The figures stopped. Just like that.
Aaron dangled in their grip—his limbs slack, his eyes wide—and the other boy looked just as horrified. The whole thing felt like a twisted joke. A dark parody of belief.
"What's that, Aaron?" I called out, stepping forward.
"Can't you fucking read the atmosphere?" Ed's voice cracked behind me. "They're being taken. That's the ancestors."
I didn't look back. "Really, Ed? You still believe that bullshit?"
I took another step forward—and heat wrapped around me like a tightening rope. It got hotter. One more step, and sweat broke down my spine. Another, and it felt like I was standing next to an open furnace.
What the hell was happening?
The figures hadn't moved, but Aaron looked smaller in their hands now. Shrinking. Or were they growing? Their silhouettes, once vaguely human, began to stretch and contort. Their limbs elongated, armor glinting unnaturally, like CGI—but wrong, off, too real.
They were becoming something else.
"Don't come closer!" Aaron shouted. His voice was ragged, panicked.
The other boy was already screaming.
But I didn't stop. Couldn't. I had to see it. Whatever this was, it couldn't be what they claimed. This wasn't divine. This wasn't sacred. It reeked of something ancient and wrong.
Then—I saw their faces.
No.
Not faces.
Where their eyes should've been were swirling, molten vortexes. Like flame—alive, pulling, burning without heat. I froze. My feet kept moving.
I wasn't in control anymore.
My body moved without me, like something was pulling me forward. I tried to stop. Tried to dig my heels into the ground. Nothing. My muscles weren't listening.
"Put them down!" I shouted, my voice cracking against the wind. "If you're really the ancestors, stop hiding like fucking cowards. Put them down. If you want an intermediary, choose one, but stop this shit."
My voice grew louder.
So did the chanting.
It poured into my ears, into my skull—chant layered over chant, voice upon voice—until my bones vibrated with it. My body felt numb, as if floating. I could think clearly, but had no power over my own limbs.
"These aren't your intermediaries!" I screamed. "Let them go—now!"
And then—suddenly—Aaron's eyes flew open. Wild, terrified.
Like he saw something in me.
Like he recognized it.
And before I could even reach him—he was thrown, violently, like a ragdoll. Landed just short of Ed, with the other boy tumbling beside him.
I spun—but before I could make sense of it, everything shifted.
My eyes slammed shut—then open—and I was inside fire.
Flames wrapped around me. But I wasn't burning.
All I could hear were the voices.
Hollow. Distant. Welcoming.
"Hello," they whispered.
"Welcome, child."
"Welcome to the land of your ancestors."
"Your ancestors live here."
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Then—water.
I was suddenly submerged, deep. Pressure crushed my ears. Then it lit up, blue, then gold. A massive shark came barreling toward me, jaw open wide. I flailed, trying to scream—when a spear struck it through the head, snapping it backwards into the dark.
Then light again.
Land.
I stood in the middle of a vast desert. Wind. Red sand. The air was dry and sharp in my lungs. No buildings. No people. Just endless dunes and an impossible silence.
Was this the Sahara? Mars?
What was this place?
I took a step. Pain lanced up my leg. It was real. Too real.
Then I saw it—a red sun on the horizon, growing larger, like it was being pulled closer.
I panicked.
"Help me!" I shouted. "Help, please!"
And just like that—it stopped.
The wind froze.
And so did I.
Like even my breathing might trigger something.
Then it came—a sudden, violent gust.
The sand swept upward into a cyclone, and I was lifted—spinning, weightless—before slamming down again.
On a beach.
Waves crashed behind me. My lungs burned. I coughed, spit out sand.
"I could die here," I said out loud, breathless. "My lungs—they're not made for this shit."
"You won't," a voice said.
Then another.
"You won't," they all repeated.
A chant, again.
I turned away from the water.
Figures emerged from the cliffside. Dozens. Clothed in white, shawls draped over their shoulders. Their faces were calm. Too calm.
Were they here to punish me?
Kill me?
Save me?
I didn't know. I just knew—they were people.
Finally.
"This is the land of your ancestors," one of them said. "You are the intermediary now. Weak lungs have no place here."
The word echoed—intermediary.
Over and over in my mind.
I didn't move. I didn't run.
They could do whatever they wanted.
But one question stuck like a splinter in my head, bleeding confusion:
Why now?
Why, after fifty years of silence, would the ancestors choose me?
The figures in white moved closer, their robes trailing behind them like vapor. Their feet didn't disturb the sand. Their faces—smooth, ageless—were impossible to read. Not kind. Not cruel. Just... still.
One of them, taller than the rest, stepped ahead. A line of red ink—or maybe blood—ran from his temple to his jaw. He stopped just a few feet in front of me.
"You were not chosen," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"You were not chosen," he repeated, this time louder. The others echoed him like a chorus.
"You were not chosen."
"You were not chosen."
"You answered."
The words slammed into me. Like I had broken some ancient rule I didn't know existed.
"Wait—" I started, but the ground beneath my feet trembled.
A low rumble rolled across the sand like thunder. The sky didn't change, but I felt something split—somewhere else. Far away. Maybe back home.
The tall one raised his hand and pointed—not at me, but past me. Toward the sea.
"You crossed the boundary," he said. "No one crosses it and stays the same."
The water behind me began to boil. Not bubble—boil. Steam hissed into the air. I turned to look—and I swear I saw a shape rising out of the waves. Massive. Horned. Faceless.
"What is that?" I whispered, backing up.
"The old ones have stirred," said another figure.
"The dead are not at rest," said a third.
"You were not chosen—but they heard your defiance. That is enough."
My throat tightened. I took another step back, and my heel slipped in the soft sand.
"Am I dead?" I asked.
"No," the tall one said. "But you are no longer only living."
I tried to speak again—but the wind cut me off. Not ordinary wind—whispers.
Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. All around me, inside me.
"Intermediary…"
"Breaker of silence…"
"Bearer of breath…"
"He who defies the fire…"
"What do you want from me?" I shouted.
The figure stepped closer until his face nearly touched mine.
His eyes were black. Deep. Endless.
"We want nothing," he whispered. "But they want you. And they do not ask."
Suddenly—everything stilled.
The wind. The sea. Even my own heartbeat.
Then—
A single crack of thunder. Deafening.
The sky split open.
And from that wound in the heavens, something began to fall.
Not a star. Not a person.
Something else.
Something old.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
I only watched.
And that was the moment I understood—
I hadn't interrupted the coronation.
I had triggered it.