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'ā¦ Yesā¦ I seeā¦ your will is my command, My Lordā¦'
The words leaped from my lips on a whisper, lingering in the air as the dying sparks from a dying flame.
I rose slowly from my knees, praying, my hands falling to the familiar grip of my sword. My shield rested to its side, its surface scarred from the wars it had fought.
Stepping out of the entrance of the little tent, I was met with the unforgiving embrace of the sun. It blared down on my armor, seeping into the metal, not quite intolerable, but still unpleasant
At my feet, the sand shifted, harsh and recalcitrant, a silent muttering chorus beneath each step. It clung to me, difficult to be rid of, yet clinging stubbornly, but I steeled myself to be rid of it.
Before me was the humble churchāno stone, no high roof, but only cloth and faith. The leather walls fluttered in the desert wind, a weak but unshiftable testament to the faith of those who had proclaimed this church holy.
I lowered my head to silent prayer.
For I knew my journey to Gallon might be my last.
In my dying breath, I straightened my back, fixed my eyes on the distant horizon, and took one step ahead.
The Lord's will is going to guide me.