The day I was born, the stars went silent.
Some say they dimmed, others that they vanished for a breath of a moment but I remember them going silent, like an orchestra cut mid-symphony, as if the heavens themselves had held their breath. My brother, Jesus, was born in the straw-scented quiet of a Bethlehem night. He cried into a world that watched in awe, his cries echoing across realms. And me? I screamed in the shadows, caught between the afterbirth and an angel's gasp.
No one was meant to hear me. But they did. The angels. The watchers. The old ones cloaked in glory and grief. They looked upon me, and they trembled as they called me a blasphemy.
I have lived lifetimes in fragments, buried in the fold of time. While the world spun forward, I remained tethered in a liminal loop of a shard of a moment stretched across centuries. My prison was neither of stone nor iron, but of divine light and holy intent. An accident that was never supposed to see the light of prophecy.
I was created to be my brother's protector. A twin born to shield the salvation of man. But heaven makes no room for symmetry. It demands singularity, a lone savior. And so I was erased to be locked away and forgotten see as cursed.
But scrolls never stay buried. Secrets never die. And now…? I am free!
I awoke in ruins.
The chamber was damp, overgrown with ivy, moss, and time. Stone cracked like brittle bread beneath my fingertips as I clawed from the cradle of my imprisonment. My breath fogged the air, lungs aching as if they'd never known oxygen. The first thing I heard wasn't birdsong or wind. It was a voice man's voice, shaky, reverent. "She's real!"
He was kneeling before me, hands bloodied from unearthing my tomb. His robes were torn, eyes glassy with something between terror and awe. "You read the scroll," I whispered. My voice was hoarse. Ancient. "You broke the seal."
He nodded, unable to speak.
"Then the world is already unraveling."
His name was Elias. A descendant of Joseph of Arimathea. The last keeper of the hidden gospel. The man chosen to find me, though he never believed he would. He told me the scroll had been stolen, smuggled into Rome, hidden beneath Vatican archives. And somehow, by fate or folly, it had found its way into his hands.
The words, once read aloud, acted as a key. The shard that held me cracked open, bleeding time and forgotten power.He had called me Selah as I remembered.
Memories are strange things. When kept away from the present, they ferment. They become visions, dreams, nightmares. I remembered my dreams of walking beside Him. I remembered the quiet nights under fig trees, our fingers stained with juice and dirt, Him laughing, always laughing. I remembered when He began to see the truth of who He was. How light followed Him like a loyal hound. How His miracles multiplied and our moments together lessened.
I remembered the whispers of angels that came to Him, and the silence they brought to me.
He was chosen. I was the shadow as the divine has no use for symmetry.
"They will come for you," Elias warned. "I know."
"They've buried your existence for two thousand years. If they know you're free..."
"They already know."
Even now, I could feel the tremble in the spirit realm. The Watchers stirring. The Vatican scrambling. There were eyes on me from realms both physical and holy. Some longed to kneel. Others longed to strike me down.
The Church of Rome itself had built its power upon a carefully cultivated lie. My birth, my bond to Christ, my very being would shatter everything. And there were those who would rather kill me again than face that truth.
The first assassin came at dawn.
She was cloaked in white, bearing the sigil of the Silencers—those Vatican-blessed souls tasked with keeping divine order. Her blade was blessed by the blood of saints. Her heart, void of mercy.
She found me in the garden, hands tangled in roots of an old fig tree. The air smelled like memory.
"I am Sister Naomi," she said. "By order of the Eternal Throne, I offer you final absolution."
I stood, barefoot and newly reborn.
"No absolution needed," I said, voice laced with a command I barely remembered I possessed.
The moment her blade swung, time split. My hands moved with ancient instinct. I caught her wrist, twisted. Bones cracked as she dropped her blade with a hitched breath. I stuck her ribs and a whoosh escaped her lips and she dropped like a deadweight.
"I am not your enemy," I said, but the power in me disagreed. It pulsed, it sang, it wanted blood.
I let her live, but only so she can go deliver a warning. She ran back to her masters with a warning: She lives. She remembers. And she is not afraid.
Power is not just in miracles. It is in the memory of divinity. In the voice that commands rain, in the eyes that dream through time, in the blood that can birth or break worlds. I was not made to be worshipped. I was made to guard. But now, there is no one left to guard but what remains of His promise.
Demons are rising. The veil between realms is thinning. The prophecy once spoken in the shadows now echoes loudly in both heaven and hell:
Only one child of the divine may rule creation but what if creation was never meant to be ruled but we were meant to protect it together?
Elias took me to the library beneath the old cathedral. There were relics there, many forgotten blades, whispered prayers, and scrolls that trembled when I neared. He told me stories of how the world had changed, how faith had bent into fear, and how the Church became a kingdom.
"They will come for you in legions," he said.
"Let them come," I whispered.
I was tired of being silent. Tired of being erased I am Selah.
I was born beneath the same star, i carry the same divine breath but my story is not His. It is mine and I will tell it with fire!