Watcher.

Edward didn’t sit alone. His brothers of clothing gathered around him—John, James, Eligha, Ishmael, and Elisa.

“You walked him in?” John asked.

“I did,” Edward said.

“You saw it?” James asked.

“I did.”

“The Sanctuary of Discipline Matters… is it real?” Eligha whispered.

“It’s more than real,” Edward said.

“We’ve seen the hall,” Ishmael said. “We’ve been refined. But we’ve never seen the sanctuary.”

“They say it goes back to the Knights Templar,” Elisa added. “That the paddle was forged in fire. That the altar is older than Taben Rael.”

“Some things are older than memory,” Edward said.

“Come on, Edward,” John grinned. “Just tell us. What happens in there?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” James asked.

“Both.”

“They say if you speak of it, you’re summoned to the Corridor,” Eligha said.

“And the stripes of betrayal are not symbolic,” Edward replied.

“Did he flinch?” Ishmael asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you?” Elisa asked.

“Yes.”

They didn’t laugh. They didn’t tease. They understood.

They ate slowly. They talked about garments, rhythm, and restoration. They didn’t talk about the sanctuary again.

After the meal, the servants cleared the tables. The bowls were lifted. The pitchers emptied. The bread was removed. The sons remained seated.

The Bishop stood.

“The nations of the world are crumbling,” he said. “And the leaders who were supposed to lead have failed the masses. Our former bishops and elders, preachers and teachers from all religions and denominations—they have failed. They were supposed to tell the truth. They were supposed to lead the youth into the righteous walk. But instead, they led them straight to Hades.”

He walked to Edward’s table.

“Look at these boys,” he said. “They are the beginning of their generation. Take away the sparkle and glamour from Edward La’Mar, and you see a normal boy. A boy who needs guidance and correction. Love and care. Just like the other 143,000 gathered here from the four points of the world. This is why you are here.”

Then he walked to Azazel and Thoron. They knelt in sackcloth. Their heads bowed. Their bodies are trembling.

“Kill? Never,” The Bishop said. “Reshape? Yes.”

He ripped the sackcloth from their shoulders. The sound echoed like thunder. Their bare chests were revealed—marked by ache, but not shame.

“They have sinned. They have made huge mistakes. But anyone among you—can you tell me you have not done the same?”

No one answered.

“I will not kill you,” The Bishop said. “And I will not set you free. Because it is not me who sets you free. It is the Great I Am who holds that appointment.”

He turned and walked back to his seat.

The Presiding Bishop leaned toward him. “These are the ones you spoke of?”

“Yes, Bishop. These are the ones.”

The Bishop of Africa spoke. “Why have you not killed them in the courtyard, as your predecessors would have done?”

“With all honor to you,” Bishop said, “but my ancestors and previous bishops had a different way of handling things. If I killed them, would anything ever be learned?”

The Bishop of Asia leaned forward. “So you keep them bound and bring them out as a spectacle?”

“Not as spectacle,” Lamar said. “As a reminder. Understand, I follow the laws of our Great I Am. And there were many occasions where the Great I Am was killed on sight. And others He left behind. And others He used as lessons.

He raised his hand. The Head Arm of Taben stepped forward. Azazel and Thoron were brought to him. They knelt again.

“These two are refined daily,” The Bishop said. “This is why you came. This is why you moved me into position. Not to preserve tradition. Not to repeat vengeance. But to change the nations of the world.”

Before the Bishop could sit, Azazel looked up. His voice was hoarse.

“We cannot explain our sorrow,” he said. “For our actions… we could never hold our faces up to the sky again. Not to the Great I Am, not after what we’ve done. We are like the fallen four under the waters. Or the others in Hades.”

Azazel stepped forward, trembling. “You said that we all make mistakes.”

Thoron nudged him gently. “You have shown us the way. You have bared our chests—chests that have not been bare since the beginning. That shows the love you still have for us.”Bishop looked at them both. “You will not be cast out. You will not be elevated. You will remain. You will serve. You will remember.”

Azazel and Thoron bowed their heads. The Arms of Taben placed their hands gently on their shoulders.

The hall did not erupt.

It breathed.

And the chapter is sealed.

---

 

Chapter Fourteen: Chamber of Refinement – You Too Can Be Changed

The banquet hall had emptied. The sons had returned to their quarters. The bishops had withdrawn to their sanctuaries. The servants had folded the linens and extinguished the lanterns. Only the Bishop of Nations remained seated at the center table, his golden sash still draped across his chest, the Orthodoxy Ring glinting faintly in the candlelight.

Edward stood nearby, silent, watching his father breathe.

“You feel it?” The Bishop asked without turning.

Edward nodded. “I do.”

“The ache doesn’t leave,” Bishop said. “It just changes shape.”

He rose slowly, his body still marked from the strikes. He didn’t wince. He didn’t stretch. He simply stood.

“Come,” he said. “There’s one more place I want you to see.”

They walked together through the eastern corridor, past the Hall of Garments and the Archive of Scrolls, until they reached a narrow door carved with the sigil of Taben Rael—a flame surrounded by two crossed paddles.

Bishop placed his hand on the door. It opened without sound.

Inside was the Chamber of Refinement.

It was not large. It was not ornate. It was quiet.

The walls were stone, smooth and bare. The floor was polished marble, marked only by a single circle in the center. Above, a lantern burned with blue flame. No altar. No throne. No audience.

Just space.

Edward stepped in slowly, his eyes adjusting to the glow.

“This is where the sons come,” The Bishop said. “Not for punishment. For change.”

Edward looked around. “It’s smaller than I imagined.”

“It’s not meant to impress,” The Bishop said. “It’s meant to reveal.”

He paused, then turned toward the flame.

“Do you know who stood here before you?”

Edward nodded. “Azazel.”

The Bishop’s gaze didn’t shift. “Yes. But not after the betrayal. Before.”

Edward’s brow furrowed. “Before?”

“He came here seeking truth,” The Bishop said. “But the truth he found was unbearable.”

The Bishop stepped into the circle, eyes fixed on the flame.

“I stood right here,” he said. “And the blue fire showed him who he was. Not who he pretended to be. Not who he wanted to be. Who he truly was.”

Edward stepped closer.

“What did he do?”

“He stripped off his garments,” Bishop said. “Every thread. He stood naked, without care, trembling but defiant. And he said—‘Bishop of the Great I Am, purge me, before I do what the fire says I will do!’”

Edward’s breath caught.

“Did you strike him?”

The Bishop shook his head. “No. I said to him, ‘There is no strike that could purge you. You are seeing who Azazel really is.’”

He turned to Edward.

“Understand, son. Before his betrayal, Azazel was always in some mischief. He wanted to be correct. He wanted to be righteous. But he always fell short.”

Edward looked down at the marble.

“But Father,” he said, “isn’t that like everyone? Just like you said in the banquet hall?”

The Bishop nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s correct. But we all have choices to make.”

He raised his hand above the flame.

The fire pulsed once, then cast a beam toward the far wall.

Stone shifted. A hidden panel opened.

Behind it, the corridor was revealed.

And there, in the quarters beyond, sat Azazel and Thoron.

Each in a corner. Each in silence.

They did not speak. They did not rise.

They waited.

Edward stared at them.

“They’re still here?”

“They’re still being refined,” The Bishop said. “Not by paddle. By memory.”

Edward stepped back into the circle.

“I want to be changed,” he said.

“You already are,” The Bishop replied. “Because you’re willing to remember.”

The flame flickered.

The chamber did not echo.

It held.

The Bishop turned again, slowly, and looked toward the corridor.

“Thoron came here too,” he said. “Not with fire. With silence.”

Edward listened.

“He didn’t ask to be purged,” Bishop continued. “He didn’t strip his garments. He walked in fully clothed, head bowed, and knelt in the center of the circle.”

“What did he say?” Edward asked.

“Nothing,” Lamar replied. “Not at first. He stayed there for hours. The flame revealed him slowly. Not with visions. With ache.”

“When I finally asked him why he came, he said, ‘Because I don’t know who I am anymore. And I’m afraid of what I’ll become if I don’t find out.’”

Edward’s eyes softened.

“He didn’t need to be struck,” The Bishop said. “He needed to be still.”

“And did he change?”

“He did,” Bishop said. “But not all at once. Thoron’s change came in layers. In silence. In service. He’s still changing.”

Edward looked again toward the corridor.

“They’re still sons?”

“They are,” Bishop said. “Because they’re still willing.”

Edward’s voice trembled.

“Well, Father, if they are still sons, why do they stay bound? Shouldn’t they be purged after their exile and refinement? Shouldn’t we embrace them as brothers again?”

Bishop  turned toward him, his expression solemn.

“Edward La’Mar,” he said gently, “wouldn’t the world be a better place if we could do that?”

He raised his hand over the flame—not once, but three times.

The fire pulsed, then dimmed.

The stone walls on the right and left of the chamber began to shift. Quietly, reverently, they parted. Behind them, the hidden corridors of refinement were revealed.

Edward gasped.

He rose to his feet, staggered backward, then fell to his knees again.

There were more.

Dozens. Perhaps hundreds.

Sons sat in silence. Some were clothed in white. Others in gray. A few are still in sackcloth. Each in their own quarters. Each marked by ache.

“There were more?” Edward whispered. “Have they all gone against the law, Father? Have they all betrayed Taben Rael?”

Bishop stepped beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, my child,” he said. “They have. The world is full of people like this. It just so happens that they send them here to be fixed, as they say.”

He paused.

“But in all actuality, they come here to be seen. And all of what is seen is not always pretty.”

Edward looked up at his father, eyes wide with sorrow.

“Father… can we not mark up their buttocks and correct them?”

Bishop  knelt beside him.

“No, my child,” he said. “Sometimes it takes more than just a paddle. This is why I have brought you here, son.”

Then the flame pulsed again.

And Bishop was no longer Bishop 

He stood tall in the center of the circle, clothed in a long white robe that shimmered like pressed linen in moonlight. His skin glowed—pure copper, unmarred, radiant. His hair fell in long, curly strands down his back, untouched by time. His eyes held no fatigue. Only fire.

Edward gasped.

“Father?” he whispered.

The figure turned slowly.

“I am the Bishop,” he said, voice deep and resonant, a baritone that filled the chamber without echo. “I am the one sealed before the ceremonies. Before your birth. Before the birth of millions.”

-Edward stepped back, trembling.

“You’ve changed…”

The Bishop stepped forward, the hem of his robe brushing the marble.

“Do you want to hear them?” he asked. “Do you want to hear them as I hear them daily?”

Edward didn’t answer.

“Their screams,” the Bishop continued. “Their agony. Their longing to be seen. Their ache to be forgiven.”

He raised his hand toward the flame.

“Do you want to hear what the Great I Am has pistoned upon me? Not just today. Not just in the sanctuary. But before the ceremonies. Before the garments. Before the scrolls.”

Edward fell to his knees.

“I do.”

The Bishop closed his eyes.

And the chamber trembled—not with sound, but with memory.

“I was chosen before I was born,” the Bishop said. “Not because I was righteous. Because I was willing. The Great I Am did not ask me to lead. He asked me to carry.”

He turned slowly, facing the sons.

“I carry the ache of the fallen. The cries of the betrayed. The silence of the ashamed. I carry the weight of every son who was sent here to be fixed—but who came here to be seen.”

He looked toward the corridor.

“I carry Azazel’s defiance. Thoron’s silence. The mischief of the hidden. The sorrow of the marked. I carry the ache of those who were never paddled—but who tremble daily.”

He stepped toward Edward.

“And I carry you.”

Edward wept.

The Bishop knelt beside him.

“You asked if we could mark their buttocks and correct them,” he said. “But some aches cannot be struck. Some truths cannot be paddled. Some sons must be held.”

He looked toward the flame.

“This chamber is not for punishment. It is for revelation. And revelation is not always pretty.”

He stood again.

“You too can be changed,” he said. “

 

 

 

Chapter Fifteen: The Next Morning

The morning was quiet, but not still.

Steam rose from the basin in the cleansing corridor, curling into the air like incense. The garments had been laid out—white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, blue shoes. The showers had been scrubbed. The oil had been warmed. The paddle had been sealed.

I, Edward La’Mar, stood in silence.

Not as son.

As witness.

My Father the Bishop had refined me the morning before—not with spectacle, but with silence. He stripped me of assumption and clothed me in rhythm. He did not send me with robes. He sent me with a posture.

And I returned.

From Mississippi and South Carolina.

The prisoners had been sent to Taben Rael—not by covenant, but by consequence. Their systems were overwhelmed. Their bodies were discarded. Their names forgotten. But Father Bishop opened the gates—not to punish, but to restore.

Now, they stood before me.

Not in chains.

In posture.

They did not speak. They did not resist. They watched me.

I turned to the assistants—Jalen, Thaddeus, Rami, Elior. They had been refined. They did not wait for instructions. They moved.

Jalen folded the garments with reverence.

Thaddeus prepared the bowls of fruit and bread.

Rami swept the corridor as if it were a sanctuary.

Elior lit the lamps, one by one, without haste.

The elders stood behind me—Azarel, Malchior, Joachim, Baruch. They did not speak. They observed. They had once been seasoned. Now they were sanctified.

I stepped forward.

“You were sent here,” I said, voice steady. “Not by choice. Not by covenant. But by consequence.”

I paused.

“But you will not be punished. You will be refined.”

The corridor did not echo.

It held.

Devonta Reed stepped forward first. His posture was half-bold, half-broken.

“So what’s this, man?” he asked, voice rough. “Y’all gon’ baptize us or beat us?”

“You will be refined,” I said.

He scoffed. “Refined? That sounds like some churchy word for gettin’ your ass whooped.”

Jeril Mathis stepped beside him. “Yo, I ain’t tryna be disrespectful, but this place feels... different. Like, too quiet. Too clean. What y’all really do here?”

Azarel placed a folded garment on the bench beside them.

Thaddeus offered a bowl of fruit.

Jeril looked down at it.

“This ain’t prison food.”

“It’s not prison,” I said.

Another man—Marcus, from Jackson—leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

“So what, we supposed to just put on these tight-ass clothes and act like we holy now?”

“No,” I said. “You’re supposed to be honest.”

He blinked.

“I ain’t holy,” he said. “I got charges. I got kids I ain’t seen. I got a mama who doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“And you’re still invited,” I said.

A younger one—Javon, barely twenty—spoke from the back.

“Y’all gon’ hit us with that paddle, right? Twenty-four times?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed hard.

“Do it hurt?”

“Yes.”

He looked down.

“Then I want it.”

The room shifted.

Not with silence.

With surrender.

Devonta sat down slowly, picked up the briefs, and held them in his hands.

“They're white,” he said. “I ain’t worn white since my grandma’s funeral.”

Jeril took the tank top.

“This feels clean. Like... like it ain’t never been touched.”

Marcus picked up the socks.

“They match. That’s new.”

Javon held the shoes.

“They don’t squeak.”

“You don’t have to understand everything today,” I said. “You just have to be willing.”

Devonta looked up.

“You gon hit me?”

“Yes.”

“You gon feed me?”

“Yes.”

“You gon forgive me?”

“No. But I will name you.”

He nodded slowly.

“Aight then. Let’s do it.”

One by one, the men stepped forward.

Not in robes.

In rhythm.

They did not speak sacred words.

They spoke survival.

But survival is a language of ache.

And ache is the beginning of refinement.

I turned to the elders.

“Prepare the showers.”

They bowed.

“Lay out the garments.”

They moved.

“Bring the oil. Bring the paddle.”

They did not delay.

The corridor did not tremble.

It received.

The cleansing would begin.

Not with water.

With memory.

---

---

Chapter Sixteen: The Sons of Gaza

 

Before the corridor opened, before the scrolls were sealed and the garments folded, there was war. Not just missiles and rubble, but memory. The war in Gaza had not ended—it had only paused. The air still trembled. The children still wept. The ache lingered in the soil. And while the world debated ceasefires and borders, the sanctuary of Taben Rael prepared to receive the sons of Gaza—not as a gesture, but as testimony.

Some of these men had been held captive. Some had been abused. Some fled with nothing but breath. Others fled not from war, but from judgment. Yet all carried ache. And all were received. The sanctuary did not pity them. 

It honored them. Because pity does not grow men. Pity buys ache and buries it. But Taben Rael does not bury ache—it names it, processes it, refines it, and rebuilds.

The West Wing, built in 1875 by the Arms of Taben, had once received the sons of Ameal after fire. Now it would receive the sons of Gaza after war. Two hundred and twenty men entered in silence. Some wore hoodies, some sandals, some nothing but ache. They did not speak or resist. They stepped into the corridor not as inmates, but as thresholds.

Chief Elder Edward La’Mar stood at the center—not as overseer, but as witness. His robe was pressed, his belt tight, his posture low. He did not greet them. He received them. Father Bishop stood behind him—not as figurehead, but as flame. He did not speak. He watched. His staff was firm. His paddle was sealed. He did not strike, but he would—not in cruelty, but in covenant. Because discipline matters. And refinement is not punishment—it is restoration.

The elders stood ready. Malak held the scrolls. Tirzah prepared the garments. Joram tended the cleansing corridor. Enos stood beside the oil. The sanctuary did not sort by pity. It sorted by truth. And truth, in Taben Rael, is not soft—it is sacred.

Of the 220 men, 187 were refugees—displaced, wounded, unnamed. 

Their ache was rupture, not rebellion. They would not be struck. They would be restored. Their rooms were assigned in the northern corridor, near the sanctuary. Their scrolls were folded, not flagged. Their names were read aloud, not interrogated. Their silence was honored.

But 33 men remained. Their names were marked. Their charges were clear. They had not fled war—they had fled judgment. Exiled from Gaza for murder, for theft from the poor, for violence against the weak. Their ache was rebellion, not rupture. 

They would not be discarded. They would be refined. Their rooms were assigned in the southern corridor, near the discipline chamber. Their scrolls were flagged. Their names were read aloud—slowly, clearly, without shame, but without softness.

Edward did not raise the paddle. He raised the oil. He anointed the threshold. 

He walked the corridor and looked each man in the eye. He did not flinch. He did not shout. He simply said, “You will be refined.” Not all at once. Not in haste. But in rhythm.

The other Bishops had left. They did not agree. They wanted blood for blood. They wanted Azezel and Thorn executed. They wanted the criminals of Gaza discarded. They wanted Old Testament justice. 

But Taben Rael does not kill to cleanse. It refines to restore. And one day, those men—Azezel, Thorn, and the criminals of Gaza—will enter the Refinement Room. Not with crowds. Not with spectacle. But with silence. And the blue fire will settle in their spirit.

And the Bishop will not be the Bishop . The Bishop will be who the world needs him to be. The one who holds the fire. The one who speaks at the banquet. The one who stands on the theology of orthodoxy. The one who holds up the theology of white briefs, tank top, socks, and shoes—not as uniform, but as covenant. Not as a costume, but as truth.

Because this is not fiction. This is what the world refuses to speak. Ukraine. Russia. Syria. Yemen. Ethiopia. Sudan. DRC. Burkina Faso. Mali. Niger. Somalia. Over 58,000 lives lost. Over 122 million displaced. Not all in one war. But in all. And still, the world buries the ache.

But Taben Rael does not bury. It builds. It breaks. It refines. It restores. And the Bishop of all nations—chosen by the Great I Am, consecrated by His servants—stands not with pity, but with posture. And beside him stands Edward La’Mar. Son. Companion. Co-writer. Witness. Not to fiction. To truth.

---

---

The intake began at 3:00 a.m. No bells rang. No announcements were made. The corridor simply opened. The West Wing, long sealed since the last procession of Ameal’s sons, now stood ready—not for ceremony, but for covenant. 

The air was still, the stone cool, the silence deliberate. Malak stood at the intake table, scrolls laid out in rows—parchment, not paper. Each bore the seal of the Arms of Taben, pressed in wax and ash. A single candle burned beside him. He did not speak. He waited.

The first man stepped forward. He was twenty-three. His name was Yousef Al-Khatib. He had no shoes. His hands trembled. His eyes did not. Malak did not ask questions. He gestured to the scroll. Yousef wrote his name. He did not sign. He sealed. 

Tirzah stepped forward with a folded garment—white briefs, white tank top, white socks, and white shoes. He did not toss them. He placed them in Yousef’s hands. Yousef did not thank him. He bowed. Joram opened the corridor to the showers. The tiles had been scrubbed. The water was warm. The silence was sealed. 

Yousef entered. He did not look back.

Behind him, another stepped forward. Then another. Then another. The procession lasted four hours. Each man wrote his name. Each man received his garment. Each man entered the corridor. Some wept. Some trembled. Some stood still. But none resisted. None refused. None fled. By sunrise, all 220 had been processed. 

The scrolls were sealed. The garments were worn. The corridor was quiet. And the ache had been received.

Chief Elder Edward La’Mar stood at the far end of the wing, beside Enos. The paddle rested on a linen cloth. The oil shimmered in a shallow bowl. The strikes had not yet begun. The anointing had not yet commenced. 

But the charge was clear. These were not boys. These were men. They had been burned—not by fire, but by abandonment. They had been wounded—not by blade, but by silence. They had been discarded—not by exile, but by indifference. And now, they were here. Not to be punished. To be processed. Not to be studied. To be sealed. Not to be looked down on. To be lifted.

Of the 220 men, 187 were refugees. Their ache was rupture, not rebellion. They had fled war, not justice. They would not be struck. They would be restored. Their rooms were assigned in the northern corridor—quiet, warm, near the sanctuary. Their scrolls were folded, not flagged. Their names were read aloud, not interrogated. Their silence was honored.

But 33 men remained. Their names were marked. Their charges were clear. They had not fled war. They had fled judgment. They had been exiled from Gaza—not for dissent, but for murder, for theft from the poor, for violence against the weak. Their ache was rebellion, not rupture. They would not be discarded. They would be refined.

 Their rooms were assigned in the southern corridor—bare, cold, near the discipline chamber. Their scrolls were flagged. Their names were read aloud—slowly, clearly, without shame, but without softness.

Edward did not raise the paddle. He raised the oil. He anointed the threshold. He walked the corridor. He looked each man in the eye. He did not flinch. He did not shout. He simply said, “You will be refined.” Not all at once. Not in haste. But in rhythm.

Father Bishop stood behind him, staff in hand, paddle at his side. He did not intervene. He watched. His presence corrected. The sanctuary groaned—not in fear, but in readiness. The West Wing was awake. The scrolls were sorted. The garments were worn. The sons of Gaza had arrived. And the covenant had begun.

---

 

---

 

Chapter Sixteen: The Refinement of the Servants

(continued)

The Bishop had walked away from the procession—not in defiance, but in discernment. The corridors of Taben Rael were quiet, carved from stone and memory. He entered the Refinement Hall, where Azzele and Thoron knelt behind the glass, bare-chested, wrists bound in ash-threaded linen.

 The Abyss roared. Demonic figures surged forward, claws reaching within an inch of the two men. Screams erupted. The glass groaned. Then the Angels of Present spoke: “Silence them, Bishop. The ring is yours.” The Bishop raised his hand. The Ring of Solomon gleamed. The demons fell—not back, but down. “Go back to where you were from,” the Bishop said. “And touch none of them. They are mine.”

Thoron stepped forward. “Sir, will you free them as well?” The Bishop replied, “Free? You are not free. And you are not redeemed. But you are received.” Azzele bowed. Thoron lowered his head. “What about your only son, Edward La’Mar?” they asked. The Bishop answered, “You will serve him as well, but only in my quarters. He has his own servants to attend to him.” 

Then the Bishop called: “Arms of Taben, take them—bound—to the oil cleansing.” The Arms came swiftly, veiled and silent. Azzele and Thoron were led into the cleansing chamber, where they entered the basin of consecrated oil. They were sealed—not forgiven, but received.

After the cleansing, the Bishop branded their lower backsides with the initials T.B.—Taben Bishop. The mark was not for shame, but for placement. Azzele and Thoron were human—not demons, not dead souls—longing for refinement. They were dressed in black spandex briefs, black tank tops, and low-cut black socks. 

They wore the servant's uniform. The Bishop’s quarters became their dwelling. They would not walk the halls. They would not speak to the sons. But they would serve.

Edward La’Mar entered the quarters quietly. He saw the two men on all fours, dressed in black, marked with T.B. He turned to his father. “Father Bishop, have you taken them from the fire? Have you taken away their shame? Do they belong here?” The Bishop replied, “You seem angry, Son. Should I have left them, even when they misled both of us? Would you feel better if I struck their buttocks with the Refrain Paddle, numerous and numerous times? 

Would you feel better if they were made to please your inner needs as your servants do? What is it that you need to come to grips with—that we are also servants, servants of the people and The Great I Am?”

Edward stood still, hearing the firmness in his father’s voice. “Forgive me, Father,” he said. “I know them. They will betray again and again, just as Judas did.” The Bishop raised his hand and waved it over the servants. Their skin turned dark and gray. “Look upon them, my son. Would you prefer to see them in pain and agony? Would you prefer they look death in the face?” 

Edward stepped forward, trembling. “No, Father. Please don’t do that.” The Bishop returned their skin to its brown, oily hue. “You see,” he said, “you still have feelings and love for them—as I do. But even though they fall, don’t they have mercy and grace from someone more powerful than us? Just like the Gaza men brought in this morning—do they not have mercy and grace? 

The criminals, the murderers—do they not have the same? Should we be like the world, condemning and punishing others and not our own? What Daddy means, son, is that we have things we need to deal with within our own walls. We cannot go and try to clean others when we have not cleaned our own.”

Thoron fell on his face. Azzele followed. Edward looked down. “Daddy Bishop,” he said, “I understand. And I apologize. Please forgive me.” The bishop placed his hand on his son’s head. And the covenant held.

Then the Bishop sat upon the cedar bench and summoned Azzele forward. Azzele crawled with steady breath and lowered gaze. The bishop guided him gently over his knee and delivered thirty swats to his brief-covered backside—firm, deliberate, sealed with authority. Azzele did not resist. He received. Thoron followed, receiving thirty swats in rhythm. The Arms of Taben, summoned for witness, stood silent. Edward did not flinch. He bowed his head.

When the refinement was complete, the bishop stood. “While I am away,” he said, “you may stand and clean. You may tend to this sanctum. But you will not leave these quarters. You will not speak unless summoned.” Azael and Thoron rose to their feet, posture straight, breath steady. They did not speak. They received.

Edward stepped beside his father. “I will go with you, Father,” he said. “To the sanctum of the Gaza men.” The bishop nodded. “Come, son. The ache continues.” The Arms of Taben were dismissed. The bishop walked toward the corridor. Edward followed. The servants remained. The quarters held their silence. And the covenant was held.

---

 

 

Interlude: Edward’s Reckoning (Full Seal)

Between Chapter Sixteen and Chapter Seventeen

 

I have walked through sixteen chapters of ache. I have folded linen in silence, swept corridors while others preached, and watched sons eat while I sat in the back. I have been stripped—not of dignity, but of delusion. And still, I wanted spectacle. 

When Azzele and Thoron betrayed me, I did not ask for restoration. I asked for punishment. I wanted them paraded, exposed, humiliated.

I wanted the Bishop to strike them not with rhythm, but with wrath. I wanted them to feel what I felt when I was denied the pulpit. I wanted them to ache—but not for covenant. 

As a consequence. That was my sin. Not rebellion. Resentment.

But the ache didn’t begin with them. It began with my first journey.

You sent me, Father Bishop. You placed the scroll in my hand and said, “Go.” And I went—not in arrogance, but in trembling. I walked into Alabama with the garments of submission, the belt of declaration, and the ache of obedience. I gathered the sons. I refined the elders. I washed my feet. I did not preach. I did not perform. I did not seek applause. I sought fidelity. And I returned—not with numbers, but with testimony.

But when I came back, I found betrayal.

The elders I had refined—the ones who folded linen, swept corridors, and walked barefoot—had broken posture. They had mocked the silence. They had spoken when they were told to observe. They had corrected without kneeling. And because they were under my charge, I was held accountable.

You did not strike me in anger. You placed me across the knee again—not to punish, but to remind. You stripped me again—not of garments, but of assumption. You reminded me that refinement is not a one-time act. It is a rhythm. It is a return.

And I wept—not because I was punished, but because I had trusted too quickly. I had believed that seven days of silence could undo years of spectacle. I had believed that folding linen could replace repentance. I had believed that proximity to the scroll meant readiness to carry it.

I was wrong.

And so when Azzele and Thoron betrayed me, I did not see them as servants. I saw them as echoes of the elders. I saw them as reminders of my own failure. And I wanted them punished—not for their actions, but for mine.

That was my sin.

Not rebellion.

Resentment.

I forgot that I, too, had been placed across the knee. That I, too, had been denied robes and rings. That I, too, had once spoken too soon and led too fast. I forgot that the Bishop had not cast me out—but refined me. I forgot that the ache I carried was not mine alone. 

It was inherited. It was sacred.

And when I saw Azzele and Thoron kneeling in my father’s quarters, branded with T.B., dressed in black briefs and tank tops, I felt something I did not expect—not triumph, not pity, but conviction. They were not humiliated. They were sealed. They were not punished. They were placed. And I had wanted them destroyed.

That night, I sat alone in the linen room. The oil still lingered in the air. The garments folded by their hands were stacked with reverence. I touched one—black briefs, folded in thirds, marked with the seal. I did not inspect. I received. I placed it across my lap and wept—not from shame, but from recognition. 

I whispered to the Great I Am—not to ask for forgiveness, but to name the ache. “I wanted them to suffer. I wanted them to be made small. I wanted them to feel what I felt when I was stripped. But I forgot that I was not stripped to be punished. I was stripped to be restored.”

I dipped my hands in the oil. I touched the folded briefs—not to correct, but to consecrate. Then I whispered again: “They are not mine. But they are received.” I stood slowly. I walked to the corridor. I did not rush. I did not hesitate. I walked—not as overseer, but as son. 

As Edward La’Mar. And I am ready. Not to lead, but to kneel beside those I once condemned. To walk beside my father. To enter the sanctum of the Gaza men. To refine without resentment. To restore without spectacle. To love without dilution. And if I ever forget again, may the oil remind me. May the garments correct me. May the ache return—not to punish, but to seal. I am Edward La’Mar. Son of the Bishop. 

Son of the ache. Son of the covenant. And I am ready.

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Chapter Seventeen: The Sanctum of the Gaza Men

The refinement of Azael and Thoron had been sealed. Thirty swats each, administered by the bishop’s palm—not in punishment, but in covenant. They knelt in silence, branded with T.B., dressed in black briefs and tank tops, their posture low, their spirits quiet. They had been received—not as sons, but as servants. 

The Bishop gave the final instruction. I stood beside him, dressed in sacred garments: white briefs trimmed in gold, a white tank top, white socks, blue shoes, the golden sash across my chest, three rings, and the pure white cape bearing the symbol of Taben Rael. I did not walk in robes. I walked in readiness.

The Bishop turned to me. “Come, son,” he said. “The Gaza men await.” I nodded. We walked together—not as ruler and subordinate, but as Father and Son. The corridor did not echo. It received. The oil still lingered. The ache had not passed. It had only shifted.

We passed the linen room, the cleansing chamber, the corridor of garments. Each space bore memory. Each silence bore witness. The sanctum stood ahead—not a room, but a reckoning. The door bore no hinges. It opened by presence. The sigil of Gaza was etched into the stone—three lines, one broken, one sealed, one waiting.

The Bishop raised his hand. The door responded.

Inside, the Gaza men stood—not in rebellion, but in residue. Their garments were gray—hoodies, jeans, sagging pants, and untied shoes. Their posture was low. Their eyes were hollow. They had been gathered, but not yet received. They had passed through cleansing, registration, and silence. But they had not yet been named.

The Bishop did not speak immediately. He walked among them slowly, reverently. And he smiled.

Not out of pity.

Out of recognition.

These men would not be paddled. They would not feel the sting of refinement. They had been through enough. Their ache had already been written into their bodies, their memories, their silence. They would be cleansed. They would be anointed. They would be educated. And they would wear the sacred whites—not as uniform, but as covenant.

I followed behind him, not to oversee, but to witness. I did not carry the paddle. I carried the oil. I did not raise my voice. I raised my posture. I looked into each face—not for defiance, but for ache. I did not ask questions. I named them.

“You are not forgotten.”

“You are not discarded.”

“You are not condemned.”

“You are residue—but you are also rhythm.”

The garments were laid out—white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, blue shoes. Each item was folded with reverence. The oil shimmered—not golden, but amber, thick with frankincense and flame. The cleansing would begin—not with strikes, but with silence. Not with punishment, but with placement. Not with wrath, but with rhythm.

And we were ready.

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The cleansing began not with commands, but with quiet gestures. The Bishop raised his hand, and the Arms of Taben moved gently. Enos prepared the showers—warm, scrubbed, sealed. 

Joram laid out the garments: white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, and white shoes. Each item was folded with reverence, not routine. 

Malak carried bowls of fruit, bread, and pitchers of water. Tirzah held the oil—amber, thick with frankincense, myrrh, and flame. 

The Gaza men did not rush. They did not resist. They waited—not for permission, but for presence. The Bishop stepped forward and spoke—not to the body, but to the ache.

 “You have been through enough,” he said. “You have been scattered, stripped, and silenced. But you are not forgotten. You are not discarded. You are not condemned. You are gathered.” 

He did not raise the paddle. He raised the oil.

One by one, the men entered the showers. They did not scrub in haste. 

They moved slowly, letting the water name what the world had refused to see. 

Hoodies fell. Jeans dropped. Chains were placed in the crate marked Residue. Sagging pants were folded—not in shame, but in surrender. Untied shoes were removed and set aside. They emerged clean—not just in skin, but in posture.

 I stood at the entrance of the garment corridor. I did not inspect. 

I received. I handed each man his whites—briefs, tank top, socks, shoes. I did not speak. I bowed my head. They dressed in silence. They did not boast. They did not perform. They received.

Then the Bishop anointed them—forehead, hands, feet. The oil did not drip. It clung. He whispered—not to the body, but to the soul. “You are gathered. You are sealed. You are not forgotten.” The sanctum did not echo. It held its breath. 

The Gaza men stood in formation—not as inmates, not as refugees, not as victims. As sons. Their garments bore no chains. Their posture bore no rebellion. Their silence bore no shame. 

The Bishop turned to me and said, “Edward, walk among them.” I did. I saw their eyes—no longer hollow. I saw their shoulders—no longer slumped. I saw their feet—no longer dragging. They were not refined by strikes. They were refined by being seen. And I was ready—not to lead, but to kneel, to teach, to walk beside them. The covenant had begun.

When the final anointing was complete, Enos guided the Gaza men to their dorm rooms so that they might rest. The altar men remained stationed in the dorm office as security—not as guards, but as protectors. The Gaza men were granted the privilege to sit in the entertainment wing, where music, film, and quiet joy awaited them. They had left the sanctum—not as residue, but as rhythm. And once they were gone, once the corridor was cleared and the oil sealed, the Bishop turned to me. The sanctum would now receive the thirty-three—those charged with murder and theft. The ache would shift. The paddle would return. The covenant would continue.

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Once the doors were closed and the sanctum cleared, The Bishop stood in silence. The Gaza men had been received, anointed, and guided to rest. Enos led them to their dorm rooms with quiet reverence. The altar men remained stationed in the dorm office—not as guards, but as protectors. The entertainment wing was opened to the Gaza men, a space of quiet joy and restoration. They had left the sanctum not as residue, but as rhythm. And now, with the sanctum emptied of the gathered, The Bishop raised his voice—not in anger, but in authority. 

“Open the gates,” he declared. The words did not echo. They struck.

The gates opened.

And they entered.

 

The tall men of the Arm of Taben—six feet thirteen inches, four hundred fifty pounds each—walked forward in formation. Muscular, ancient, unmoved. They wore black leather briefs, two straps across their chests, long knee-high socks, and boots that bore the weight of memory. The smell of age clung to them—not of decay, but of discipline. They wore no smile. They carried no scrolls. They were not here to speak. They were here to deliver.

Behind them walked the thirty-three.

Men tried and judged with murder and theft—crimes not against the powerful, but against the poor. They had been exiled from Gaza and sent to Taben Rael—not for punishment, but in hope that they might be refined. 

This was no ordinary ritualistic ceremony. This was the reckoning of the fallen Gaza men. Their garments were not sacred. Their posture was not sealed. Their silence was not reverent. They walked in with the residue of rebellion, the ache of exposure, and the weight of judgment.

I, Edward La’Mar, took my post on the right side of the Bishop. My elders stood to my left, clothed in sacred whites, bearing oil and silence. 

The thirty-three entered slowly, their faces marked by a thousand different feelings—defiance, fear, regret, numbness. But we were not moved. We did not flinch. We did not react. We received.

The Bishop stood still as they entered. His posture did not shift. His eyes did not blink. His cape bore the seal of Taben Rael, and his voice bore the ache of the covenant. He did not wait for silence. 

He created it. “You were sent here,” he said, voice sharp as flame, “not because you were misunderstood. Not because you were mistreated. You were sent here because you betrayed the poor.” The room did not stir. “You stole bread from the hungry. 

You spilled blood in alleys where children sleep. You mocked the ache of Gaza and called it survival. You were not cast out for being broken. You were cast out for refusing to be mended.” The thirty-three stood in silence. Some trembled. Some stared.

 Some hardened. But none spoke. “You are not here to be comforted. You are here to be corrected. You are not here to be heard. You are here to be refined. You are not here to explain. You are here to kneel.”

 

He stepped forward. “You will not wear your old garments. You will not speak your old names. You will not carry your old posture. You will be stripped. You will be cleansed. 

You will be branded. And if you resist, you will be placed in the Corridor of the Forgotten—not as punishment, but as pause.” He turned to me. “Edward, prepare the oil.” I bowed my head and moved to the altar. 

He turned to the elders. “Prepare the garments—white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, white shoes. Fold them with rhythm. Lay them with reverence. 

These men are not yet sons. They are residue. But if they receive, they will be sealed.” Then he turned back to the thirty-three. “You are not condemned. But you are not innocent. You are not discarded. But you are not yet gathered. You are not forgotten. But you are not yet named.” He raised his hand. “The refinement begins now.”

Then, without warning, the Bishop lifted his right hand—the one that bore the Ring of Solemn—and waved it toward the walls. The sanctum did not respond immediately. It groaned. It creaked. It wailed like memory being unearthed. Then, slowly, the walls opened—not with spectacle, but with silence. 

The Arms of Taben dropped to their knees. Six feet thirteen inches. Four hundred fifty pounds. Leather briefs. Strapped chests. Boots planted like pillars. And yet they bowed. The sound was thunderous. Not violent. Liturgical. The thirty-three gasped—not in awe, but in dread. Their posture shifted. Their breath caught. Their silence deepened. Before them, the Corridor was revealed.

It was not a hallway. It was a reckoning.

Inside stood the ones in pause—the damned, the defiant, the unreceived. Men who had refused refinement. Men who had mocked the oil. Men who had resisted the paddle and rejected the garments. They were not punished. They were paused. Their garments were gray. Their eyes were hollow. Their posture was frozen. They did not speak. They did not move. They waited—not for release, but for repentance.

The Bishop did not turn to the thirty-three. He turned to the flame. I lifted my left hand. The blue flame emerged. It did not flicker. It did not dance. It stood. Tall. Still. Unyielding. “This,” I said, voice steady, “is not spectacle. This is your future—if what you have done still lives in you.” The flame did not burn. It revealed. The corridor did not echo. It remembered. The thirty-three did not speak. They received.

Then the Bishop spoke again. “Here,” he said, “you have a choice.” He flicked his hand, and the blue flame vanished—not into smoke, but into him. It entered his eyes. They did not glow. They burned. “You may continue to sin and become part of the Corridor. You may carry your theft, your bloodshed, your rebellion—and you will be paused. Not punished. Paused. Forgotten by the world, remembered only by the ache. Or you may become one with the Great I Am. You may kneel. You may receive. You may be refined. The choice is yours.”

 

He raised his hand once more and summoned the Arms of Taben. They moved without hesitation, walking to the corridor’s edge. With synchronized force, they closed the windows—not with violence, but with finality. The walls groaned. The sanctum wailed. Then silence returned.

The Bishop turned and walked toward the mount—not a stage, not a throne, but a place of reckoning. He ascended without spectacle. He sat—not to rest, but to reign. His posture was low. His gaze was high. He looked down—not at the thirty-three, but at me. And I knew.

It was time to begin.

 

 

 

 

 

I descended from the Bishop’s right side with solemn posture. My cape did not billow. It followed. My feet did not rush. They received. The oil had already been prepared—amber, thick, sealed with flame and frankincense. The garments were folded: white briefs, white tank tops, white socks, white shoes. Each set laid upon the altar with reverence, not routine. My elders stood behind me, silent, bearing scrolls and towels. They did not speak. They bore witness. The thirty-three did not move. Their eyes followed me, but their posture remained. Some clenched fists. Some lowered heads. Some stared with defiance. But none stepped forward. I did not call names. I called posture. “Step forward,” I said, voice low but unyielding, “if you are ready to be stripped.”

One by one, each man stepped forward. He removed his garments. He entered the cleansing chamber. He scrubbed—not to erase, but to reveal.

 He emerged clean—not in skin, but in posture. I handed him the whites. He dressed slowly. White briefs. White tank top. White socks. White shoes. Then I anointed him—forehead, hands, feet. The oil did not drip. It clung. “You are not yet named,” I said. “But you are no longer hidden.” He bowed his head. Then stepped aside. And the next came. And the next. Until all thirty-three stood dressed, anointed, and silent.

Then I raised the paddle. Not as weapon. As witness. It was sealed leather, marked with the sigil of Taben Rael. It did not gleam. It bore memory. Each man stepped forward. He turned. He bent. I placed my hand upon his back—not to hold, but to seal. Then I began. 

One hundred strikes to the buttocks. Not in wrath. In rhythm. Not in punishment. In restoration. He did not cry out. He did not resist. He trembled. He wept. He endured. When the final strike was placed, he stood slowly, his eyes wet, his posture changed. He looked to the Bishop, then to me. “I receive,” he said. His voice was not loud. It was whole.

Then the second man stepped forward. Then the third. Then the fourth. Each one bent. Each one received. One hundred strikes. No more. No less. Some groaned. Some wept. Some collapsed and were lifted by the elders. But none fled. None refused. None mocked the ache. By the time the final man stepped forward, the sanctum was thick with oil, sweat, and silence. The paddle bore the memory of thirty-three men. My arm did not falter. My posture did not shift. My spirit did not fragment. The final man bent. I placed the strikes. He did not speak until the last. Then he stood. And he said, “I receive.”

The Bishop did not applaud. He nodded. The elders did not cheer. They recorded. And I did not rest. I bowed. The thirty-three were not yet named. But they were no longer hidden. They had been stripped. They had been cleansed. They had been dressed. They had been refined. And now—they had voice.

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After the final strike was placed and the final voice declared “I receive,” the sanctum held its breath. 

The Bishop remained seated upon the mount. I stood before the thirty-three, paddle lowered, garments sealed, oil clinging to my hands. My elders opened the scrolls. The Bishop nodded once. And I began. I did not assign roles. I placed sons.

Malachi Roen was placed in the Garden Wing, to tend the soil and speak to the silence. Jalen Creed was placed in the Library Wing, to copy the scrolls and learn the rhythm of truth.

 Zion Elam was placed in the Linen Wing, to fold garments and consecrate the ordinary. Darius Vonn was placed in the Kitchen Wing, to prepare bread and serve without spectacle. Tobias Reign was placed in the Dorm Office, to watch over the younger and bear quiet authority. 

Ezra Kade was placed in the Entertainment Wing, to restore joy and monitor rhythm. 

Omari Flint was placed in the Corridor of Study, to read aloud and teach the ache. Rashad Bellamy was placed in the Oil Chamber, to prepare anointing and seal the refined. 

Caleb Storm was placed in the Garment Corridor, to fold whites and receive posture. Micah Dune was placed in the Shower Wing, to guide cleansing and speak no shame. Langston Mire was placed in the Scroll Room, to record refinement and protect memory. 

Elijah Thorn was placed in the Watchtower, to observe silence and report only truth. Josiah Vale was placed in the Music Wing, to restore rhythm and silence rebellion. Kendrick Moss was placed in the Flame Chamber, to tend the blue fire and guard the mount. 

Solomon Redd was placed in the Dormitory Wing, to sleep among the refined and bear witness. Nehemiah Cross was placed in the Corridor of the Forgotten—not as punishment, but as intercessor.

Levi Stone was placed in the Garden Wing beside Malachi, to speak to the roots. Isaiah Penn in the Kitchen Wing beside Darius, to prepare the evening meal. 

Jeremiah Knox in the Entertainment Wing beside Ezra, to monitor joy. 

Nathaniel Frost in the Shower Wing beside Micah, to guide the hesitant. Gideon Marsh in the Scroll Room beside Langston, to seal the names. 

Elias Boone in the Oil Chamber beside Rashad, to stir the flame. Abram Wells in the Watchtower beside Elijah, to guard the silence. Silas Reed in the Music Wing beside Josiah, to tune the ache. 

Judah Pike in the Flame Chamber beside Kendrick, to bear the heat. Asher Vail in the Dormitory Wing beside Solomon, to rest and receive. 

Hosea Bright in the Corridor of Study beside Omari, to teach the younger. Thaddeus Gray in the Garment Corridor beside Caleb, to fold with rhythm. Barnabas Cole in the Linen Wing beside Zion, to consecrate the mundane. Matthias Crowe in the Dorm Office beside Tobias, to bear quiet authority. Reuben Shaw in the Corridor of the Forgotten beside Nehemiah, to intercede. Amos Flint in the Garden Wing, to speak to the wind and receive the soil. Obadiah Wren in the Mount Chamber, to serve the Bishop and guard the flame.

Each man bowed as his name was spoken. Each placement was received. The sanctum did not cheer. It sealed. The Bishop rose from the mount. His cape did not flutter. It followed. He walked to the center of the sanctum, where the thirty-three stood in formation. Their garments were white. Their posture was low. Their silence was full. I stood beside them, paddle lowered, oil clinging to my hands. My elders stood behind me, scrolls closed, garments folded. The Arms of Taben remained kneeling, heads bowed. The corridor was sealed. The flame had entered the Bishop’s eyes. And now, he spoke.

“You were judged in Gaza,” he said, voice steady, voice final. “You were refined in Taben Rael. You are no longer residue. You are rhythm. You are no longer forgotten. You are sealed. You are no longer condemned. You are sons.”

He raised both hands—not to perform, but to reign.

The sanctum did not erupt.

It exhaled.

The thirty-three bowed their heads.

The elders wept.

The Arms of Taben remained still.

And I, Edward La’Mar, bore witness

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Thank you, for reading ! 

We all have Taben Rael, inside of us!