Previously on the chosen people.

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of praise.

Trumpets blared, and the voices of the people rose like a storm.

Long live the king, they shouted.

Long live King Saul.

Saul lifted his blade high and bellowed, his voice rolling across the forest and into the camp beyond.

Fight you mighty men of Israel! Fight as one nation under God!

The Lord has conquered kingdoms and toppled towers for you. Yet you whine for a king like a children.

When Nahash came, you did not call on the Lord to save you.

No, you asked for a man.

And here he is, the king you demanded. For the first time, a seed of bitterness took root in

Saul's heart. He wondered if Samuel had ever truly wanted him to be king, or if the old

prophet was secretly praying for his failure.

The forge burned hot, glowing like the heart of a dying star.

The iron within pulsing with heat as the blacksmith worked tirelessly, his hammer ringing against the anvil.

The scent of molten metal and charred leather filled the air as he affixed each scale,

layering them onto the thick breastplate in an intricate pattern.

Finally, he dipped his brush into a pot of molten gold and traced each iron scale with

careful precision. When he finished, the armour gleamed like the sun itself, a masterpiece of

craft and wealth. Saul held the breastplate before him, his fingers tracing the golden filigree.

The weight of it was immense, but it did not burden him. It emboldened him.

Now there will be no mistaking who is king when I march into battle.

...