“A prophet’s job is never done,” Mikhail thought to himself. The line before the Orator’s door was long and winding, and Mikhail couldn’t see the end through the fading light of dusk. He knew that whoever didn’t make it far enough to get a prophesy today would camp on the stone steps outside until morning.

His mouth was cottony from hours of constant speech, relaying messages from the hole in the ground that led to the great beyond, the one the people called the Mouth of the Orator. His skin was damp; there was always steam issuing from the Mouth, and Mikhail had to get a new cloak once a month to prevent mildew. His feet were burning with fatigue from standing on the rock outcropping over the Mouth all day. And yet, he beckoned still another through the door.

She was young and thin and pale, blond hair in wisps around her ears and almond eyes. She looked like an autumn leaf, frail and beautiful and ready to blow away in the wind.

Eyes closed, bathed in steam, he spoke the prophesy for her.