Sir Reginald clapped him once on the shoulder and moved on, offering congratulations to another man who had just scratched his name with trembling fingers.
did not move.
The parchment lay before him, the ink still wet from the last signature, the quill waiting in the stand as though it had all the patience in the world.
Lord…
The prayer came unbidden, not spoken aloud, but rising from somewhere deeper than thought.
What would You have me do?
His hand hovered just above the table.
If I sign—if I acknowledge this—if I set aside what I have been taught is true…
His throat tightened.
Am I forsaking You?
For a moment, there was nothing. Only the distant murmur of voices, the faint scratch of quills, the steady, indifferent passing of time.
Then heheardsomething,feltsomething.
Not a voice.
Not words.
But something else.
A quieting. A stillness that settled over his mind and eased the frantic edge of his thoughts.
He had read the scriptures. He knew them.
Was not Christ Himself brought before earthly authority?
Were not the apostles commanded, threatened, driven to choose between survival and defiance?
Persecution had not always worn the face of open violence. Sometimes it came in subtler forms.
In oaths.
In signatures.
In the quiet yielding of a moment that might preserve a life for greater trials yet to come.
His breath steadied.
You know my heart,he thought, more firmly now.You know what I believe.
The fear did not vanish, but it no longer ruled him.
He reached for the pen.
He signed.
There was no other choice.
He did it quickly, with no flourish, and let the pen fall as if it scalded him.
