A chapter of gift and test, generosity and deception. It will unfold gradually across vivid scenes: Barakiel preparing to return home, Nooriyah’s prophetic guidance, Aurelion’s sacred gift, and the subtle treachery of the Shenai’s return.

The days that followed Barakiel’s audience with Aurelion moved slowly, like snow drifting across glass—silent, inevitable, and lit from within.

He was given a chamber high in one of the palace’s outer spires, where the walls curved inward like folded wings and the windows opened onto a view of the valley so clear it seemed to stretch into memory. At night, the stars of Svalur turned slowly across the sky—not in fixed. constellations, but in gentle rivers of light, flowing as if the heavens were stirred by the prayers of those below.

Nooriyah visited him daily.

She came not as a queen or priestess, but as a daughter—bringing bowls of clear broth that never cooled, fragments of song that had no origin, and stories of the kingdom she had come to understand not as a place, but as a living covenant. She spoke of the white bears who sang during eclipse, the foxes who guarded frost-bitten scriptures, and of the cranes that traced prophetic symbols in the snow with their flightpaths.

Barakiel listened.

He did not try to grasp it all. He only let it rest in him like a warming coal—something not meant to be understood in full, but lived with, like the silence of a holy man or the scent of grain on a windless day.

One morning, Aurelion summoned him again.

This time, he stood not in the hall of light, but in a smaller chamber shaped like a snow-drift frozen mid-fall. The walls were etched with lines like veins, glowing faintly blue. At the center stood the Silver King, and beside him—a creature unlike anything Barakiel had seen.

A goat.

Small, bone-white, eyes pale as ice, horns curled with elegance It stood perfectly still, its hooves leaving no mark on the frost-covered floor.

“This is not for barter,” Aurelion said, “It is not for show. It is given to you as reminder.”

Barakiel bowed his head.

“I will treat it as such.”

Continuing Barakiel’s encounter with the divine gift. This is a moment of quiet reverence, but also one that foreshadows the trials to come—because gifts, in the sacred realm, are never without weight.

The goat stood between them like a carved offering—its body motionless, yet alive in a way that defied explanation. Its breath left its nostrils in twin curls of steam, and when it blinked, the slow, solemn motion seemed to echo across the frost-laced walls .

Barakiel had seen many animals in his life. Herds raised with calloused hands and careful patience. But this creature was not of those flocks. It bore no trace of mud, no smell of dung or sweat. It carried the clean silence of first things—as though it had never grazed, never feared, never been hunted.

“What does it give?” Barakiel asked softly.

“What it has always given,” Aurelion replied, “but only when asked in the tongue of faith.”

The king knelt then—his silver cloak pooling around him like snowfall—and placed a hand gently atop the goat’s brow. His eyes closed.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Then—the goat shifted.

Its back arched, hooves tightened against the floor, and with a soft, almost inaudible grunt, it gave birth not to bleating, not to milk—but to a single, solid pellet of gold, warm and gleaming in the soft blue light.

Barakiel did not speak.

He understood.

“This,” Aurelion said, standing again, “is not wealth. It is a test. For those who hold power in their hands and mistake it for authority… will be consumed by it. And those who use it to remember, will be sustained.”

Barakiel bowed again.

“I will carry it,” he said, “With humility. ”

“You will be watched,” Aurelion replied, “not by us—but by those who have forgotten how to listen.”

He stepped aside.

The goat walked slowly toward Barakiel, stopping just beside his right foot.

It looked up at him.

And bowed its head.

where the farewell from Svalur begins—not as a departure, but as the carrying of a sacred thread back into a world that no longer understands reverence. Nooriyah walks beside her father once more, and the presence of the gift changes the air.

Barakiel left the palace with no procession.

Nooriyah walked beside him as she had walked beside him the day they left the village—quiet, poised, wrapped in the dignity that comes from having walked into the unknown and come back not with conquest, but with clarity.

The goat followed at his heels without rope or command.

Its steps made no sound.

And yet, its presence was palpable—as though a second heartbeat had joined Barakiel’s own. The air around it shimmered faintly, bending the cold into something gentler. Even the wind seemed to avoid disturbing it, parting around its small, white frame like reverence around a prayer stone.

They walked beneath the silver bridges, past the palace towers, and into the open tundra, where the light returned to a softer blue and the snow resumed its slow exhale. At the edge of the kingdom, where the cave mouth still shimmered like a dream half-closed, Nooriyah paused.

She turned to face him

“This gift,” she said, her voice low, “is not just for your household. It is for your witness. ”

“I understand,” Barakiel said.

“And you will return here,” she continued, though her eyes did not hold certainty—they held prophecy.

“I will return if I am called.”

Nooriyah reached up and touched the scarf tucked into his cloak—a corner of the same green one she had worn the day she left. Her fingers lingered there a moment, pressing the cloth gently between them.

“When you see those who mock,” she said, “say nothing. Let the goat speak for you. When you see those who covet, say nothing. Let time answer.”

He looked at her face—soft, sure, distant now in a way no mountain or sea could measure.

“And if they try to take it?”

“Then remember the name of the one who gave it,” she said, stepping back, “And remember how you received it.”

Barakiel turned once to look behind him—toward the palace spires, the fields of blooming psheno, the kingdom built of breath and frost.

When he turned again, Nooriyah was gone.

And the goat stood beside him, waiting.

As Barakiel begins his journey back toward the world of men—with sacred cargo in silence. The trail is not just through forest and snow, but through unseen eyes, old debts, and quiet treachery already stirring.

Barakiel passed once more through the veil.

But this time, it did not close behind him.

It softened—dimming like a dream receding into memory, though its warmth lingered in the lining of his cloak, in the rhythm of his breath, in the gentle clicking of the goat’s hooves against crystal stone.

The cave welcomed him without echo.

And when he stepped again into the outer cold, the snow crunched underfoot—not lifeless, but waiting, as if the ground itself sensed what he carried. He paused at the mouth of the cave and looked toward the world below—the distant lowlands, the dark edge of forest, the gray haze of cloud curling over the hills like forgotten thought.

He was alone again.

But not empty.

The goat followed close as he descended from the heights, moving with impossible ease over the uneven paths and the steep, ice-threaded stones. Where it stepped, the frost did not cling. Birds watched from limbs above, silent. Once, a wolf appeared at the edge of the trail, its yellow eyes narrow with hunger—but it turned and vanished into the trees, leaving no mark.

By midday, the trees thickened, and the light fell in slanted golden stripes across the path. The air grew heavier—not from heat, but from the weight of the familiar. Barakiel recognized the curve of an old riverbed, the shape of moss against a broken stone. He was entering the lands between—not yet village, no longer Svalur. The place where the forgotten linger.

And it was here that he heard the first voice.

“You’ve returned,” it said.

He turned.

From the shadow of the trees stepped a figure wrapped in wolf-hide, his beard streaked with ash, his eyes small and sharp as stones rubbed thin by rivers.

Dumak ..

The elder of the Shenai tribe .

Barakiel inclined his head in greeting “I have.”

Dumak did not approach.

But his eyes were fixed—not on Barakiel, but on the white goat, who had stopped beside his leg and stared back with unmoving calm.

Dumak smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

Now incorporating the sacred moment when Barakiel recites the hymn and the divine goat produces its gift. This moment becomes not only a gesture of provision, but a revelation to the watching eyes of the Shenai.

Dumak took a slow step forward.

His eyes gleamed with the cunning of a man who has lived too long in want and not long enough in wonder. Behind him, a few Shenai men emerged from the forest—silent, compact, cloaked in fur, their boots wrapped in leather and moss to muffle sound.

Barakiel did not flinch.

He saw the hunger in their gazes—not for food, but for meaning. And when a man is starved of meaning long enough, he will trade loyalty for miracle, and wonder for possession.

“You’ve brought something,” Dumak said. His voice was rough bark, cracking beneath false politeness “We can see that.”

Barakiel glanced at the goat.

It remained still, unaffected, unbothered by the presence of men who had forgotten how to ask.

“It is not mine,” Barakiel replied calmly “It walks beside me, not behind.”

Dumak gave a short laugh, the kind that masks teeth.

“And yet you feed it. Keep it warm. Carry its silence. What, then, is it to you?”

Barakiel reached into his satchel and pulled free a small cloth. Upon it lay a single grain of psheno—dry, golden, polished smooth by time and touch.

He held it gently in his palm.

Then, kneeling beside the goat, he placed the cloth before it and lowered his head.

The air grew still.

His voice came low and steady, not as command, but as prayer:

“Caper, mitte mihi globulum aureum ”

Precious goat, give us a golden pellet.

The words shimmered through the forest like a forgotten breeze.

The goat blinked.

Then—without strain, without theatrics—it bowed its head slightly, shifted its weight, and with a soft grunt, released a small, shining pellet onto the cloth.

Gold.

Round. Warm. Impossibly bright in the shadows.

Dumak inhaled audibly.

And behind him, one of the Shenai whispered, “Did you see…?”

But Barakiel did not look up.

He gathered the pellet into the cloth, stood, and tied it closed.

“It gives,” he said, “only when spoken to with reverence. Not with demand.”

Dumak’s smile had faded.

What remained was a shadow of desire—and the spark of a plan.

where the tension between the sacred and the profane grows beneath the forest canopy. What Barakiel sees as witness, Dumak sees as opportunity—and the first breath of betrayal begins to form, cloaked in false hospitality.

The air between them changed.

The reverence that had momentarily stirred among the Shenai fell quickly into a thick, hungry silence. Not awe—ambition. The kind that slips beneath the skin and moves through the blood like cold iron.

Dumak stepped closer, his eyes no longer veiled. “Stay the night,” he said. “The children still speak your name. Let us give you shelter, warm your hands, and sit beside the fire like old brothers.”

Barakiel studied him.

He could smell the shift—the way a scent changes when bread turns to rot.

But he nodded.

“One night,” he said. “Then I will go.”

Dumak’s smile returned. Too wide. Too smooth.

“Of course.”

The tribe led him back through the trees, the goat walking calmly beside him, its hooves silent on the pine-needle path. The camp had not changed—tents stitched from fur and smoke-stained canvas, fires crackling low, pots bubbling with root stew. But the energy had changed. Where once there was caution and resignation, there was now an undercurrent of calculation

Eyes followed the goat wherever it moved.

Children stared. Elders whispered. One of the men trailed a step behind it, feigning disinterest, though his fingers twitched against the hilt of a small, curved blade tucked into his belt.

Dumak brought Barakiel to the largest tent.

Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and dried herbs—lavender, pine, and something darker, bitter like bark soaked in salt. Mats lined the walls. A single oil lamp flickered in the center, casting shadows that curved like roots across the ceiling.

“Sit,” Dumak offered, gesturing toward a thick cushion.

Barakiel sat.

The goat rested beside him, folding its legs neatly beneath its belly. Its white fur glowed in the lamplight, giving off a faint luminescence that made the shadows seem deeper.

Dumak poured tea into two small clay cups.

“The world has changed,” he said, handing one to Barakiel “And you’ve walked where no man has walked in a hundred winters.”

Barakiel sipped.

He said nothing.

He did not need to. The quiet between them had grown loud.

The goat blinked slowly, unbothered.

And Dumak’s smile remained, but his eyes had already begun measuring the distance between trust and theft.

Where the slow rhythm of betrayal tightens. Barakiel’s inner knowing becomes watchful, and the sacred goat’s silence grows heavier—as if the creature itself senses the deceit being rehearsed in soft glances and poisoned courtesy.

Night folded itself around the camp with a hush too complete to be natural.

The wind, which had moved gently through the pine needles earlier, had vanished. Even the fire outside had grown timid, its flames low, as though reluctant to reveal what eyes were watching. The tent where Barakiel sat felt warmer now, but not from the hearth—it was the heat of intentions, brewing like storm clouds behind smiles.

Dumak still spoke, but the ease in his tone was cracking.

“What is it like?” he asked, swirling the last of the tea in his cup “The kingdom beyond frost. Do they farm? Do they bleed?”

Barakiel met his eyes.

“They remember,” he said.

Dumak tilted his head “Remember what?”

“How to listen. How to give. How to guard silence the way other kingdoms guard gold.”

The fire between them crackled once.

Dumak set his cup down.

“And what do they do with their gifts?” he asked, “When men come back into the world… do they share them freely?”

Barakiel leaned back slightly “A gift is not shared. A gift is carried. And sometimes, it is protected.”

There was a pause—thin, brittle.

Then Dumak smiled, but his eyes sharpened.

“The goat… can it be taught new masters? Or does it answer only to you?”

Barakiel did not answer.

Not because he lacked words.

Because the moment had revealed itself.

This was no longer curiosity.

It was prelude.

And the goat, still lying beside him, lifted its head for the first time since they entered the tent. Its pale eyes scanned the space once—slowly—then turned toward Dumak, unblinking.

Barakiel placed his hand gently on its shoulder.

“She listens to names,” he said quietly “And she forgets those who speak without reverence.”

Dumak’s smile disappeared.

Just then, a breeze stirred the flap of the tent—one brief gust from a wind that hadn’t blown in hours.

It was as if the kingdom beyond horizon had opened one eye.

And watched.

Where suspicion thickens into unspoken threat. In this immersive page, every gesture begins to carry double meaning, and Barakiel must now trust more than the silence—he must trust that what was given to him cannot be stolen without consequence.

The wind vanished as quickly as it came.

But the silence it left behind was not the same. It had acquired a pulse—something just beneath the surface, like a drum muffled beneath earth. Barakiel sat still, yet his breath moved differently now: slower, deeper, attuned to the invisible thread that ran through the tent.

Dumak stood.

Not quickly. Not harshly. But with the quiet deliberation of someone who has already made a decision—and no longer feels the need to conceal it.

He moved to the side of the tent and opened a flap. Two men entered.

They were dressed plainly, but their eyes were not plain. They had the eyes of men who had once buried their faith and now came with spades to unearth it—not to honour it, but to sell it

Barakiel said nothing.

The goat remained at his side, still seated, still unmoving. But its breathing had changed. Slower. Heavier. As though it, too, sensed that the sacred space between guest and host had been broken.

Dumak gestured lightly.

“Barakiel,” he said, the name now used like a tool rather than a greeting, “you’ve seen wonders We’ve heard your stories The psheno, the bear, the girl And now, this…”

He gestured toward the goat.

“Let us share in it.”

Barakiel’s voice was quiet, “You do not ask for it You approach it like a thief preparing the gate.”

Dumak’s expression remained still. But one of the men behind him reached into his cloak.

Not a blade.

A rope.

Barakiel rose slowly.

“It will not follow you,” he said. “Even if you carry it. Even if you feed it. It knows the difference between reverence and calculation.”

“We are hungry,” Dumak said flatly. “Hungry for more than root soup and silence. Hungry for what we lost when we were made small. ”

Barakiel’s hand moved to his chest—not to shield, but to touch the cloth where he had kept the prayer that first led him to the cave. The words he had whispered into snow before Nooriyah vanished. The words that had become light.

“She is not yours,” he said.

“She?” Dumak repeated.

“The goat . The gift. The memory. She is a vessel,” Barakiel said “And vessels do not pour themselves out for greed.”

The goat rose.

It turned toward Dumak and his men.

And its eyes—pale, endless, impossible—met theirs.

For the first time, Dumak took a step back.

Not far.

But enough.

where the quiet tension reaches its peak. Barakiel stands in the narrow space between reverence and profanation—and in that fragile space, the goat, uncommanded, makes a decision.

No one moved.

Even the fire seemed to pause its breath, its flame fixed in a single flicker of orange and blue. The men who had entered with rope in hand did not step forward. Their bodies held still, but not from obedience. From uncertainty. It clung to them like mist—the weight of knowing they were being watched by something not of this world.

The goat lowered its head.

It took one step toward Dumak.

Then another.

Its hooves made no sound on the hide-covered floor, but its presence was louder than thunder. Each step rippled through the space like a heartbeat made visible. It stopped within arm’s reach of Dumak…

Then—

It turned its head and looked up

No growl. No cry. No flick of horn or muscle

Just silence.

And in that silence, Dumak trembled.

He did not reach for the rope again.

Not yet.

He bent, slowly, to one knee—part instinct, part imitation of reverence. His hand hovered just above the goat’s spine, unsure.

“Caper,” he murmured, “mitte mihi globulum aureum.”

The goat blinked.

Nothing happened.

He repeated it, louder this time “Caper, mitte mihi globulum aureum.”

Still nothing.

Then Barakiel spoke.

His voice was soft, but it cracked through the air like flint:

“It hears your mouth. But it does not hear your heart.”

Dumak’s hand closed into a fist. Shame burned behind his eyes.

The goat stepped back.

It turned, walked past Barakiel, and settled once more beside him.

Barakiel placed a hand gently on its back.

“She is not stubborn,” he said “She is sacred. And the sacred does not answer to hunger wearing reverence like a mask.”

One of the men behind Dumak turned and walked out.

The other followed a moment later.

Dumak stood slowly, his jaw tight, his shoulders heavy.

But he said nothing.

Because the firelight had already shown him what the shadow could no longer hide:

He had been measured.

And found wanting.

A quiet but powerful close to a chapter of divine generosity and human temptation. The sacred has not been taken, but it has been tested, and Barakiel prepares to return home—not as the same man, but as a bearer of proof, patience, and prophecy.

The fire burned low as dawn pressed against the sky, casting the forest in soft grays and bruised blue. Outside the tent, the Shenai camp had returned to its usual rhythm—fires rekindled, pots stirred, but the silence among the people had changed. They whispered more carefully now, glancing toward Barakiel and the goat not with open greed, but with the fear that follows failed desire.

Barakiel emerged into the pale morning light, his steps unhurried. The goat walked beside him, leaving no trail in the frost. Around them, birds perched quietly in the trees, and the branches above seemed to lean inward, as if the forest itself had listened the night before—and had made its judgment.

Dumak watched from the edge of camp.

He did not speak.

But his eyes no longer held contempt. Only the dim weight of a man who had tried to steal what could only ever be received.

Barakiel paused as he passed him.

“A gift does not humiliate,” he said gently, “It invites.”

Dumak looked down.

“I remember now,” he murmured “Once, we too offered without asking for return.”

Barakiel nodded.

“You can again.”

He said no more.

He walked onward, the goat beside him, out of the Shenai camp and down the narrow path that would carry him, slowly, toward the valley where snow still lingered and the smoke of his home might once again rise against the sky.

In his satchel: a folded cloth.

Within it: a single golden pellet.

And in his spirit: a silence so full, so luminous, that even the trees bowed as he passed.

The Quiet Theft.

Night returned like a shadow remembering its shape.

Barakiel slept, his breath deep, his hand still resting lightly on the goat’s back. The tent was warm with ash-heat, and the stars above the Shenai camp blinked behind drifting cloud. The sacred silence of Svalur. still clung faintly to his dreams, though thinner now, like incense fading in a cold room.

Outside, nothing stirred.

And then—quiet.

A motion.

Two figures moved like brush-strokes over canvas. Fast, practiced, cloaked in smoke. They did not speak. Their hands knew the shape of the plan. One bore a cloth soaked in crushed snowroot to numb scent. The other held rope not for tying—but for lifting.

The real goat blinked once. It did not resist. It only looked.

As if it had already seen this in a dream..

And then it was lifted—wrapped, silenced, carried.

A third figure entered behind them, leading another goat—its eyes pale, its coat nearly perfect. Only those who had knelt beside the original would notice the absence: no warmth beneath the fur. No shimmer of the sacred.

It was placed beside Barakiel’s sleeping form.

It curled into the hollow left by the sacred one.

And stilled.

By the time dawn stretched her fingers across the treetops, the true goat was gone—hidden in the hills, blindfolded, fed in silence. And the false one stood patiently at Barakiel’s side, blinking in soft mimicry.

It would walk as the other walked.

It would breathe as the other breathed.

But it would not listen.

Next Chapter: Chapter 8: The Return and Disbelief