The rain did not touch the glass of the tower. It bent around it, deflected by something unseen — a quiet sphere of repulsion that shimmered faintly each time lightning flashed across the Atlantic skyline.
Inside, the man who called himself T stood motionless. The monitors before him played silent fragments of chaos: a man vanishing in Jos, a girl trembling in her sleep in Manhattan, and an aging patriarch whispering to ghosts in his mansion.
Each screen flickered in rhythm with his heartbeat. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
He raised his hand, tracing the air as if it were a map. Thin lines of light followed the movement of his fingers, forming constellations that hovered in the space between him and the monitors. He whispered, and the lights rearranged themselves into seven glowing sigils — seven relics of the Amour Cycle.
> "Divine strength.
Divine Step.
Divine Authority.
Divine Vitality.
Divine Healing.
Divine Truth.
Divine Protection."
He paused. One of the sigils pulsed faintly but remained dim.
> "And the eighth… lost before memory learned to write itself."
Then the ninth...
Well it's just an empty vessel now, robbed of it's divinity.
A god cursed to live among the humans he swore to destroy.
His voice was a whisper made of smoke, soft yet resonant, echoing with something older than language.
He shifted his gaze to Chuka's image, frozen mid-step upon the plateau. "The child of soil and silence," he murmured. "Chosen not by bloodline, but by balance. You hear the breath of the earth because the earth remembers you."
He watched as Chuka vanished again — a ripple through the desert air.
"Divine Step," he said, almost admiringly. "A blink between worlds. He's learning too quickly. The plateau still feeds him."
He turned to another feed. Chief Roman, standing before a council of men in immaculate suits. Even through the silent feed, T could feel the weight of Roman's words — the invisible tether pulling the minds around him into submission. The men nodded in perfect unison, smiles too glassy to be human.
T exhaled sharply. "Divine Authority — the crown of domination. The same hunger that unmade the first cities." His tone darkened. "And Divine Vitality — the body that cheats time by stealing it from others. Roman believes he's preserving himself. He doesn't see the rot beneath the rebirth."
He tapped another screen. Amara. The faint golden light that emanated from her sleeping form illuminated her entire room, seeping into the walls. The relic on her nightstand pulsed like a heartbeat in time with her own.
"She dreams of him," T whispered. "Even across oceans. The bond between vessels of the same current."
He lingered. "Healing and Truth — light and revelation. Dangerous gifts in a world built on pain and lies."
For the first time, his voice softened.
"She'll need both when the others begin to remember."
The screens flickered again — this time showing not live feeds, but ancient etchings over stone. The symbols depicted humanoid figures bowing before massive orbs, their bodies split between light and darkness. Beneath them, an inscription glowed faintly as T's hand hovered over it.
> 'The Hearts of the Earth shall awaken when mankind grows deaf to the ground's lament.'
T's gaze lingered on it. "And the lament is deafening now."
He walked toward a metal cabinet at the edge of the room — a relic itself, etched with markings far older than any civilization that survived. He placed his palm on it, and the lock dissolved into ash.
Inside was a shard — a fragment of crystalline stone, pulsing faintly. He lifted it carefully, the light flickering across his obscured face.
When he spoke, his tone was different — reverent, almost grieving.
> "You were the first, weren't you? The one that tore itself apart to hide the rest."
He closed his fingers around the shard, and for a moment, the air trembled with distant whispers — not human, but alive.
"They think they're wielding power," he murmured. "But they're only wearing its echo."
He placed the shard into a circular depression on the console. The room dimmed. A projection bloomed in the air — a map of the world. Seven bright points flared to life, joined by a dozen dimmer ones, scattered across continents and buried oceans.
T's eyes — if they could be called that — narrowed. "The Pacific Heart stirs. Divine Protection, the shell of gods." He zoomed in, revealing a gargantuan shadow deep within the trench, surrounded by static interference.
"Something's waking it," he said quietly. "Or… someone."
He turned away, cloak whispering across the cold floor. The energy from the monitors painted his outline in pale blue — tall, lean, and vaguely human, though the edges of his silhouette wavered as if reality were struggling to contain him.
"Seven relics, seven vessels," he whispered. "Each echoing the virtues of a broken god. The Earth has chosen them again — but choice doesn't always mean mercy."
He looked toward the far wall where a large circular mirror hung. Unlike the monitors, it reflected nothing — only darkness. As he approached, faint ripples spread across its surface.
His voice was barely a breath now.
> "They think I watch from the shadows."
"But I'm the shadow itself."
He stepped into the mirror. The surface swallowed him whole — silent, seamless — leaving only the sound of the storm outside.
And far away, under miles of Pacific water, the colossal shape continued to stir. Its surface shimmered like molten bronze, and a single fissure along its crown began to glow, releasing a low, tremulous hum that traveled through the ocean floor and up into the bones of the world.
In Jos, Chuka froze mid-step.
In Manhattan, Amara's eyes snapped open.
In his mansion, Chief Roman smiled without knowing why.
The world shifted — just slightly — as if turning to face something it had forgotten.
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