The court had fallen silent long before the man finished speaking.

      The king sat rigid on his throne, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on the figure before him—not a boy, not a novice, but a seasoned counselor whose calm carried the weight of years.

      The man lowered his gaze, not in fear, but in reverence—as though the revelation he had spoken still pressed upon him.

      The king exhaled, a long, trembling breath. His voice, when it came, was unsteady.

      “This… is the dream.”

      A murmur rippled through the chamber—disbelief, awe, fear. The Magi exchanged glances, their faces pale.

      Bel‑iddin, standing among them, stared at the stranger with a mixture of respect and resentment, as though trying to understand how an exile had seen what they could not.

      The king rose to his feet.

      “And the interpretation?”

      The man lifted his eyes. His voice was steady, measured — the voice of one who had learned to speak only what was true, and only when it was time.

      He spoke of kingdoms rising and falling, of empires built on sand, of a stone not cut by human hands. He spoke of the Most High who rules over the affairs of men. He spoke with clarity, with humility, with a certainty that did not come from ambition.

      When he finished, the silence returned—deeper now, heavier.

      The king sank back onto his throne, shaken. For a long moment he said nothing.

      Then, slowly, his gaze drifted upward—toward the high windows, toward the faint shimmer of the early evening sky. As though the stars themselves were weighing the man’s words.

      When he looked back, something in his expression had changed. Not merely awe. Recognition.

      “Truly,” the king said, “your God is God of gods.”