The morning light spilled weakly through the wooden shutters of Peterson's small room. He lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, his body heavy as though he had fought a war in his sleep. Sweat clung to his skin, and when he turned his head, the faint glow of the cowrie shell still pulsed on his bedside table.
So it hadn't been a dream.
The memory rushed back—the shadows writhing across his walls, the voice that had thundered his name, the brief, terrifying vision of his godlike self. His chest tightened at the thought. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, his muscles aching.
What's happening to me?
A knock on the door startled him.
"Peterson?" It was his mother's voice, soft but tinged with worry. "Are you awake?"
"Yes, Mama," he answered quickly, sweeping the shell into his drawer before she came in.
The door creaked open, and his mother, dressed in her simple Ankara wrapper, stepped in. She studied his face, frowning. "You look pale. Did you sleep at all?"
"I'm fine," he lied, forcing a small smile. "Just tired."
Her eyes lingered on him, as if she sensed something she couldn't explain, but she nodded. "Come down soon. Breakfast is ready."
When she left, Peterson sat there for a long moment, breathing hard. He couldn't tell her what had happened. She already pitied him enough—telling her about voices and shadows would only make her more worried.
He dressed quickly and went downstairs.
The Olivia dining hall was filled with chatter. The long wooden table was heavy with plates of akara, fried plantain, and steaming cups of tea. But as always, the air centered around Tom.
Tom sat at the head of the table, tall and confident, his school uniform perfectly pressed. He spoke with his father about the upcoming Hunter's Trial, a test reserved for promising youths in their community. Passing it meant recognition, prestige, and a step closer to the elite ranks of the Voidwalkers.
"I'll dominate it," Tom declared, smirking. "No one can stand against me."
Their father chuckled proudly. "Of course. You were born for this."
The others at the table nodded and laughed, their admiration pouring over him like sunshine. Peterson sat quietly at the far end, nibbling at a piece of plantain. His mother glanced at him now and then, but said nothing.
For the first time, though, Tom's eyes flicked toward him. Not mocking, not dismissive—but sharp, calculating. Peterson froze under his gaze, then quickly looked away.
School offered no relief.
By midday, Peterson was sitting in physics class, head bent low, trying to focus. But whispers floated around him.
"Did you hear? Tom's going for the Hunter's Trial."
"Of course he'll pass. He's a beast."
"Unlike his brother."
The last sentence was followed by laughter. Peterson clenched his fists under the desk.
The teacher, a broad-shouldered man with sharp glasses, interrupted. "Let's test abilities again. Peterson—come forward."
Peterson's stomach dropped. Why him? He hesitated, but the teacher's glare left no room for refusal. Slowly, he walked to the front of the class.
"Show us your telekinesis," the teacher instructed.
The students snickered. They had seen this show before. Peterson inhaled deeply, focusing on a wooden desk nearby. He raised his hand, his mind straining.
The desk wobbled. A faint tremor passed through it. Some students giggled.
Then—CRACK.
The desk split down the middle, the sound sharp and startling. Gasps filled the room.
Peterson staggered back, his hand tingling as if burned. He hadn't meant to do that. He didn't even know how it happened.
The teacher's eyebrows rose. "Interesting…"
But before Peterson could process it, laughter broke the tension. "He broke it by accident!" one boy shouted. "Clumsy fool!" Others joined in, though a few stared at him uneasily, whispering among themselves.
At the back of the class, Tom leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but Peterson felt the weight of his gaze like a blade pressing against his neck.
That evening, Peterson took a longer route home, his thoughts tangled. The image of the broken desk haunted him. That hadn't been his usual weak telekinesis. Something else had slipped through.
As he crossed a narrow bridge over a quiet river, a voice drifted to him. "You're shaking the chains faster than I expected."
He stopped.
There she was again—the old woman. She sat on a low stool near a small shrine by the water, her cowries arranged neatly, incense smoke curling into the dusk sky.
"You…" Peterson whispered.
She smiled faintly. "Did you think last night was just a nightmare? No. The seal is cracking. Each humiliation, each wound to your spirit—it weakens the chains. Soon, the power inside you will burst free."
Peterson's fists trembled. "I don't want it. I never asked for any of this. I just… I just want to be normal."
"Normal?" The woman's eyes gleamed. "Child, you were never meant to be normal. The blood of gods runs through you. Deny it all you want, but the storm does not ask for permission to thunder."
He swallowed hard. "And if I can't control it?"
Her smile faded. "Then it will consume you. Or worse—others will come for you. Gods who fear what you are. Men who covet it. Even your own blood may turn against you."
She reached into her wrapper and pulled out a strip of red cloth, marked with strange symbols. She pressed it into his hand. "Keep this. When the shadows rise again, bind it to the shell. It may hold you together… or it may not. The rest is up to you."
Before Peterson could ask more, a wind swept through, and when he blinked, she was gone—like smoke fading into the air.
That night, sleep did not come easily. When it finally did, it was filled with chaos.
He stood in a vast storm, thunder crashing overhead, lightning splitting the sky. Chains wrapped around his body, glowing red, digging into his skin. He pulled against them, but they tightened, cutting deeper.
Across the storm stood a colossal figure—his own face, but godlike, eyes blazing with flame and storm. The figure raised its hand, and the chains rattled violently.
Peterson Olivia… the time has come.
The words shook the world itself.
"No!" Peterson shouted. "I'm not ready!"
The figure only smiled. One by one, the chains snapped. With each break, a shockwave thundered across the storm.
Then Peterson screamed as the final chain burst.
He woke with a violent jolt. His body arched, a shockwave erupting from him that cracked the wooden walls of his room. His lantern shattered, plunging the space into darkness. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart racing like a war drum.
The cowrie shell glowed so brightly it lit the entire room.
And for a brief moment, his reflection in the broken glass was not his own—it was the god he had seen in the storm.
Far away, in another room of the Olivia house, Tom shot upright in bed. His eyes glowed with toxic energy, his lips curling into a grin.
"So," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "The weakling finally awakens."