Thomas didn’t remember driving home.

One moment, he was on the roadside, hands trembling, the journal’s words still burning in his mind. The next, he was pulling into his driveway. The engine hummed softly, the dashboard lights casting a warm glow over his shaking fingers.

But something was wrong.

The house was too still. Too perfect.

The porch light flickered—not like it was failing, but like it was breathing. Outside, the night was unnaturally quiet. No rustling leaves. No crickets. No movement. No sound.

Thomas sat frozen in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel.

His chest ached. The scar—no, the second seal—felt heavier, as if something was curled beneath his skin.

"You carried me out, Thomas."

He shoved the door open, slammed it shut behind him, and hurried toward the house. He needed sleep. He needed time to think.

Then, as he stepped onto the porch—

The door opened on its own.

The First Sign

The nightmare came swiftly.

Fire. Smoke. Screams. His daughter’s voice, calling to him from beyond the flames.

Then—a touch.

Cool fingers brushing against his forehead.

Thomas gasped awake, his body drenched in sweat. His breath came in ragged, uneven pulls.

And there, in the darkness—

Someone was standing over him.

A shadow, thin and shifting, just beyond his sight. Watching.

His breath hitched. He reached for the lamp, fingers brushing against the switch—

The figure was gone.

Silence. The house was still again.

Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

But then—

He felt it.

The weight on his chest was gone.

His pulse hammered as he sat up and tore open his shirt. The scar—where the seal had burned into him—was gone. No pain. No mark.

Instead, he felt light.

Clean. Unburdened.

And something even stranger—

For the first time in years, the guilt was gone too.

The Second Sign

The next morning, Thomas walked through town, his mind clearer than it had been in years.

No weight pressing down on him. No lingering doubts.

Still, the questions remained.

What had happened at the house?

What had truly escaped?

Then, something unexpected.

An elderly woman collapsed in front of him.

She clutched at her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. People shouted for help, scrambling for their phones.

And Thomas—he didn’t think.

He just acted.

He dropped to his knees, pressed a hand to her forehead, and spoke.

"Let her rise."

The words weren’t his own.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Then—

The woman gasped. Her body arched, her limbs tensed—then she stood up, completely unharmed.

Murmurs. Whispers of awe.

Thomas stumbled back, his hands trembling.

What had he just done?

But the people weren’t looking at him with fear.

They were looking at him with reverence.

The Third Sign

Word spread quickly.

A miracle, they called it.

People sought him out, gathering in the small park near the ruined church, whispering his name.

Then, the sick came. The wounded. The lost.

And Thomas—he simply placed his hands upon them.

"Rise."

"Be cleansed."

Every time, it worked.

Blind eyes regained sight. Crippling injuries vanished. The hopeless felt whole again.

But something wasn’t right.

He noticed it first in Jacob, a local shopkeeper. The man had suffered from severe arthritis, his hands curled and useless.

Thomas had barely touched him before the pain vanished completely.

Jacob wept with joy.

But later that evening, Thomas saw him again—standing beneath a streetlamp.

Not moving.

His expression was blank.

And on his neck, just beneath his skin—

A faint, black vein.

Thomas blinked.

When he looked again—Jacob was gone.

The next day, more of them had it.

A dark stain, spreading under their flesh.

The Gathering

They began calling him the Unbound Prophet.

They knelt at his feet, their voices rising in whispered prayer.

"The one who set the righteous free."

"The hand of God, returned to us."

"The one who broke the first seal."

That last one made his breath catch.

How did they know about the seal?

Before he could ask, a woman stepped forward.

She was different from the others. Her eyes weren’t filled with blind faith.

They were filled with knowledge.

She knelt like the rest, but her movements were sharp, calculated.

"Prophet." Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the murmurs like a blade. "Tell me… do you understand what you’ve done?"

Thomas stared at her.

She smiled—cold and knowing.

"You’ve begun something you can’t control."

Then she leaned in, her lips just inches from his ear.

"You didn’t heal them, Thomas."

A pause.

Then, in a whisper softer than breath—

"You marked them."