Exile isn’t silence.

It isn’t emptiness. It’s the echo.

The sound of doors slamming behind you. The sound of voices fading. The sound of knowing you’ve been cut out of the picture but can still see yourself in its frame.

Exile lingers. It clings like smoke.

And no sermon ever preached can burn it away.

I know, because I’ve lived in it. Locked away in the Grove, torn between who I was and who I was made to be.

Exiled from myself.

But I didn’t wither in it. I learned in it.

And when the door opened, I didn’t crawl back to beg. I walked out stronger.

That’s the difference between you and me, Graves.

You built your ministry on the power to exile. Cast out the unbelievers. Cast out the weak. Cast out the ones who don’t bow low enough when you speak.

Even your own blood.

Like your sister Rose. The one who dared love someone you didn’t approve of. You branded her an outcast, like tossing her aside proved your devotion.

But here’s the truth you don’t want whispered in your halls: You didn’t exile Rose because she betrayed your faith.

You exiled her because she betrayed you. Because her happiness put a crack in your sermon, and you couldn’t stand it.

And then Lucien…

Her husband. Her hope. The man who promised her a future…

You made him come crawling back to you.

You didn’t just exile Rose, Zeke. You made her a widow while her husband was still breathing. You made her child an orphan while his father was still alive.

And now the whole world sees the truth.

The good Reverend, the holy man, the Apostle of Wrath: you built your empire by exiling your own family.

By burning bridges you didn’t have the strength to cross.

That’s not faith. That’s fear.

You’ve hidden behind wrath for so long, but wrath is just exile by another name, a way to push the world away so you never have to admit it’s already left you behind.

You preach about sin and salvation, but I’ll show you what exile really feels like.

When I tear away your control. When I silence your voice. When I leave you staring at the lights with no congregation to save you.

And the echo will be deafening.

Because when I beat you, Graves, it won’t just be your defeat.

It’ll be the sound of every door you slammed coming back on you.

It’ll be Rose’s voice filling your ears when you can’t rise.

It’ll be the eyes of a child staring through you.

You call yourself a Reverend. But there’s no ministry in abandonment.

There’s no faith in casting out blood.

There’s no salvation in exile.

At Ascension, I’ll make sure that’s all you have left:

The weight of a sister you betrayed.

A family you destroyed.

And a child you orphaned.

And when you’re flat on your back, staring into nothing, you’ll understand that the wrath you’ve built your life on isn’t holy.

It isn’t righteous.

It’s just exile.

And exile is the only sermon you’ll ever preach again.