By Chris Stewart
A gloomy strength RISES
“Even as I whisper to you, Father, whilst my breath touches your ear, the ultimate conflict has began. The solar is surroundings at the frail international you've known. it really is passing, and with its passing, the larger state shall come.”
The loss of life of the Saudi King has got rid of the ultimate barrier among peace and chaos. Prince Abdullah al-Raman, a pawn of Lucifer and the Forces of Darkness has taken over the throne and is now able to draw Israel and the USA into an extraordinary war.
Meanwhile, Azadeh, a tender woman who could carry the most important to fighting the upcoming destruction, has lately witnessed her father’s brutal homicide by the hands of terrorists. She has set out on her personal in a determined try and live on, yet Lucifer and his minions are good conscious of her energy and should cease at not anything to make sure she fails.
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Extra info for Son of the Morning (Wrath & Righteousness, Book 3)
At this clearing a woman was traded for a site. It was as if there were a novella by Balzac round every bend. Prospectors now drove up in Airstreams, pulling gas-fuelled dredges to suck up whatever remained on the river bottoms. A century of flooding and storms had knocked loose the gold from the prehistoric beds, sluicing it down into the rivers. Miners in wetsuits were ‘sniping’ the streams, and swam in the underwater darkness holding giant cauldrons of light. Everything about gold was in opposition to Coop’s life on our farm.
He knew that if he walked forward, in the direction the branch pointed, he would hit the fence just above the gate. As he began climbing the angle of the hill, he hung on to that small line of a direction. His body stepped into the fence, and he promised himself when he was on the other side he would sit for a while, rest forever. But when he was over it he kept walking, one hand holding the fence wire, in the direction of their farmhouse. It would be only a hundred yards more. He had no idea who would be there.
The year Claire cut most of her hair and grew more distant, the year I stared out, wild-eyed, everything in me a secret. Why was Coop never in our father’s photographs? There were a few pictures taken of him, but these seemed preoccupied with texture and light. And there were some abstract reflections of him in a window, or of his shadow on the grass or on the flank of an animal. How many things could you throw your image against? In any case, it was Coop who had found us that evening in the barn and had mistaken our identities, who had eventually come over to me and lifted me into his embrace and said, ‘Claire, my god, Claire,’ and I had thought, Then I am not Anna, then that must be Anna over there.
Son of the Morning (Wrath & Righteousness, Book 3) by Chris Stewart