The Fable of the People of a Thousand Certainties

The Kingdom of Certis

Once upon a time, there was a vast continent divided into countless kingdoms, each convinced it held the ultimate key to the universe. But among these scattered lands, one people stood out: the inhabitants of Certis. These beings, with penetrating eyes but rigid minds, lived in the tranquil assurance that they had solved the primordial enigma — the existence of the Supreme Being.

Every Certian wore a stone around their neck, engraved with the name they gave to that entity — Yahor, Almin, Zedrah, or no name at all, depending on their clan. At birth, a child was given this stone by their parents, who, by tying it around their neck, bound their heart and mind to a truth never to be questioned.

And so, from a young age, Certians were divided into groups, each convinced the others were wrong. It wasn’t an aggressive hostility, no. More a gentle condescension — a polite sigh when hearing others speak of their faith or lack thereof. “Poor souls, they weren’t lucky enough to be born on the right side,” they would say, with a compassionate but closed gaze.

The Glass Walls

This people lived in splendid cities, separated by glass walls. Each city believed its light, its faith, its worldview shone through the glass to enlighten the others. But in truth, the walls reflected only their own image. And the Certians spent their lives gazing at their own reflection, convinced they were looking at the universe.

One day, a young boy named Eolan — born without a stone, as his parents had died in a storm before passing it on — was raised by the Council of Weavers, a caste entrusted with teaching the diversity of stones. He grew up without ever choosing one. Each faith was shown to him, each absence of faith, each doubt, each certainty. But never was he forced to decide.

And this troubled the people.

The Wanderer’s Journey

At seventeen, Eolan left the glass-walled cities. He walked to the borders, crossed through the cities, observed the rituals. Everywhere, he saw the same songs, the same prostrations, the same prayers — their words different, but their gestures identical. He saw the same eyes lifted to the sky, the same tears of joy, the same mystical chills. And yet, each faith rejected the others as false.

He met a priest of El-Nar, who said, “Look how our chants heal the soul. Is that not proof of our truth?” Then a dervish of Al-Kah: “See how our dance elevates the spirit. Can one rise in falsehood?” And finally, a woman of Atios, a godless philosophy: “Feel the calm our meditation brings. Such calm can only come from truth.”

Eolan smiled, took notes, compared. He saw that all touched peace — yet each used it as proof against the others.

The Choir’s Lock

Returning to Certis, Eolan summoned the masters of each clan. He spoke of an invisible curse — a lock upon their minds, forged not by ignorance, but by the premature certainty of having found.

“You seek truth,” he said, “but you’ve confused it with comfort. You don’t worship light — you worship the warmth of familiar light.”

They mocked him. Said he wanted to destroy everything, that he was a sower of doubt, an enemy of faith. Even the atheists, though godless, viewed him warily: “Why waste time on fables?” Eolan replied, “It’s not the fables that concern me — it’s how you turn them into prisons.”

He tried to show them that rituals, emotional highs, and mystical ecstasies were not proof. He spoke of the soul’s placebo — of how inner peace proves only internal consistency, like a well-written song that moves us, even if its story is fiction.

The Council of the Bare Stone

Eolan proposed a revolution: a Council of the Bare Stone, where all would come without their stone, without a name, without tales. There, they would not exchange dogma or tradition, but ask a single question: what is ethics, if it belongs to no faith?

No one came.

Believers chose their prayers. Atheists, their sarcasm. Agnostics, their silence.

So Eolan carved into a granite stele:

“The world asked the wrong question. It should never have been: does God exist, or what is His name? It should have been: what remains if God never answers? And the only sacred answer is ethics.”

The Bottomless Well

Years passed. No one destroyed the stele. It was simply forgotten. Until a great war broke out among the clans — each defending the sanctity of their stone. Books were burned. Temples fell. Archives vanished. Until only a field of ruins remained, and at the center, Eolan’s stele. Untouched. Silent.

A child, lost, stumbled upon it. He read it. Didn’t understand everything. But he felt something vast, cold and burning at once, settle in his chest. He asked, “Mama, what’s ethics?”

She didn’t know.

So he sat before the stele and chose to search alone. And thus, they say, was born the first civilization to place ethics above all else — above faith, above nation, above tradition.

But That…

…is another story. For here, in our world, Eolan’s stele has not yet been carved. And those who ask the right question are still too few. Most people still prefer comforting certainties — even false ones — to the effort of an endless quest.

For human thought fears the abyss. It prefers walls. And as long as the question of God overshadows the question of justice, the people will live in the colored light of stained glass… without ever leaving the temple.