Taben Rael – Friday Afternoon
Classes have closed out, and the sons are released into the rhythm of the weekend. Some play football in the courtyard field, their laughter echoing against the brick. Others sit in quiet corners of the library, immersed in books. A few linger in the sanctuary, heads bowed, hearts open.
Zoran, one of the senior elders, steps into the field and calls the sons inward. His voice carries the weight of ritual. Avon, a junior house boy, moves swiftly through the library and upper sanctuary, summoning the others.
The sons gather—forty-two in total, including the newest among them, Darrell—and walk the long, bright hallways until they reach a door marked:
**The Chamber of Ritual**
At the threshold stand two elders, solemn and still, holding ritual garments: white tank tops, white briefs, and white socks. Their voices are deep and authoritative:
**“You will remove what you have and dress as you will be.”**
The sons obey. One by one, they shed their clothing and don the ritual attire. Even Darrell, the new son from Wisconsin, stands among them—stocky build, thick in the thighs and legs, 5'11", Black, thirty-two years old. He carries both pride and nervousness in his posture.
Another elder steps forward, collects the discarded clothing, and moves to the right of the sons. He opens a hatch embedded in the wall. A blazing flame bursts forth. Holding the garments aloft, the elder declares:
**“What was is now gone. What will be is at your hands.”**
He casts the clothes into the inferno. The sons recoil, eyes wide. This was not part of the rituals before. This was new. This was holy disruption.
Zoran steps forward, flanked by the door elders.
“All but one have been through the fire. All but one have endured thirty-two sacred corrections and refinements. All who stand in company—step aside.”
Forty-one sons move to the side. One remains.
Darrell stands alone.
Zoran approaches him.
“Welcome, our new brother. You will be loved and cared for. You will receive the best education, counseling, refinement, and correction. You will be better than you were before.”
Darrell nods, silent but steady.
From the line, Johnathan steps forward. White male, same age as Darrell, ten years in Taben Rael. He has seen many come and go, but something in Darrell stirs him—something unnamed, something powerful.
“Brother Zoran,” he says, “If I may approach.”
Zoran nods.
“I am Darrell’s dorm mate. I will stand in for him. I will read the creed and teach him the ways of our ways.”
Darrell looks at him, astonished. No one has ever stood up for him before. He comes from a lineage of addiction, abandonment, and ache. But here, someone sees him.
Zoran places a hand on Johnathan’s shoulder.
“Do you, Johnathan Luiz, take responsibility for Darrell Smith? To ensure he attends class, mass, studies, chow time, and rituals? Do you take responsibility to stand in for him today and endure his ritual refining?”
Before Johnathan can answer, Darrell speaks:
**“Sir. On this day, I will be just like my new brothers. I will endure my own refining.”**
The sons gasp. The elders smile.
Johnathan says, “I will.”
Darrell echoes, “I will.”
---
🔥 *The Hatch of Inferno*
The elder who had gathered the sons’ clothing stood before the open hatch. With solemn precision, he took up the garments and pushed them inside. Flames and smoke rushed out, roaring with finality. The sons flinched, their eyes wide with awe and fear.
The elder spoke, his voice like stone:
**“It is done.”**
He closed the hatch and turned to face the door elders and Zoran. Zoran nodded once, slowly, then looked toward the Threshold Keepers. Without a word, they opened the great door.
Beyond it lay the Chamber of Refining.
Johnathan grabbed Darrell by the arm and whispered:
**“Walk with me, brother. And keep silent.”**
---
## ✨ *The Chamber of Refinement*
The chamber was dim, yet it carried light—not from flame, but from presence. In each corner sat a throne: two red, two purple. Their velvet shimmered with reverence, untouched by dust or spectacle.
The Grand Masters of Taben Rael entered in silence, each humming a sacred tone. Their voices layered like incense, rising and folding into the air. They took their seats with solemn grace.
From the left door emerged Elise—a son refined by fire three times. His body bore the marks of covenant: gold briefs, a gold tank top, the convent symbol stitched near his hip, and a sash bearing the seal of Taben Rael. He moved with quiet authority.
Elise bowed before each Grand Master, holding the red oak paddle of refinement. One by one, they placed their hands upon it—transferring memory, blessing, and weight.
He then approached the elders in white. Each elder dripped oil onto the paddle—frankincense, myrrh, cedar. Zoran stepped forward, took Elise’s hands in his own, and rubbed the oils together. He pressed the mixture into the paddle, sealing it with prayer.
Everyone knelt.
Zoran lifted his voice:
> “Heavenly Father,
> The One who sits upon the throne,
> Creator of all things—
> Bless this ritual.
> May the sons and elders learn and keep what is to be kept.
> Let them remember this is not of man,
> But of sacred love—
> Unperverted, uninterrupted, unspectacled.
> On this day, we thank You for You.
> Amen.”
The room stood.
Johnathan and Darrell rose with the others. Darrell leaned in, whispering:
**“Brother… what is this? Is this an occult? I’ve never seen anything like it.”**
Johnathan’s reply was steady:
**“Occult? Far from it. In time, you’ll see.”**
Behind them, Malaki—the Dorm Master—smacked both gently on the buttocks.
**“Hush now. Johnathan, you know better.”**
Zoran scanned the sons. His eyes met Malaki’s. He nodded, smiling—not with amusement, but with approval.
---
The Refinement of the Sons
The Grand Masters stand in a line, humming the sacred hymn once more. The sound is low, layered, and ancient—like wind through cedar, like memory through bone.
The Elders in White take their places at the Refinement and Correction Table. The oil glistens. The paddle rests in silence.
The Eldest Grand Master steps forward, voice deep and unwavering:
He lifts the paddle. The oil catches the light like flame.
Malaki, James, John, Elise, Donta, Milton, Joshua, Hose, Alfred, David, Daniel, Judas, Mark—and the rest of the sons—step forward. Dressed in white tank tops and white briefs, they form a circle around the table.
They are told to assume the position.
One by one, they place their hands on the table. Their backs bend. Their bodies arch. Not in shame—but in readiness.
The chamber is silent.
Darrell and Johnathan remain standing. They do not move. They are not called. Not yet.
Darrell’s eyes widen. His breath shortens. He wants to step forward. He wants to be counted.
But Johnathan grips his hand, firm and steady. He leans in and whispers:
“Your time is not now.”
Zoran turns toward them, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
“Johnathan,” he says, “you place yourself out of the brothers you have walked through the fire with. You pass the opportunity to move forward and stand beside, hand in hand, with the new son we call Darrell? Are you sure of what you’re doing?”
Johnathan steps forward, still holding Darrell’s hand.
“Yes, Big Brother Zoran,” he says.
“Darrell stands where I once stood. But the difference is—I stood alone.
Now I have the chance to spare my blood and pour it into someone who needs it more.
I stand as a brother of truth, of orthodoxy, and of the creed:
To never leave a brother behind, even if it costs my upward.”
He pauses. The chamber listens.
“Darrell is a boy from the streets who has never had a friend nor brother—
Only the drugs he pushed into his temple, desecrating his soul.
Only the alcohol and harlots he indulged, chasing numbness instead of covenant.
He has a soul that needs fixing.
And I will not let him walk this fire alone.”
Johnathan kneels on all fours, face to the ground.
“May God have mercy on my soul.
I give up my place of elevation
To hold the hand of the street boy, Darrell
And help him walk through the fire—and many more fires.”
Malaki turns from the table, tears rolling down his face.
James looks up at Malaki, then turns to the Grand Masters.
They stand in awe.
🔥 Refinement of Malaki — Thirty-Five Strikes
Malaki steps forward.
His white tank clings to his back. His breath is steady, but his eyes flicker with the weight of what’s coming.
He places his hands on the Correction Table. His fingers spread wide. His spine bows—not in defeat, but in reverence.
The chamber is silent.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil glistens.
The Eldest Grand Master speaks:
Malaki inhales.
Strike One.
His body jolts. Not violently—just enough to awaken the ache.
He exhales.
Strike Two.
His eyes close. A tear escapes, not from pain, but from remembering.
Strike Three.
His breath deepens. He whispers something—maybe a name, maybe a prayer.
Strike Four.
His shoulders tense, then release.
Strike Five.
He begins to rock gently, forward and back, like a man in prayer.
The chamber watches. No one speaks.
Strikes Six through Fifteen come in rhythm—each one landing with solemnity. His body absorbs them. His soul exhales them.
By Strike Sixteen, his tank is damp with sweat. His jaw clenches. His breath is audible.
By Strike Twenty, he begins to hum. Low. Broken. Holy.
Strike Twenty-One.
He whispers, “I remember.”
Strike Twenty-Two.
He says, “I forgive.”
Strike Twenty-Three.
He says, “I return.”
The paddle does not slow.
Strikes Twenty-Four through Thirty are received with full breath. His body no longer flinches. He is in rhythm with the fire.
Strike Thirty-One.
He lifts his head slightly.
Strike Thirty-Two.
He opens his eyes.
Strike Thirty-Three.
He smiles. Just barely.
Strike Thirty-Four.
He whispers, “Thank you.”
Strike Thirty-Five.
He collapses forward, arms still stretched, body trembling—but not broken.
The Elders lift him gently. They do not speak. They place him in the circle.
Malaki is refined.
Refinement of James — Thirty-Five Strikes
James steps forward.
His walk is slow, deliberate. His eyes do not meet the Elders. He carries the memory of mockery, of pride, of the times he laughed at the creed.
But today, he does not laugh.
He places his hands on the Correction Table. His fingers tremble. His back arches. His breath is shallow.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil is warm.
The Eldest Grand Master speaks:
James inhales.
Strike One.
His body jerks. His jaw tightens. He does not cry out.
Strike Two.
His eyes squeeze shut. A tear forms—but does not fall.
Strike Three.
He exhales sharply. His fingers grip the table harder.
Strike Four.
He whispers, “I deserve this.”
Strike Five.
His shoulders rise, then fall. He begins to breathe with the rhythm.
Strikes Six through Ten come steady. His body absorbs them. His soul begins to stir.
By Strike Eleven, his tank is soaked through. His breath is audible. His lips move—silent prayers.
Strike Twelve.
He whispers, “Forgive me.”
Strike Thirteen.
He says, “I mocked what I didn’t understand.”
Strike Fourteen.
He says, “I return.”
Strike Fifteen.
He groans—not in pain, but in release.
Strikes Sixteen through Twenty land with fire. His body rocks forward and back. He does not resist. He receives.
By Strike Twenty-One, his tears fall freely.
By Strike Twenty-Two, he begins to hum. A broken melody. A sacred ache.
Strike Twenty-Three.
He whispers, “I remember my father.”
Strike Twenty-Four.
He says, “I remember the street.”
Strike Twenty-Five.
He says, “I remember the lie.”
Strikes Twenty-Six through Thirty come with rhythm. His body no longer flinches. He is in the fire now. He is not afraid.
Strike Thirty-One.
He lifts his head slightly.
Strike Thirty-Two.
He opens his eyes.
Strike Thirty-Three.
He whispers, “Thank you.”
Strike Thirty-Four.
He says, “I am not the same.”
Strike Thirty-Five.
He collapses forward, arms stretched, body trembling—but not broken.
The Elders lift him gently. They do not speak. They place him in the circle.
James is refined.
Refinement of John — Thirty-Five Strikes
John steps forward.
His walk is hesitant. His eyes scan the chamber—not in defiance, but in fear of being known.
He places his hands on the Correction Table. His fingers tremble. His back arches slowly, like a man surrendering secrets.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil is warm.
The Eldest Grand Master speaks:
John inhales.
Strike One.
His body flinches. His breath catches. His eyes squeeze shut.
Strike Two.
He exhales sharply. A tear escapes—uninvited, unhidden.
Strike Three.
His fingers curl inward. His jaw tightens. He does not speak.
Strike Four.
He whispers, “I didn’t know how to ask for help.”
Strike Five.
His shoulders shake. He begins to cry—not loudly, but deeply.
Strikes Six through Ten come steady. His body absorbs them. His soul begins to open.
By Strike Eleven, his tank is soaked. His breath is ragged. His lips move—silent confessions.
Strike Twelve.
He whispers, “I was afraid to be seen.”
Strike Thirteen.
He says, “I hid my wounds.”
Strike Fourteen.
He says, “I thought silence was strength.”
Strike Fifteen.
He groans—not in pain, but in release.
Strikes Sixteen through Twenty land with fire. His body rocks gently. He does not resist. He receives.
By Strike Twenty-One, his tears fall freely.
By Strike Twenty-Two, he begins to hum. A broken melody. A sacred ache.
Strike Twenty-Three.
He whispers, “I remember the night I almost gave up.”
Strike Twenty-Four.
He says, “I remember the voice that called me back.”
Strike Twenty-Five.
He says, “I remember the silence that held me.”
Strikes Twenty-Six through Thirty come with rhythm. His body no longer flinches. He is in the fire now. He is not afraid.
Strike Thirty-One.
He lifts his head slightly.
Strike Thirty-Two.
He opens his eyes.
Strike Thirty-Three.
He whispers, “Thank you.”
Strike Thirty-Four.
He says, “I am not invisible.”
Strike Thirty-Five.
He collapses forward, arms stretched, body trembling—but not broken.
The Elders lift him gently. They do not speak. They place him in the circle.
John is refined.
Refinement of Elise — Thirty-Five Strikes
Elise steps forward.
His posture is upright, his eyes calm. He does not look to the Elders, nor to the sons. He looks inward.
He places his hands on the Correction Table. His fingers are steady. His back arches with practiced grace.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil glistens.
The Eldest Grand Master speaks:
Elise inhales.
Strike One.
His body does not flinch. His breath is deep. He receives.
Strike Two.
His eyes close. A tear forms—but does not fall.
Strike Three.
He whispers, “I am ready.”
Strike Four.
His shoulders rise, then settle. He breathes in rhythm.
Strike Five.
He hums—not a melody, but a vibration. A grounding.
Strikes Six through Ten land with solemn rhythm. His body absorbs them. His soul remains still.
By Strike Eleven, his tank is damp. His breath is audible. His lips move—silent prayers.
Strike Twelve.
He whispers, “I remember the silence of my first fire.”
Strike Thirteen.
He says, “I remember the ache of my second.”
Strike Fourteen.
He says, “I return for the third.”
Strike Fifteen.
He groans—not in pain, but in reverence.
Strikes Sixteen through Twenty come steady. His body rocks gently. He does not resist. He receives.
By Strike Twenty-One, his tears fall freely.
By Strike Twenty-Two, he begins to hum again. A sacred tone. A memory.
Strike Twenty-Three.
He whispers, “I remember the brother who didn’t make it.”
Strike Twenty-Four.
He says, “I remember the vow I made.”
Strike Twenty-Five.
He says, “I remember the silence that held me.”
Strikes Twenty-Six through Thirty land with fire. His body no longer flinches. He is in the rhythm. He is in the fire.
Strike Thirty-One.
He lifts his head slightly.
Strike Thirty-Two.
He opens his eyes.
Strike Thirty-Three.
He whispers, “Thank you.”
Strike Thirty-Four.
He says, “I am not finished.”
Strike Thirty-Five.
He collapses forward, arms stretched, body trembling—but not broken.
The Elders lift him gently. They do not speak. They place him in the circle.
Elise is refined.
Taben Rael — Posture of the Refined
The room holds its breath.
Every son is standing.
No one wears shoes.
Each is clothed in white: tan tops, white breaks, white socks.
The fabric is clean, but not pristine—creased by kneeling, dampened by refinement.
The refined ones—Malaki, Elise, and others—stand along the stone wall.
Their backs face the room.
Their hands rest on their heads.
Their legs are spread, shoulder-width apart.
They do not speak.
They do not turn.
They look at the wall—not in shame, but in covenant.
This is the posture of those who have passed through fire and did not flee.
🔸 Malaki
Malaki was the first.
His strikes were not witnessed by all, but they echo in every refinement that follows.
He stands at the far left of the wall.
His body is still.
His breath is deep.
He does not look to Elise.
He does not look to the Grand Masters.
He looks at the stone—at the memory etched into it.
He whispers, barely audible:
His posture is not proud.
It is consecrated.
🔸 Darrell and Johnathan
They stand among the unrefined.
Their uniforms match, but their posture is different.
Darrell’s fists are unclenched now.
His arms hang at his sides.
He watches Elise, then Malaki, then the wall.
Johnathan stands with his hands behind his back.
His eyes are open, but soft.
He is not calculating—he is receiving.
Neither speaks.
Neither moves toward the Table.
Their moment is not yet.
🔸 The Remaining Grand Masters
They are seated.
Not in comfort, but in vigilance.
Their eyes scan the room—not for error, but for readiness.
One Grand Master holds the paddle.
Another holds the oil.
A third holds silence.
They do not rush.
They do not instruct.
They wait for the next son to step forward.
Refinements at Taben Rael — The Sequence Continues
The sons stand in white—tan tops, white breaks, white socks.
No shoes. No adornment.
The refined ones line the stone wall.
Hands on heads. Legs spread. Eyes forward.
The Grand Masters remain seated.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil is warmed.
The silence is intact.
🔸 Elise has received.
He stands at the wall.
🔸 Simeon
Thirty-five strikes.
He groans at seventeen.
He weeps at twenty-nine.
He whispers “I am not my father” at thirty-five.
He joins the wall.
🔸 Caleb
Thirty-five strikes.
He hums through the first ten.
He sings softly at twenty.
He collapses, then rises.
He joins the wall.
🔸 Isaiah
Thirty-five strikes.
No flinch. No cry.
He whispers “I needed this.”
He joins the wall.
🔸 Micah
Thirty-five strikes.
Sobs at five. Screams at fifteen.
Whispers “I’m still here.”
He joins the wall.
🔸 Tobias
Thirty-five strikes.
Laughs at ten. Curses at twenty.
Repents at thirty-five.
He joins the wall.
🔸 Emmanuel
Thirty-five strikes.
Silent. Still.
He joins the wall.
🔸 Zion
Thirty-five strikes.
Fights the first ten.
Surrenders the next twenty.
Whispers “I am yours.”
He joins the wall.
🔸 Nathaniel
Thirty-five strikes.
Quotes Scripture. Sings.
Whispers “Refine me again.”
He joins the wall.
🔸 Jeremiah
Thirty-five strikes.
Collapses. Rises. Finishes.
He joins the wall.
🔥 Judas
Judas steps forward.
The room shifts.
Not because of his name—because of his record.
The Grand Masters do not speak.
One nods.
The paddle is lifted.
Judas will receive fifty strikes.
He places his hands on the Correction Table.
His breath is shallow.
His eyes are open.
Strike One through Ten
He flinches. He curses. He resists.
Strike Eleven through Twenty
He groans. He weeps. He remembers.
Strike Twenty-One through Thirty
He whispers names.
He confesses theft.
He names betrayals.
Strike Thirty-One through Forty
He collapses.
He is lifted.
He continues.
Strike Forty-One through Forty-Nine
He screams.
He begs.
He surrenders.
Strike Fifty
He whispers, “I am not finished. But I am no longer hiding.”
Judas joins the wall.
His posture is the same.
His breath is different.
🔸 Now: The Room
All sons have received—except Darrell and Johnathan.
The wall holds the refined.
The Table rests.
The oil cools.
The paddle is placed down.
The Grand Masters remain seated.
They do not speak.
They wait.
Darrell and Johnathan stand in silence.
Elevation of Zoran — The Thunder Ritual
The chamber is still.
The Correction Table is clear.
The oil has cooled.
The paddle rests in silence.
The Grand Master lifts his eyes—not to the wall, not to the sons—but to Zion.
He gestures.
Zion obeys.
He walks forward, barefoot, clothed in white.
He does not ask.
He does not hesitate.
The Grand Master speaks:
Zion removes his robe.
He stands bare-chested, unadorned, unshielded.
From the left throne, an Elder rises.
He walks slowly, deliberately.
In his hands: platinum-colored briefs, tank top, and sash.
The seal is stitched into the briefs and etched into the sash.
He does not speak.
He places the garments in Zion’s hands.
Zion dresses.
The platinum glints—not with vanity, but with weight.
The Grand Master says:
Zion walks to the Correction Table.
He places his hands.
He arches his back.
He spreads his legs—shoulder-width apart.
The sons on the wall glance back.
Their posture remains.
Their breath shifts.
Darrell and the unrefined sons stand in awe.
This ritual is usually held separately.
But today, thunder enters the fire.
The Grand Master lifts the paddle.
The chamber holds its breath.
Zoran Receives — 175 Strikes of Fire
Strikes 1–25
Zoran does not flinch.
He breathes in rhythm.
He hums a low tune.
Strikes 26–50
His body rocks.
His eyes close.
He whispers, “I receive.”
Strikes 51–75
He groans.
He names the sons.
He says, “I will carry you.”
Strikes 76–100
He trembles.
He weeps.
He whispers, “I remember my own fire.”
Strikes 101–125
He begins to chant—not words, but breath.
The chamber echoes.
Strikes 126–150
He collapses.
He is lifted.
He continues.
Strikes 151–174
He whispers, “I am thunder.”
He whispers, “I am covenant.”
He whispers, “I am not above. I am beneath.”
Strike 175
He screams—not in pain, but in release.
He says, “It is finished.”
Zoran does not join the wall.
He walks to the center of the chamber.
He kneels.
He places both hands on the floor.
The Grand Master places the paddle beside him.
The oil is poured—not on Zoran, but on the Table.
The chamber is silent.
The thunder has spoken.
Refinements at Taben Rael — Completion of the Sequence
The chamber remains silent.
Zoran kneels in meditation, platinum garments still glinting.
Darrell and Johnathan stand beside him, awaiting their moment.
The Grand Masters continue the work—refining each unrefined son, one by one.
The paddle is passed.
The oil is warmed.
The Table receives.
🔸 Lemuel
Thirty-five strikes.
Weeps at ten.
Confesses theft at twenty.
Whispers “I want to be clean.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Reuben
Thirty-five strikes.
Groans at five.
Screams at fifteen.
Whispers “I lied to my brother.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Silas
Thirty-five strikes.
Hums through ten.
Sings at twenty-five.
Whispers “I am not afraid anymore.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Ephraim
Thirty-five strikes.
Curses at seven.
Weeps at twenty.
Whispers “I surrender.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Levi
Thirty-five strikes.
No flinch. No cry.
Whispers “I am ready to lead.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Matthias
Thirty-five strikes.
Collapses at twelve.
Rises at twenty.
Whispers “I will not betray again.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Amos
Thirty-five strikes.
Fights the first ten.
Surrenders the next twenty.
Whispers “I am yours.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Baruch
Thirty-five strikes.
Quotes Scripture at seven.
Sings at twenty-one.
Whispers “Refine me again.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Hosea
Thirty-five strikes.
Collapses. Rises. Finishes.
Joins the wall.
🔸 Justin
He walks forward with quiet resolve.
His eyes do not dart. His breath is steady.
He places his hands.
He arches his back.
He spreads his legs.
Thirty-five strikes.
He trembles at six.
He weeps at eighteen.
He whispers, “I have hidden too long” at thirty-five.
He joins the wall.
🔸 Judas
Receives fifty strikes.
Not for his name, but for his record.
He screams. He confesses. He surrenders.
He whispers, “I am no longer hiding.”
Joins the wall.
🔸 Now: The Chamber
All sons and daughters have received—except Darrell and Johnathan.
The wall holds the refined.
The Table is clean.
The oil is still.
The paddle rests.
Zoran remains kneeling.
Darrell and Johnathan stand beside him.
The chamber is silent.
The fire has spoken.
The thunder has answered.
The covenant is intact.
Final Refinement — Darrell and Johnathan
Zoran rises.
His meditation complete.
His garments no longer glint—they blaze with lineage.
He turns to Darrell and Johnathan, eyes steady, voice low:
“It is time.”
He places a hand on each shoulder.
Not to guide them,
but to consecrate them.
He leads them to the Table.
The chamber does not stir.
The wall holds its breath.
The paddle is lifted.
The oil is warmed.
The fire waits.
They take their positions.
Side by side.
Not as brothers in blood,
but as brothers in ache.
Fifty strikes.
Not thirty-five.
Not ordinary.
This is the final refinement.
Strike One.
Darrell flinches.
Johnathan exhales.
Strike Five.
Darrell grips the edge of the Table.
Johnathan whispers, “Stay with me.”
Strike Ten.
Darrell begins to shake.
Johnathan reaches for his hand.
Strike Fifteen.
Darrell screams.
Not from pain alone,
but from memory.
“I drank to forget.”
“I used to disappear.”
“I hated myself.”
The chamber does not interrupt.
The paddle does not pause.
Strike Twenty.
Johnathan begins to cry.
Not from fear,
but from recognition.
“I feared I’d never be enough.”
“I broke the lineage.”
“I thought mercy could replace fire.”
Zoran does not flinch.
He watches.
He waits.
Strike Twenty-Five.
Darrell collapses.
Johnathan kneels beside him.
Strike Thirty.
Darrell rises.
Johnathan steadies him.
Strike Thirty-Five.
They scream together.
Not in agony,
but in release.
Strike Forty.
Darrell whispers,
“I want to live clean.”
“I want to stop hiding behind bottles and smoke.”
Strike Forty-Five.
Johnathan whispers,
“I wanted to protect him.”
“I thought skipping the fire would save him.”
Zoran steps forward.
He does not rebuke.
He places his hand on Johnathan’s shoulder and says:
“You did not skip the fire. You carried it.”
Strike Fifty.
They both whisper,
“We are not what we survived.”
They rise.
They do not limp.
They do not hide.
They walk to the wall.
Side by side.
Hand in hand.
They join the refined.
Not as the last,
but as the loudest.
The chamber exhales.
The Table is clean.
The oil is still.
The paddle rests.
Zoran kneels again.
The fire has spoken.
The thunder has answered.
The covenant is sealed.
The Arrival of the Grand Reverend Bishop — The Seal of Taben Rael
The chamber is quiet.
The hatch of Inferno still blazes—its heat lingering, its roar distant.
Then, from the back end of the chamber, the great door opens.
A figure steps through.
He stands 6'9", cloaked in silence and light.
His presence is unmistakable.
His arrival, unannounced.
His appearance—almost glowing.
As he walks into the light, the sons and elders see him clearly:
The Grand Reverend Bishop.
The highest hierarchy of Taben Rael.
Gasps ripple through the chamber.
He has only been seen three times in ten years—
Once, during Zoran’s entry ritual.
Now, again—for Darrell.
The Grand Masters rise.
The Elders bow low.
But the Bishop lifts his voice:
They rise.
He walks slowly along the line of the newly refined.
One by one, he places his hand on each shoulder.
He prays—not loudly, but with weight.
Each son trembles beneath his touch.
🔸 Darrell
The Bishop reaches Darrell.
He turns him around.
Looks into his eyes.
Darrell begins to cry.
Tears flow uncontrollably.
His body shakes—not from fear, but from release.
The Bishop speaks:
He hugs Darrell.
Smacks him gently on the rear.
Turns him back around.
🔸 Johnathan
The Bishop reaches Johnathan.
Turns him around.
Johnathan looks into his deep blue eyes—and breaks.
He cries heavy.
His breath shortens.
The Bishop speaks:
The Bishop takes his hand.
Strikes Johnathan’s backside ten times.
Turns him back around.
🔸 Zoran
The Bishop turns to Zoran.
Zoran falls to his knees.
The Bishop walks over.
Places his hand on Zoran’s shoulder.
Begins to bless him.
He speaks:
The Bishop reaches into his robe.
Pulls out a platinum ring.
Places it on Zoran’s finger.
Zoran begins to cry.
The Bishop turns him around.
Strikes his rear thirty times.
Then says:
🔸 The Seal
The Bishop walks to the Elders and Grand Masters.
They speak in quiet tones.
Then the Bishop turns to the sons and Elders.
He commands:
They obey.
All the leaders speak in unison:
The Bishop claps his hands.
The sound is like thunder.
A cloud of smoke and lightning fills the chamber.
The candles extinguish.
The hatch of Inferno dims.
When the smoke clears—
Only the sons and Elders remain.
The center lights come on.
The ritual is complete.
The covenant is sealed.
The chamber is changed.
The Reader’s Charge — Enter the Chamber
You have read the ritual.
You have seen the fire.
You have heard the thunder.
But now, the question turns to you.
Where do you stand?
Are you Darrell—trembling, ready, weeping at the edge of release?
Are you Johnathan—charged to guide, knowing that another’s fall is now your own?
Are you Zoran—kneeling, crowned, bearing the weight of forty-three sons?
Or perhaps you are none of them.
Perhaps you are the one watching from the shadows,
Waiting for your name to be called.
Waiting for the Bishop to turn and say,
This is not fiction.
This is not spectacle.
This is Taben Rael—and it is calling you.
You are not here by accident.
You are here because something in you is ready to be refined.
To be struck.
To be sent.
So we ask you now:
What will you carry?
Who will you guide?
What fire must you walk through to become who you were meant to be?
The chamber is quiet again.
The candles are out.
The center lights are on.
And you—
You are standing in the center.
