ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART TWENTY ONE
Night pressed heavily over the city, the kind of night where even streetlights seemed to dim in caution.
Far beneath the modern skyline—past concrete foundations, past humming power lines and buried fiber cables—a vast dark realm pulsed with unnatural stillness.
The space felt suspended, as though time itself hesitated to move.
The floor gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting shadows that did not belong to any single body.
Low murmurs filled the realm, layered voices overlapping in sharp whispers, restless and urgent, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
The sound clung to the floor, vibrating faintly through unseen depths.
Figures gathered in a wide circle, their forms shifting between familiar human outlines and something less defined, edges blurring as if refusing to stay fully seen.
Darkness pooled around their feet, alive, watching.
At the center stood Seraphina, robed in tailored darkness that flowed like liquid silk. She was poised and composed, her presence alone commanding silence.
Her fingers rested lightly at her side, nails glinting faintly as though polished by fire. The realm bent subtly toward her, waiting.
A sudden tremor rippled through the floor.
The hum deepened, sinking into a low growl. Reflections beneath their feet warped and stretched. One by one, knees buckled.
Some reached out instinctively for balance, others froze as the entire dark realm shook like a city struck by an unseen quake. Teeth chattered. Breath hitched.
A hiss of panic spread through the circle, rising toward chaos.
Seraphina’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one hand, palm facing down.
The air resisted her command for a breath longer than it should have, the shaking pressing back against her authority—then, reluctantly, it eased into silence.
She leaned slightly forward, her voice calm yet edged with crushing authority, cutting clean through the realm.
Seraphina (coldly):
“Compose yourselves.”
The words landed with weight. Figures flinched, straightening further, forcing stillness into their limbs. The whispers vanished. Even the shadows seemed to pull back, obeying.
Yet beneath the surface calm, the dark realm trembled, sensing resistance beyond her control.
Seraphina straightened fully. Her eyes narrowed, not in fear, but irritation sharpened into fury.
She lifted her hand again, palm forward, power gathering around her fingers like heat before flame.
The space before her split open like liquid glass, like water disturbed by a stone.
Darkness peeled apart, forming a vast dark mirror—its surface swirling, alive, as if it stared back into another living world. The murmurs died instantly, swallowed by dread.
She took another step closer to the mirror, irritation now burning openly in her gaze.
The reflections along the obsidian floor warped around her silhouette as her tone sharpened, fury coiling beneath restraint.
Seraphina (furious):
“Let us see who dares still breathe against us.”
The mirror sharpened instantly.
What appeared stole the breath from the dark realm.
A modest living room emerged within the surface. White-painted walls. A standing fan turning slowly, its soft hum steady and unbothered.
Night light spilled through half-drawn curtains, casting calm shadows across tiled floors. Three figures knelt there.
Zionel.
Elara.
Thaniel.
Alive.
Not only alive—focused, grounded, unmoved.
Zionel’s hands were clasped tightly, knuckles pale with resolve. Elara’s head was bowed, her lips moving gently, steadily.
Thaniel stood slightly behind them, one hand lifted, the other resting over his chest, eyes fixed ahead.
The atmosphere around them glowed—not bright, not blinding—but weighty, dense with holiness, like the air before rain breaks the earth.
Their lips moved in prayer.
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the dark gathering. One figure staggered backward, eyes wide.
Another wiped sweat from her brow with trembling fingers. Murmurs broke out—disbelief colliding with dread, anger twisting against fear.
The dark realm recoiled as unseen pressure pressed outward from the image.
Seraphina’s jaw tightened. She stepped closer to the mirror, her reflection distorting violently across its surface, as if the glass itself resisted her presence.
Inside the dark mirror, Elara slowly lifted her head. Her shoulders rose with a steady, unhurried breath.
She raised her hand—not rushed, not fearful—and the room around her seemed to grow quieter, heavier.
The fan continued its slow turn. The night held still. Her voice carried firm authority as it entered the silence.
Elara (authority):
“In the name of Jesus.”
The mirror shuddered violently.
A crack tore through its surface, light flashing through like lightning behind thick clouds. The dark realm shook again, darker figures crying out as power surged beyond their control.
The obsidian floor rippled, reflections fracturing as spiritual weight bore down.
Seraphina stepped back sharply, her balance breaking for the first time. Shadows around her scattered like startled birds.
Within the living room, Elara did not lower her hand. Her gaze remained steady, her voice unwavering as it rose again, echoing beyond the room itself.
Elara (fire):
“…every knee shall bow.”
The mirror convulsed.
A thunderous blast tore through the dark realm as a bolt of blinding light slammed down from above. Darkness screamed as purity crashed through it.
The surface of the mirror exploded outward in shards of shadow, fragments dissolving before they could strike the floor.
A deafening crack split the realm as energy surged, flinging figures violently to the ground.
The floor heaved. Screams were cut short as bodies collapsed, pinned by invisible weight. Fire and light overwhelmed shadow. Authority crushed rebellion.
Then—silence.
When the sound finally died, the chamber stood empty. No figures. No murmurs. No power humming beneath the floor.
Only silence remained.
And it was final.
Morning arrived without mercy.
In a sprawling modern mansion on the edge of the city, sunlight crept through wide glass windows, illuminating chaos that had once been luxury.
Curtains hung uneven. Furniture stood displaced. The air felt hollow, stripped of its former weight.
Cassian stood beside the bed, his tie loosened, his face drawn tight with panic. Seraphina lay motionless, eyes open but vacant.
Her hands lay limp at her sides. No aura. No pressure. No authority. Just her body rigid, breath shallow, presence gone.
His voice trembled as it broke the stillness.
Cassian (shaking):
“Seraphina… what happened to you? Talk to me. Please.”
The room offered no answer. Sunlight fell across her unmoving face. The silence pressed harder than any sound, and something unseen felt irrevocably broken.
Within minutes, guards rushed in. Orders were barked. Footsteps thundered across marble floors.
A vehicle roared to life outside. Tires screeched against the driveway as they sped toward the hospital, city traffic blurring past in streaks of gray and red.
Hospital corridors echoed with hurried footsteps. Nurses moved swiftly. Doctors examined, tested, whispered among themselves.
Machines beeped steadily, indifferent to desperation. The sterile air carried no comfort.
Hours passed.
Finally, a doctor turned to Cassian, his expression carefully neutral, voice low as though afraid of the truth he carried.
Doctor (quietly):
“We’ve done what we can but there is no solution. You should try another facility.”
The words settled heavily. Cassian nodded stiffly, the weight of them hollowing his chest.
He tried another. Then another.
Day bled into night. Night into day.
By the time the fuel gauge dipped to empty, so had his bank balance. Credit cards declined. Calls went unanswered.
One by one, the guards stopped showing up. The house staff disappeared without farewell. The gates that once opened at his arrival stayed shut unless he pushed them himself.
Soon, it was just Cassian, Seraphina, and Orean.
Letters arrived. Messages followed. His employer’s tone shifted from concern to impatience, then to finality.
One afternoon, his phone buzzed with a short message. Terminated. No sympathy. No extension.
The mansion grew quiet. Too quiet.
Water stopped flowing. Lights went out. The hum of generators from neighboring houses mocked the darkness of his own.
At night, the house sat in shadows, broken only by the glow of Cassian’s phone screen as he stared at numbers that no longer made sense.
Orean sat on the couch, school bag untouched, knees drawn up. His small voice slipped into the silence, fragile and uncertain.
Orean (quietly):
“Dad… are we okay?”
Cassian turned, forcing a smile that strained against exhaustion and fear. His tone softened, clinging to hope even as it slipped through his fingers.
Cassian (gently):
“We will be.”
The house did not echo his assurance. Darkness lingered. The spiritual air felt stripped bare, as though something unseen had withdrawn completely.
Friends stopped calling. Invitations vanished. Cars were sold one by one until only a single, aging sedan remained in the driveway.
School fees went unpaid. Orean stayed home.
Cassian began driving the car during the day, picking up strangers, dropping them at corners and offices he once owned shares in.
The hum of the engine was uneven, the smell of fuel faint but worrying. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as traffic lights changed, city noise pressing in around him.
Every mile, his thoughts circled the same question. His voice escaped quietly, swallowed by the moving city.
Cassian (broken):
“What went wrong?”
At a red light, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes tired, shoulders slumped, a stranger staring back.
The light turned green.
He drove on.
The city swallowed him whole, unaware that the collapse he was living was not the end—but the slow, painful clearing of ground for truth to finally stand.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
Aatsujnk
Audio Premiere
Word: 0 / 0 (0%)
READY...
Comments
Post a Comment