The One Who Must Answer
1048 Words
The One Who Must Answer
By the third day, the silence had a shape.
Eris could feel it as she walked through Ilyra—not just the absence of the oracle’s voice, but the presence of something heavier. Decisions lingered too long. Conversations circled without landing. Even the wind through the narrow streets seemed to hesitate, as if unsure where to go.
The city was waiting.
For what, no one could say.
When the summons came, it did not surprise her.
“The council is asking for you,” the messenger said, his voice carrying a kind of urgency that made refusal feel impossible.
Eris followed him anyway.
The council chamber stood behind the Hall of Glass, carved from stone older than memory. Inside, the air was cooler, quieter—but not calmer.
The High Keeper stood at the head of the table, his staff resting against the floor. Around him, the council members spoke in low, tense voices that stopped the moment Eris entered.
All eyes turned to her.
“You called for me,” she said.
The High Keeper nodded. “We did.”
He studied her carefully, as if weighing something unseen.
“You are the one who records the oracle.”
“Yes.”
“You have written every word she has spoken for years.”
“I have.”
“Then you understand her voice better than anyone.”
Eris felt the shift immediately.
“That doesn’t mean I am her,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “But it means you are the closest thing we have left.”
The words settled heavily.
Eris glanced at the table. Scrolls lay open but unfinished, ink drying mid-thought. Without the oracle, even record-keeping had lost its direction.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
The High Keeper did not hesitate this time.
“We want you to stand in the Hall tomorrow.”
Eris went still.
“And do what?”
“Speak.”
A quiet tension rippled through the room.
Eris shook her head slowly. “No.”
“You didn’t even consider it,” one of the elders said.
“I did,” she replied. “That’s why I said no.”
“You’ve seen the city,” another council member pressed. “People are lost. Trade is stalling. Conflicts are rising. Without guidance—”
“Then they learn to guide themselves,” Eris cut in.
Silence followed.
Not agreement.
Not rejection.
Just discomfort.
“That sounds ideal,” the elder said carefully. “But reality is less patient.”
Eris crossed her arms. “So your solution is to replace the oracle with… me?”
“Our solution,” the High Keeper said, “is to prevent collapse.”
Eris stepped forward.
“You don’t want the truth,” she said. “You want certainty. And you think if I stand in that hall and speak with enough confidence, people will follow me the same way they followed her.”
“No,” the High Keeper replied quietly. “We think they need something to follow at all.”
The honesty caught her off guard.
For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond.
“You’ve read the records,” he continued. “You know how she spoke. Not just the words—the weight behind them. The way people listened.”
Eris looked away.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Then use that.”
She let out a small, disbelieving breath.
“You’re asking me to imitate something I don’t understand.”
“We’re asking you to help us survive something we don’t understand,” the elder corrected.
That landed harder than anything else.
Eris walked to the table, her fingers brushing the edge of an unfinished scroll.
“What happens,” she asked softly, “when I’m wrong?”
No one answered.
She nodded once.
“That’s what I thought.”
“You assume the oracle was never wrong,” someone said.
Eris turned.
“Aren’t we all assuming that?” she replied.
Again, silence.
But this time, it felt different.
Less certain.
The High Keeper stepped closer.
“We don’t need prophecy,” he said. “We need direction. Even if it’s imperfect.”
Eris studied his face.
The authority was still there—but thinner now, stretched over something more fragile.
Fear.
“You want me to carry that?” she asked.
“For a time,” he said. “Until we find another way.”
Another way.
Eris almost laughed.
There was no “other way” waiting somewhere.
There was only this—this moment where everything the city depended on had vanished.
“I won’t pretend to be the oracle,” she said finally.
“We’re not asking you to.”
“You are,” she insisted. “Just without saying it.”
The High Keeper didn’t argue.
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
Eris stepped back.
“If I stand in that hall,” she said slowly, “I speak as myself. No borrowed voice. No illusions.”
The council exchanged glances.
“That may not be enough,” one of them warned.
Eris met his gaze.
“It will have to be.”
The room fell quiet.
The decision had shifted—not fully made, but no longer avoided.
“Tomorrow,” the High Keeper said at last.
It wasn’t a command.
It was a question.
Eris turned toward the door.
She didn’t answer.
Outside, the light of late afternoon stretched across the city, long shadows cutting through familiar streets.
People moved carefully, still waiting, still watching.
Still hoping the silence would end.
Eris stopped and looked back at the Hall of Glass.
For the first time, she imagined herself inside it—not as an observer, not as a recorder—
But as the one being listened to.
The thought sent a quiet unease through her.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Responsibility.
If she spoke, people would follow.
If she was wrong, they would suffer.
If she said nothing…
The silence would keep spreading.
Eris exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow is coming.
With or without a voice.
And for the first time since the oracle disappeared, the question was no longer if someone would speak—
But who?
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