The oxen wouldn’t move.
“Push them,” Azur barked, planting his palms on the cart’s edge. The wheels creaked, the gold-covered box inside unmoved. “They go or we suffer more than boils this time.”
The younger priests obeyed. The ropes strained. The cart shifted in the sand, but the animals — yoked to the burden at their backs — only stamped and snorted. One bellowed low. A sound like warning.
Azur’s hand dropped. He’d heard too many warnings in the past seven months.
Dagon’s temple floor still smelled of old blood, though they'd scrubbed it twice. The cracks where their god’s limbs had fallen. The priests whispered now, always whispering. Some no longer entered at all.
Behind him, the Ark shimmered in the sun like flame behind gold. Pure, untouched. And ever since they'd taken it from the Hebrews’ battlefields, nothing had stood untouched.
“Why doesn’t it go?” one of the priests asked, eyes flickering.
“We yoked milking cows,” Azur said. “They want to turn home. But if the God of Israel truly brought this plague... He’ll pull them His way.”
He stepped back.
Two steps.
Three.
The others followed, slowly, like something might reach out. As one, the oxen lurched—hooves dull against the packed road—and the cart began to roll. No driver. No lash. No hurry.
Just away.
Azur stood unmoving as the dust curled behind them. The Ark wagged gently with the motion, like it had waited to leave.
One of the younger men dropped to a knee beside him. “It goes straight. No turning back.”
“Then He did this,” another murmured. “This God.”
Silence spread out like spilt oil.
Azur’s fingers wrapped around the talisman at his neck.
He told himself he believed in power. That’s why he’d become priest — not for Dagon, but for dominion. Where there was awe, there was control. People feared idols. They gave them food. They gave them children. And when war came, they brought what was holy and hoped it would slaughter for them.
Now the holy had slaughtered them.
But still, his hand did not move. The talisman remained.
They burned offerings on flat stones that night. Five golden tumors, five golden rats — mocking images of what they’d lost. They placed them in the cart as gifts. Not for love. Not for worship. Just transaction.
You hurt us. We fear you. Take our gold and go.
Back down the road, toward Beth Shemesh, the cart was nearly out of sight, the oxen still not veering. Azur watched until it vanished into heat and earthblown haze.
Behind him, the temple of Dagon still crouched in ruins on its pillars. Bits of dust drifted down like slow ash.
And still, he’d kept the talisman.
Later, long after the others had gone, he crawled beneath the threshold stones, where shattered clay bowls marked offerings that had gone unanswered. Here, no one saw him. No priests. No shouting. No witnesses but broken walls.
He placed the talisman on the ground.
His hands didn’t shake, but they wanted to. This was not surrender. It was only silence.
Above him, the roof groaned in the wind. Stones shifted a fraction. Or maybe they didn’t.
Azur didn't look up. He only stayed until the trembling in his chest faded.
Then left the talisman there.
And walked into the night.
The oxen wouldn’t move.
“Push them,” Azur barked, planting his palms on the cart’s edge. The wheels creaked, the gold-covered box inside unmoved. “They go or we suffer more than boils this time.”
The younger priests obeyed. The ropes strained. The cart shifted in the sand, but the animals — yoked to the burden at their backs — only stamped and snorted. One bellowed low. A sound like warning.
Azur’s hand dropped. He’d heard too many warnings in the past seven months.
Dagon’s temple floor still smelled of old blood, though they'd scrubbed it twice. The cracks where their god’s limbs had fallen. The priests whispered now, always whispering. Some no longer entered at all.
Behind him, the Ark shimmered in the sun like flame behind gold. Pure, untouched. And ever since they'd taken it from the Hebrews’ battlefields, nothing had stood untouched.
“Why doesn’t it go?” one of the priests asked, eyes flickering.
“We yoked milking cows,” Azur said. “They want to turn home. But if the God of Israel truly brought this plague... He’ll pull them His way.”
He stepped back.
Two steps.
Three.
The others followed, slowly, like something might reach out. As one, the oxen lurched—hooves dull against the packed road—and the cart began to roll. No driver. No lash. No hurry.
Just away.
Azur stood unmoving as the dust curled behind them. The Ark wagged gently with the motion, like it had waited to leave.
One of the younger men dropped to a knee beside him. “It goes straight. No turning back.”
“Then He did this,” another murmured. “This God.”
Silence spread out like spilt oil.
Azur’s fingers wrapped around the talisman at his neck.
He told himself he believed in power. That’s why he’d become priest — not for Dagon, but for dominion. Where there was awe, there was control. People feared idols. They gave them food. They gave them children. And when war came, they brought what was holy and hoped it would slaughter for them.
Now the holy had slaughtered them.
But still, his hand did not move. The talisman remained.
They burned offerings on flat stones that night. Five golden tumors, five golden rats — mocking images of what they’d lost. They placed them in the cart as gifts. Not for love. Not for worship. Just transaction.
You hurt us. We fear you. Take our gold and go.
Back down the road, toward Beth Shemesh, the cart was nearly out of sight, the oxen still not veering. Azur watched until it vanished into heat and earthblown haze.
Behind him, the temple of Dagon still crouched in ruins on its pillars. Bits of dust drifted down like slow ash.
And still, he’d kept the talisman.
Later, long after the others had gone, he crawled beneath the threshold stones, where shattered clay bowls marked offerings that had gone unanswered. Here, no one saw him. No priests. No shouting. No witnesses but broken walls.
He placed the talisman on the ground.
His hands didn’t shake, but they wanted to. This was not surrender. It was only silence.
Above him, the roof groaned in the wind. Stones shifted a fraction. Or maybe they didn’t.
Azur didn't look up. He only stayed until the trembling in his chest faded.
Then left the talisman there.
And walked into the night.
