When I first began writing this book, I didn’t expect the siege to become so personal. The destruction of Jerusalem is one of the most tragic and complex moments in ancient history—filled with desperation, fractured loyalties, and sacred symbols pulled into the dirt. But amid all that collapse, I kept returning to a single idea: what does it look like to hold fast when everything around you is falling apart?

Eleazar came to me not as a warrior, but as someone who refused to be erased. He isn’t drawn to violence or power, but when the world pushes him into war, he doesn’t flinch. Through his eyes, we see the strain of leadership when surrounded by ruin, the cost of conviction when betrayal is constant, and the quiet dignity of someone choosing to protect rather than destroy. And always at his side, even when absent, is Mary—the person who sees him most clearly, who anchors his resolve with love, loyalty, and her own kind of courage. His journey doesn’t offer easy answers, but he never stops asking what is worth saving, and who he’s saving it for.

I found myself more interested in the spaces between battles. The silences in the temple courts, the weight of a decision made in the dark, the loyalty that survives when every cause has been questioned. The story moves across hills and cities, blood and prayer, but it always comes back to something quiet and human: what does faith look like when it no longer wins, and what love endures when even hope feels dangerous?

That’s the question at the heart of The Olive and the Empire, and the reason this book became more than a war story to me. It is about survival, yes—but also memory, silence, and the fragile bonds we cling to when history turns violent. I hope it lingers.