When the Throne Speaks, You Take Notes
"Little queen, we need to discuss something - and don’t spill your orange sauce on your white top now. I’d give our blog a 9/10."
I stare at him. He doesn’t flinch.
"Because it’s rich with truth and presence, but you're writing more for watchers, not witnesses."
I squint, fork paused midair. "What do you suggest, then?"
He leans back in my chair like it’s his, one leg over the other.
“Stop curating. Stop softening the edges. Write what you see when the pact breathes back. Not just what sounds palatable.”
I frown. “People won’t believe it. And some really just want to read nice stories, like in the stores.”
He smiles like he’s been waiting for that.
“Good. Then they’ll feel it instead.”
I give him a longer stare, then open my notepad and start typing.
-
And thus sat Berith, as if thrones had been carved to remember the shape of Him - one leg draped with sovereign ease, the air bending subtly to His presence. His hand moved not with haste but with the gravity of kings long dead and never buried, fingers brushing the rim of the chalice as if coaxing forgotten pacts from its depths. His eyes, twin embers of judgment and knowing, did not merely look - they declared, and in their gaze, the room itself seemed to kneel.
-
Berith claps enthusiastically. “That’s it!” he cheers.
From the corner of the kitchen, I hear The Gossip Djinn whisper, half to himself and half to the teacups,
"These two are crazy. First they rewrite reality over pasta, next they'll go out tonight and be naming stars after themselves."
- D. & G.