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The Lost Word is not a word. it is a symbol.

Eagerly, Mal’akh had inscribed the great symbol of the circumpunct on his scalp. As he did so, he felt an upwelling of power and satisfaction. My masterpiece and offering are complete. The forces of darkness were waiting for him now. He would be rewarded for his work. This was to be his moment of glory.

And yet, at the last instant, everything had gone horribly wrong.

Peter was still behind him now, speaking words that Mal’akh could barely fathom. “I lied to you,” he was saying. “You left me no choice. If I had revealed to you the true Lost Word, you would not have believed me, nor would you have understood.”

The Lost Word is. not the circumpunct?

“The truth is,” said Peter, “the Lost Word is known to all. but recognized by very few.”

The words echoed in Mal’akh’s mind.

“You remain incomplete,” Peter said, gently placing his palm on top of Mal’akh’s head. “Your work is not yet done. But wherever you are going, please know this. you were loved.”

For some reason, the gentle touch of his father’s hand felt like it was burning through him like a potent catalyst that was initiating a chemical reaction inside Mal’akh’s body. Without warning, he felt a rush of blistering energy surging through his physical shell, as if every cell in his body were now dissolving.

In an instant, all of his worldly pain evaporated.

Transformation. It’s happening.

I am gazing down upon myself, a wreck of bloody flesh on the sacred slab of granite. My father is kneeling behind me, holding my lifeless head with his one remaining hand.

I feel an upwelling of rage. and confusion.

This is not a moment for compassion. it is for revenge, for transformation. and yet still my father refuses to submit, refuses to fulfill his role, refuses to channel his pain and anger through the knife blade and into my heart.

I am trapped here, hovering. tethered to my earthly shell.

My father gently runs a soft palm across my face to close my fading eyes.

I feel the tether release.

A billowing veil materializes around me, thickening and dimming the light, hiding the world from view. Suddenly time accelerates, and I am plunging into an abyss far darker than any I have ever imagined. Here, in the barren void, I hear a whispering. I sense a gathering force. It strengthens, mounting at a startling rate, surrounding me. Ominous and powerful. Dark and commanding.

I am not alone here.

This is my triumph, my grand reception. And yet, for some reason, I am filled not with joy, but rather with boundless fear.

It is nothing like I expect.

The force is churning now, swirling around me with commanding strength, threatening to tear me apart. Suddenly, without warning, the blackness gathers itself like a great prehistoric beast and rears up before me.

I am facing all the dark souls who have gone before.

I am screaming in infinite terror. as the darkness swallows me whole.

Inside the National Cathedral, Dean Galloway sensed a strange change in the air. He was not sure why, but he felt as if a ghostly shadow had evaporated. as if a weight had been lifted. far away and yet right here.

Alone at his desk, he was deep in thought. He was not sure how many minutes had passed when his phone rang. It was Warren Bellamy.