Night swallowed the ruined city slowly.
The faint glow in the stones faded into shadows, then returned again like breathing. No flame fueled it. No heat came from it. It was light without warmth. The kind that felt remembered instead of made.
Adam stood in the center square long after the last echo of their footsteps had died. Adelia had moved to the outer ring of broken columns, unrolling her maps on a slab of fallen marble. She worked in silence. As always.
Adam could not move.
The statue remained behind him.
He did not turn to face it.
He felt it watching.
"You do not need to fear stone," Adelia said without looking at him.
Adam exhaled slowly. "It is not the stone."
He looked toward the collapsed skyway that once must have led into the city. The roof arches lay like ribs in the dust. Whole walls leaned as if they were tired of standing.
A place that once held people.
A place that once held names.
Now it remembered only one.
They set camp between two fallen towers. A small fire burned with dry roots they gathered on the way. It did not brighten much. The city swallowed light easily.
Adelia brewed dried-leaf tea and passed him a cup. He accepted it. He did not drink.
"You did not ask again," she said.
"Ask what?"
"If this has happened before."
He looked down into the cup.
"I already know the answer," he said.
She did not argue.
When sleep approached, it did so cautiously.
Adam lay wrapped in his blanket, staring upward at a sky broken by the shape of fallen buildings. Stars did not arrange themselves like they did back home. The patterns were wrong. Too wide. Too thin. Like a sky wearing borrowed shapes.
His chest tightened.
He closed his eyes.
The silence deepened.
Then it broke.
Not with sound.
With presence.
Something filled the inside of his head the way heat fills a room.
Not a voice.
Not at first.
Then it spoke.
Clear.
"Adam."
He opened his eyes sharply.
Darkness stared back.
No shape moved near him.
The fire still burned low.
Adelia slept across the stones with her back to a column. Her breathing steady. Unbroken.
So the voice had not entered the air.
It entered him.
"You again," Adam whispered.
The voice did not answer immediately.
It lingered.
As if smiling.
Then it spoke louder.
"You are more awake now."
Adam pushed himself into a sitting position.
His heart hammered.
"What are you?" he asked.
The voice moved through his thoughts like slow water.
"I am the one who kept you from dying."
He went still.
His fingers curled into the blanket.
"You were fading," the voice said. "Your body was broken. Your brain drowning. Your soul thinning."
Adam swallowed.
"I intervened."
His stomach turned.
"You did not cross by accident," the voice continued. "You were collected."
Anger rose in his chest.
"Liar," Adam whispered.
A sound echoed in him.
Soft.
Close.
Laughter.
Not loud.
Controlled.
"You prefer comfort over truth."
"I do not belong to you," Adam said.
"Nothing belongs," the voice replied. "Everything is used."
A tremor ran through him.
"You took me," Adam said.
"Yes."
"You stole my life."
"No. I salvaged it."
Adam shook his head.
"You do not decide that."
The voice leaned closer inside him.
"Who does?"
Adam felt heat behind his eyes.
"God," he said.
The world did not strike him for saying it.
It did not shake.
It did not burn.
The voice answered plainly.
"And yet. You are here."
Adam clenched his jaw.
"I did not ask to be."
"You were needed."
"I am not a tool," Adam said.
"You are not asked," the voice replied. "You are required."
The words cut deep.
"You healed their bones," the voice said. "You stopped the storm."
Adam shook his head.
"I prayed."
"Yes," the voice said. "And the world listened through you."
He whispered through his teeth.
"Power is not mine."
"You misunderstand," the voice said. "Faith is power. You burn it. Like a wick. Like oil."
Silence followed.
Adam felt sick.
"You used my prayer," he said. His voice cracked.
"I converted it."
The words pressed down on him.
"Into what?" he asked.
"Restoration," said the voice. "The world here is wounded. Broken in ways even mana cannot mend alone."
Adam's breath came shorter.
"You brought me to fix it?"
"You were suited. Untied. Untethered."
"I am not medicine," Adam said.
"You are rare fuel," the voice corrected.
His hands trembled.
"You fed me lies," Adam whispered.
"I fed you survival."
"No," Adam said. "You fed yourself."
The voice laughed again.
This time, it sounded pleased.
"You refuse reality as if denial changes structure."
Adam whispered through shaking breath.
"Only God decides life and death."
The voice stilled.
Then answered.
Soft.
Cold.
"Then why did He send you here?"
The question echoed like a blade dropped into deep water.
Adam's breath caught.
"He didn't," Adam said.
"Then how are you breathing?"
Adam pressed a hand to his chest.
His heart thumped wildly.
"I do not know," he whispered.
"Exactly," the voice replied.
The fire cracked nearby.
Just a small sound.
Too small.
Adelia did not stir.
Adam felt alone inside his own head.
"You think God abandoned you," the voice said.
"I do not," Adam replied.
"Then why does He stay silent?"
Adam shut his eyes.
His lips moved without sound.
Not in answer.
In defiance.
"You speak like Him," Adam whispered.
The voice paused.
Then reacted.
Sharply.
"I am not Him," it said.
Various presences shifted behind the words.
Too many.
Not a person.
Not a god.
Not a single will.
Adam felt it then.
Not power.
Hunger.
"You are feeding on me," Adam said.
"Yes."
"On my faith."
"Yes."
"So you need me."
The voice went silent.
Then spoke with different weight.
"For now."
Adam's breath unsteadied.
"You are not eternal," he said.
"No."
"You are not absolute."
"No."
"Then you will not decide my end."
The presence twisted like heat.
"You want choice," the voice said.
"Yes."
"Then choose," it said. "Burn slowly for them. Or go dark with yourself."
Adam whispered.
"I will not serve you."
The presence coiled.
"You already do."
"No."
"You exist here because of me."
"No," Adam said. "I exist because God allows it."
Something inside the voice cracked.
Not sound.
Structure.
"Your God is inefficient," it said.
Adam's eyes opened.
A different fire lit his chest.
"My God is not yours to measure."
The presence recoiled.
Slightly.
Enough for Adam to feel it.
"You mistake silence for absence," Adam said.
"You mistake control for divinity."
The voice bent around him again.
Then pulled back.
"For now," it repeated.
The pressure lifted.
The night returned.
The sounds returned.
Wind through stone.
Crickets.
Fire.
Adam collapsed forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
His hands shook.
He wanted to tear something apart.
He could not.
Not because he was weak.
Because violence would not answer this.
He bowed his head.
Not for the voice.
For the One it feared.
"Ya Allah," he whispered. "I am not a sacrifice."
No voice answered him back.
Not from outside.
Not from within.
But something settled in his chest.
Not peace.
Not comfort.
Gravity.
Choice.
When he looked up, dawn had begun creeping through broken spires.
Cold light.
Honest light.
Adelia stirred behind him.
She sat up slowly.
"You look worse than the city," she said quietly.
Adam laughed once.
It hurt.
"I had a visitor."
Her eyes sharpened.
"In dream?"
"No," he said.
"In claim."
She studied him in silence.
Then said, "Did it give you purpose?"
Adam shook his head.
"It tried to steal it."
Adelia exhaled through her nose.
"Then it is not sovereign," she said. "It is starving."
Adam looked at her.
She met his eyes fully now.
"No god needs permission," she said.
He nodded slowly.
The ruined city did not speak.
The statue did not move.
But the world felt alert.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Adam knew one truth now.
Whatever dragged him here.
It did not own him.
And it never would.