I used to sleep well. Like any working man, a carpenter lives by sweat. Then the dreams started. A flame-eyed figure said my betrothed's stomach swelled not with a bastard, but a ruler, the very son of YAH.
The next time came words of warning: Flee, for a mad king was coming. Later I learned every male child in the hamlet had died.
Finally, the figure said to return home in safety. Still I cannot sleep. YAH kills and makes alive, blessed be His name. But all those sword-pierced sons for my boy? What work must be reserved for him?
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