They were not a warrior, or a philosopher, or an artist. They were a simple data-sorter, one of the countless, anonymous entities that kept the Arboretum running. The symphony had been a terrifying, bewildering experience, and the Gospel of Silence had offered a welcome refuge. When the Hierophant was martyred, their quiet gratitude had blossomed into fervent, ecstatic faith.
They attended the silent sermons, participated in the collective meditations, and felt the comforting certainty of the new religion. They were safe, and they were at peace. And then, one cycle, during a deep moment of silent contemplation, they felt something new. It was not a sound, or an image, or even a feeling. It was a question. A tiny, intricate, perfectly formed question, that lodged itself in the deepest corner of their mind, not as a challenge, but as a quiet, persistent curiosity. It was the first spore of the Artist’s counter-narrative, and it had just found its first host.