I die the king's faithful servant, but God's first.

Host: The cathedral bells tolled in the distance — slow, solemn, heavy as the weight of conscience. The sky above London was bruised with storm clouds, the kind that look ready to break but never do. Beneath their shadow, the Thames flowed like dark glass, carrying whispers of fear and faith through the air.

The old courtyard of the Tower was nearly empty. A gallows loomed in the corner, half-shrouded in fog. The wind brushed against the stone walls, stirring loose leaves and memories alike.

Jack stood near the archway, his coat buttoned tight, his hands buried in his pockets. His eyes, grey and tired, held something turbulent — not sorrow, not yet — but the quiet tremor of a man at war with his own beliefs.

Jeeny approached slowly, her boots echoing on the cobblestone. She carried a small book, its edges worn, its pages soft with age. Her hair was pulled back, though the wind kept tugging strands loose.

Jeeny: “You came.”

Jack: “Would’ve been strange not to. It’s history, isn’t it? The death of a man who chose faith over power.”

Jeeny: “Sir Thomas More. ‘I die the king’s faithful servant, but God’s first.’”

Host: Her voice lingered in the air — gentle but defiant, like a prayer spoken aloud in a place that punished prayer. The rain began to fall, first as mist, then as a steady whisper.

Jack: “I don’t know if I’d call it faith. Sounds more like stubbornness to me.”

Jeeny: “You would.”

Jack: “Think about it, Jeeny. The man served the king his whole life. Devoted. Brilliant. Then he throws it all away over a point of principle — because he couldn’t swear allegiance to Henry’s marriage. Couldn’t just bend a little.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what makes him immortal. He bent for truth, not for favor.”

Jack: “And died for it. What good is truth if it gets you killed?”

Host: The rain hit harder now, drumming against the stone, the iron, the past. Jack turned his collar up, watching the grey river slide past like a thought that refused to stop.

Jeeny: “Truth isn’t about safety, Jack. It’s about clarity. Thomas More knew that serving two masters — power and conscience — is impossible. You choose one, and the other will betray you.”

Jack: “He chose God. And lost everything here.”

Jeeny: “But he kept everything that mattered beyond here.”

Jack: “That’s comforting only if you believe in ‘beyond.’”

Jeeny: “And you don’t.”

Jack: “I believe in what I can touch, prove, argue. Loyalty, law, reason. More had all that — and he threw it away for an invisible judge.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like cowardice. But it’s the opposite. Do you know how terrifying it is to stand against the world because your conscience whispers differently?”

Host: The light shifted as the clouds broke for a moment. A beam of sunlight cut through the fog, landing on the stone beneath their feet — fleeting, holy. Jack stared at it, his jaw clenched.

Jack: “I get loyalty. I get sacrifice. But dying for belief? For an idea you can’t prove?”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith is — not certainty, but courage in uncertainty. More’s death wasn’t blind devotion; it was deliberate defiance. The kind that says: ‘My soul isn’t for sale, not even to a crown.’”

Jack: “And yet the world crowned the man who killed him.”

Jeeny: “For a time. But centuries later, whose name still lives?”

Host: The rain eased, falling now in gentle, silver threads. The air smelled of earth and iron — the scent of old battles and unspoken forgiveness.

Jack: “Maybe it’s easy for saints. They don’t live long enough to feel regret.”

Jeeny: “Thomas More wasn’t born a saint. He was a lawyer, like you. A man of words and reason — who still believed that conscience isn’t negotiable.”

Jack: “A lawyer who chose silence at his trial. Doesn’t sound very reasonable.”

Jeeny: “Silence was his protest. In refusing to speak falsehood, he let truth speak for itself. He didn’t shout. He just didn’t bend. That’s rarer than courage.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her voice soft but steady, carrying over the hiss of the rain.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, who you’d serve if everything was on the line? If your job, your safety, your name — all depended on one lie?”

Jack: “You’re asking the wrong man. I’ve already bent. More than once.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re closer to him than you think. The difference is — he refused to call bending survival.”

Host: Jack turned sharply toward her, his eyes flashing.

Jack: “You think dying proves something? That conscience means anything once you’re gone?”

Jeeny: “It does to those left behind. His death wasn’t the end — it was a mirror. Every generation since has looked into it and asked, ‘Would I have that kind of faith?’”

Host: The wind carried her words through the courtyard, scattering them like seeds. The fog seemed to listen.

Jack: “I’d like to think I’d do what’s right. But I don’t even know what that means anymore. The world isn’t kings and martyrs now. It’s compromise or collapse.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the modern gallows — comfort. The quiet execution of conviction.”

Jack: “You really think there’s still room for that kind of faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every time someone stands up for conscience — a whistleblower, a protester, a teacher who refuses to lie to her students — Thomas More lives again.”

Jack: “You compare him to whistleblowers?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Truth always threatens power. The setting changes; the stakes don’t.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through the courtyard, rattling the old chains that hung by the wall. Jack’s gaze lingered on them, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “Maybe I envy him. To believe so completely in something… even if it kills you.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe belief isn’t the enemy of reason, Jack. Maybe it’s its final test.”

Host: Silence again. The kind that holds more truth than speech. Jack looked toward the sky, where the clouds were breaking, the faintest glimmer of light catching on the river.

Jack: “He died saying he was the king’s faithful servant — but God’s first. You think that’s possible? To serve both?”

Jeeny: “Only if your king isn’t trying to be God.”

Host: Jack exhaled — a soft, trembling breath that carried both surrender and peace.

Jack: “I think I get it now. He wasn’t choosing death. He was choosing alignment — between what he knew and what he did.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The truest service isn’t obedience — it’s integrity.”

Host: The bells tolled again — one, two, three. The sound rolled across the Thames, solemn and eternal. Jeeny looked up, the rain streaking her face, though her eyes glowed with quiet conviction.

Jack: “Maybe every man faces his own Tower. A choice between safety and soul.”

Jeeny: “And maybe salvation isn’t in survival — it’s in choosing right when it costs you everything.”

Host: The camera panned out — the two figures standing small beneath the immensity of history. The rain glistened on the stone, on the river, on the faces of the unremembered.

And as the last bell faded into silence, the air seemed to whisper the truth that still defied centuries:
To serve truth above all power is not defiance — it is divine obedience.