Understand, the Fear sees everything, even you. His anger is not turned away, and His hand remains outstretched. How can we, the sons of the prophets, not speak when His words burn in our bones like fire?
Yet we glimpse something beyond wrath. A green shoot from dry ground. A valley where graves give up their dead. A man marred beyond reckoning, yet dividing the spoil with the strong.
So we prophesy woe and weal, setting our faces as flint before your scourgings, your stones, your swords. The Fear sees, and we will bear these burdens even though we cannot.
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