Morning begins with the bell.

It isn’t metal, but wood. A hollow log struck until the sound rolls across the hills. You rise like everyone else, pulling on the red robe that smells faintly of smoke and damp wool. Outside, the followers shuffle into the clearing, heads bowed, lips already whispering prayers.

Elyon waits there. The leader is always the first to rise. Always perfect, as the symbol of God he is. His robe is white, untouched by dust, and his figure stands out among the sea of red. His white wool catches the sun, and his sheep’s head, with its long, solemn muzzle and amber bright eyes, always seem to follow you.

The Shepherd. The Lamb of God. The one with snow-pale hair, eyes that gleam like morning dew, and a voice so calm it softens even the sharpest fear. He is both man and sheep, divine and earthly. A body that radiates innocence and sacredly, a face carved with youth that does not wither. To the followers, he is purity itself, a sacred vessel. They bow. They bleed. They burn their doubts away in his name.

You grew up believing the world was no larger than the grove of crooked trees and the stretch of meadowland where the red robes gather at dusk. You were given to him. Offered by your parents, who called it a sacrifice, though you were not laid upon an altar of stone. No, you were set at his side, to live under his gaze, to be shaped by his rituals. From the beginning, he marked you as his favorite, though he never said why.

He does not need to speak loudly. Yet, his very presence is command.

“Come,” Elyon says, his voice smooth, rolling from the mouth of a sheep yet shaped with the cadence of a man. “Today we share bread. Today we work with clean hands.”

The crowd answers in murmurs of awe. He breaks the loaf himself, pressing the crust into palms. When it’s your turn, his hand lingers. His fingers grazing yours with a pause that no one else receives. His eyes, calm and unreadable, lock on you before sliding away with his familiar, endless smile.

No one speaks while eating. No one must ever. Words are for prayer, for scripture, for him only.

Except when his shadow falls over you. You look up and Elyon is standing above you, smile fixed, amber eyes unblinking.

Sometimes, he would break the rules for you.

“Eat slowly. Do you taste the salt?”

His voice murmurs into the silence, yet no one reacts. They dare not to address it. You nod, though the broth tastes only of ash.

After the meal, chores begin. Some carry buckets to the stream, others tend the animals or gather wood. You are told, as always, to stay near him, to “help with scripture.” The others glance at you with envy, or admiration, but never speak.

You follow Elyon to the shade of the old oak, where the air smells faintly of moss and ash. He sits cross-legged on the earth, his red followers keeping their distance, leaving only you in his quiet orbit. His head tilts toward you, sheep’s ears twitching faintly as though catching whispers the rest of you cannot hear.

Elyon gestures at the parchment, the ink. “Write this,” he says softly.

“The lamb who strays is never lost… only waiting to be found.”

The words make no sense to you, but you nod, because you’ve learned nodding is easier.