There’s a moment in the St. George chapter that I almost cut from the book. Not because it didn’t work — because it worked too well. It made me uncomfortable, and that’s usually a sign you’re onto something.

It’s not about George himself. It’s about the town he left behind.

Diocletian’s persecution of Christians in the Roman Empire didn’t happen all at once. It started with an edict. Then another. Then another. First, churches were to be destroyed. Then scriptures burned. Then clergy imprisoned. Then everyone — every citizen — was required to sacrifice to the Roman gods or face consequences.

But here’s the thing most people don’t understand about persecution: it doesn’t need to reach everyone. It only needs to reach enough people that the rest go quiet on their own.

It started with St. George.

Not the legend — not the dragon or the princess or the white horse. The real George. A Roman tribune in the third century who stood before Emperor Diocletian and refused to sacrifice to gods he didn’t believe in. He had everything a man could want — rank, reputation, a career most soldiers would kill for. And he threw it all away for nine words he wouldn’t unsay.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

I wasn’t trying to write a book. I was sitting in my favorite chair late one night, long after the kids were in bed — and while three of my ten kids are still at home, “long after the kids are in bed” is practically tomorrow — scrolling through the noise that passes for public conversation these days. And a question surfaced that I couldn’t shake:

Where are heroes like George today?