YOUR LORD HEARD THAT YOU CRIED–Read free stories. Carefully refined so it can be read without any prior knowledge of the storyline. You’re invited to read it here, freely.
This chapter is drawn from Zyphar Chronicles I: The Becoming. By this point in his journey, Zyphar—once Animas—has endured the impossible torment of Lust and the endless crucible of Hell. What follows is not a rescue, nor redemption in the way one might expect. It is something sacred. After all else has burned away, when even pain has forgotten how to speak, something begins to answer. Not with thunder. But with silence.
After I was dragged into hell, I had long since stopped measuring time. But something had shifted.
I could feel that the years—if they could still be called that—had piled like layers of ash.
And I knew then that enough time had passed to change the nature of the punishment itself.
The fire no longer consumed me quickly.
It didn’t come with the violence of earlier torment.
It burned slowly now, meticulously, as if taking pleasure in the space between the nerves, drawing out the agony like a violin string played by cruelty itself.
I wasn’t being reduced—I was being studied.
Every cell, every whisper of sensation was forced to endure itself. There was a moment.
I can’t tell you exactly when it happened. Or what broke differently in that cycle.
But I remember that at some point—while what remained of my body had almost entirely burned away—as the last strands of muscle were peeled from bone, and the fire curled itself toward my face with surgical precision—I felt it touch the corner of my lips. And reach my final eye.
That’s when it came.
Not a scream.
Not a curse.
Just a single tear.
One drop of water, from the only eye I had left.
A drop so small, so slow, unnoticed by the fire around me.
I didn’t speak aloud.
My throat had long since vanished.
But in that moment, I thought—My Lord…
whoever You are, or were—I’ve never seen You.
You’ve never recognized me in fire or in breath, and I’ve never been certain You existed at all. But I tried.
I tried to follow the rules—at least as much as I could.
I tried not to cheat what was written.
I tried to walk the path I believed You might have left behind.
And I know…
I know I’m not worthy of any Heaven, if such a place exists.
I’m not contesting the punishment You’ve allowed.
But if I’ve failed You in any way—
if I’ve missed what You meant—
then I just want to say one thing, I’m sorry.
The tear disappeared.
Evaporated, like everything else.
Then the last of me followed it—into the fire.
Into the dark.
Into nothing.
I woke again.
Just as I had a million times before.
The cycle repeated like the beat of a cruel drum, but something felt wrong this time—not wrong with pain, not with the fire, but with its absence.
There was no searing heat.
No howling.
No flesh crackling like parchment in wind.
Instead, I found myself in a space that resembled a coal mine—dark, empty, scorched black across every surface, but without the heat that once defined it.
There were no flames now, only an atmosphere dense with aftermath, as if Hell itself had exhaled and left the cinders behind. I couldn’t move.
My body felt like it had been burned to a state just shy of death—nerve endings exposed, bone intact, but skin peeled raw and wrapped in the memory of fire.
There was no pain sharp enough to scream, only a dull, endless echo of what had been.
Still, I was alive.
Barely.
I couldn’t lift my head, couldn’t raise my hands, but I could move my eyes. They scanned the space near me, slow and exhausted, and I realized with growing unease—There was no one.
No executioners.
No flames.
No other shapes moving in the distance.
Not even smoke.
It was absence.
And then I began to feel… nothing.
Not emptiness—something deeper than that.
It was silence.
Not just around me—but inside me.
At first I thought it was madness, the final break of a soul stretched past every limit.
But the silence didn’t press or weigh.
It spoke.
Not in voice or words.
It felt like questions rising in me without form—then answers arriving before I could realize they had been asked.
It wasn’t a dialogue.
It was fusion.
A conversation without separation between speaker and listener, where every thought arrived with its completion stitched to it, like rain falling already soaked in its reflection.
I was afraid.
Not of pain this time—
but of losing the last boundary I had left—my self.
I didn’t dare speak aloud.
But something inside whispered the question nonetheless.
What is this?
And the answer came, not with sound, not with thunder, not with vision—but with absolute knowing.
“I am the one they call ‘The Lord.’”
I broke into tears.
Not from pain—because I had forgotten what pain was.
Not from sorrow—because sorrow had long burned into silence.
But because, after what felt like the erasure of centuries, after the destruction of galaxies, after the dissolution of time and flesh and name—I had been heard.
And that single truth, that one unshakable realization, held more beauty than any Heaven ever could.
The silence—warm and endless—spoke again.
“Your Lord heard that you cried.”
I wanted to stay there forever.
Right in that stillness.
Cradled not by comfort but by understanding.
Held not by hands, but by the fact that I was no longer forgotten.
But the silence didn’t let me remain.
“Stand up, Animas,”
“Walk to a place you like. You have been forgiven.”
I stood.
Without hesitation.
Though my body was still wrecked—flesh charred and hanging in shreds, skin breaking apart like wet paper with every step—
I was walking.
Not with strength, but with a kind of truth that pulled me forward more than muscle ever could.
And in the silence, I asked—But my Lord…
I don’t need a place.
I never asked for reward.
I am at peace with the shame, the struggle, the fire—because You forgave me.
That alone is everything.
The silence seemed to smile.
This time I could feel it more clearly—not like a sound, not like a gesture, but like the warmth that follows the understanding of something you’ve known all along. Then silence said—
“The questions you asked already contained their answers.”
“You searched for the sun while you walked in darkness.”
“You searched for help when you were in trouble.”
“You forgot—you are the sun.”
“It is your light that must burn to illuminate others.”
“You don’t need help.”
“You are the help that others are waiting for.”
I knew it the moment I heard it.
Every confusion fell away like dust.
I had spent a lifetime asking where the light was—
never realizing it was mine that had gone missing.
But there was still one final thing, something I couldn’t leave unsaid. So I asked—
You referred to Yourself as “…they call the Lord.”
Do You not want to be called that?
Are You something else entirely?
Again, the silence smiled.
The answers were not coming with argument or ego, but with a clarity that didn’t need convincing.
“There is no meaning in what I am called.”
“Whether they say ‘Lord,’ or anything else.”
“It changes nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter if they understand Me or not.”
“I am not bound by their praise.”
“Nor moved by their hate.”
“Nor shaken by their rebellion.”
“So I speak that way.”
“Names are for those who need to reach from the outside.”
“I… am not outside.”
That answer was not new.
It was logical.
Simple.
Always in front of me, yet never seen—until now.
And still, something in me reached again.
Not for doubt.
But for direction.
Then, before the question fully formed, I received the answer—
“You are thinking I must be another entity.”
“Different from you.”
“Perhaps that is partially true.”
“But not entirely.”
“I am you, Animas.”
“I made you with My finest qualities.”
“And even with some I did not intend to give.”
“You may call yourself an angel.”
“Who chose to burn in Hell to be made clean.”
“A devil—who chose to obey its Master.”
“You are the finest creation I ever formed.”
“So, Animas…”
“Move on.”
“To anywhere you choose.”
“Only you are allowed everywhere.”
“Even to speak to Me—whenever you wish.”
Previous Chapter : ARCHITECTURE OF FIRE
If this story stirred something in you—if the silence and the fire felt like they were yours too—you’re invited to read the full book.
This marks the end of the standalone chapters. What follows continues the series and won’t be fully understandable without reading the complete story.
For your convenience, I’ve made the full book available directly on this site.
No need to go through the giants or spend unnecessarily.
You can buy it here—at a much lower price.
For behind-the-scenes reflections, exclusive updates, and new story drops—follow Zyphar’s path:
Facebook
Instagram
The fire was never meant to rest in a chapter. It was always meant to lead you somewhere deeper.
Leave a Reply