ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART SEVENTEEN
The city had already settled into its evening rhythm.
Beyond the wide glass windows of the high-rise mansion, distant traffic hummed like a tired river, headlights sliding in slow ribbons along the dark road below.
Security lights washed the compound walls in pale white, while palm leaves whispered softly as a cool breeze threaded through them, carrying the low breath of the night.
Inside, the dining area sat untouched. Plates remained on the table, food long gone cold, the silence pressing in as if the room itself were waiting.
Zionel sat alone on the edge of the sofa, his back bent forward, elbows braced on his knees. His fingers were interlocked so tightly his knuckles had blanched.
The dark television screen reflected nothing but his stillness. His eyes were fixed on it, yet his mind was elsewhere—Thaniel’s words circling relentlessly, the vision replaying in broken fragments.
Warnings. Truth. Danger.
Each thought struck heavier than the last, colliding with years of certainty he had carefully built and fiercely protected.
His chest tightened. A shallow breath slipped out, then another, thinner still.
He pressed his palm against the armrest and tried to rise, but his legs betrayed him, trembling violently beneath his weight.
He dropped back onto the sofa, a low groan escaping his throat, swallowed by the quiet room.
Near the doorway, Elara stood with her arms folded. The softness she usually wore like a familiar garment had fallen away.
Her eyes were sharp now, measuring, unmoved as she watched him struggle. She did not step forward.
The silence between them thickened, heavy and suffocating, as though the air itself refused to move.
Summoning what little strength remained, Zionel dragged himself toward the bedroom. Each motion drained him further.
The marble tiles were cold against his palms as he crawled, his breath scraping harshly in his chest.
By the time he reached the bed, sweat soaked through his shirt. With visible effort, he pulled himself up and collapsed onto the mattress, lungs burning as he fought for air.
The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn halfway. City lights outside cast faint, broken lines across the walls, shadows shifting slowly as the night deepened.
Elara followed him into the room and lay beside him. Her body was still—too still. She faced the ceiling, her expression unreadable, her presence cold and distant.
Zionel turned his head slightly toward her. His lips parted, trembling as if words were forming, but none came. His breathing began to hitch—slow… uneven… thinning with every passing second.
The clock on the wall ticked louder now, each second marking the growing weight of the night.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
By midnight, the room felt heavier, the air thick and unmoving.
Zionel’s breathing faltered into shallow, trembling pulls that barely filled his lungs. His hands clawed weakly at the sheets as panic flickered across his face.
Sweat beaded along his forehead. His head rolled slightly to the side, lips parted, gasping as his body fought desperately for air.
Elara remained on the bed, unmoving.
Then her body went still—unnaturally so.
Her eyes closed, and something unseen tore free from her flesh. In a blink beyond sight, her spirit slipped away, and the bedroom dissolved into nothingness.
A vast, dark realm opened before her—cold and endless, drowned in shadow and lit by a pulsing crimson glow. The air vibrated with low chants and distant echoes, roaring with unseen movement.
At the center hovered a massive dark mirror, its surface alive, swirling with violent images.
Zionel’s image was trapped within its depths. His body on the bed was reflected perfectly, every gasp, every convulsion mirrored in the living glass.
Seraphina stood at the center of the gathering, surrounded by shadowed figures. Her presence dominated the space, authority radiating from her as she leaned forward.
The crimson light burned in her eyes while she raised one hand toward the mirror, her fingers curling slowly, deliberately.
The shadows hushed, the air tightening as anticipation rippled through the realm. The mirror pulsed darker, feeding on the moment.
Seraphina’s voice sliced through the charged silence, cold and gleeful, ringing with cruel certainty.
Seraphina (coldly):
“Zionel! Haha! It's time to silence you. Haha!”
The words struck like a command. The mirror rippled violently, Zionel’s image convulsing harder as the shadows surged closer, feeding on the declaration.
A chorus erupted around her, voices overlapping in mocking triumph. The realm seemed to breathe with them, the crimson glow intensifying as darkness pressed inward from every side.
All (mocking):
“Haha! Haha! Haha!”
The sound rolled like thunder through the shadows, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The mirror darkened further, its surface swallowing light as if victory were already sealed.
Just as the mirror’s glow deepened, just as Zionel’s image inside it gasped and twisted in silent agony—a violent thunderclap ripped through the realm.
Storms erupted without warning, tearing through the darkness like a blade of judgment. Blinding light crashed down where shadows once ruled.
The ground convulsed, splitting open beneath them. A second thunderbolt struck, then another, each laced with searing fire that scorched the air itself.
Screams tore through the gathering as shadowed figures fell, clutching themselves in agony. The chants dissolved into panic.
The dark mirror trembled violently, fractures racing across its surface like veins of lightning, the power holding it together unraveling in an instant.
With a deafening shatter, the mirror exploded. Fragments of light and shadow burst outward, dissolving into ash and smoke as the realm recoiled under the force.
Back in the bedroom, Zionel’s body jerked sharply.
His chest expanded in a sudden, forceful breath, air rushing back into him as though life itself had been commanded to return. His breathing steadied—slow, deep, present.
His eyes fluttered once… twice… then closed fully as his body surrendered to unconsciousness.
Elara’s spirit was hurled back into her body with brutal force.
She gasped violently, eyes snapping open as pain surged through her limbs. Her arms felt heavy, her legs unresponsive, muscles refusing her will.
A cry tore from her lips as agony spread through her like fire beneath the skin.
A sharp ache pulsed along her chest and spine. She tried to sit up—but her body failed her, collapsing back onto the mattress.
Elsewhere in the city, far from the quiet mansion, Seraphina lay writhing on the floor of her private chamber.
The room echoed with her ragged breathing as her strength drained away. Her hands trembled violently as she pressed them against the ground, nails scraping the surface.
Her teeth clenched as fury burned hotter than the pain. The air around her seemed to recoil as her voice forced its way out, low and broken, cutting through the silence.
Seraphina (furious):
“Who…”
The word hung unfinished, trembling with rage. Her eyes blazed even as her body failed her, disbelief and fury twisting together. Drawing a strained breath, her tone rose again, hoarse and sharp.
Seraphina (hoarsely):
“Who dared to stand against us?”
The chamber seemed to close in around her as her mind raced, fury sharpening into something colder, more dangerous. Pain throbbed through her body, but her resolve hardened beneath it.
Her voice followed, slow and venomous, carrying a vow rather than a threat.
Seraphina (venomously):
“That person will pay for the pain he caused me.”
She lay there, breath uneven, eyes wide with disbelief, her thoughts settling into dark resolve as the echoes of unseen power lingered in the air.
Back in the bedroom, Elara lay frozen beside Zionel. Her breathing was ragged now, her strength drained, pain coursing relentlessly through her body.
Fear and confusion churned in her mind as she slowly turned her eyes toward him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest in the dim light.
Outside, the city continued its restless hum, unaware that a battle beyond sight had torn through realms unseen.
A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, low and fading, as though the heavens themselves were withdrawing into silence.
Somewhere beyond walls and windows, prayers were still rising.
Zionel remained unconscious until dawn. His breathing stayed steady, soft and slow, as pale morning light crept through the curtains and rested gently upon his still face.
The night’s weight lifted at last, leaving behind a fragile, holy quiet—an aftermath of victory unseen, yet deeply felt.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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