"I don't know why, but I feel like something bad is going to happen soon," I murmured, watching Maham flip through the brittle, yellowed pages of a book after much search.

Maham paused, his finger hovering over a line of strange symbols. "It's unlikely the dream is about you," he toned, "Someone-or something-might be trying to communicate through you."

"You think an evil spirit is trying to talk to me?" I asked, frowning.

He glanced at me, his expression thoughtful. "You said the woman in your dream wasn't your mother, and the villagers weren't anyone you recognized. That's a significant detail. It was like you were living a life of someone else. That can only explain it," He turned another page, stopping at an illustration that sent a chill crawling up my spine.

It was a mess of cryptic symbols, eerie diagrams, and shadowy figures. It looked less like a language and more like the scribblings of someone unraveling. "The words you spoke," Maham said quietly, "were in Sables. It's an ancient tongue, older than most of the stories we tell today. It was banned long ago making it a taboo to learn or speak."

"Sables?" I repeated, incredulous. "Why would a language be banned?"

He raised his gaze to mine, "Because it was said to carry power. It was dangerous. Speaking it was seen as opening doors that should remain shut. Anyone caught using it risked their life. That's why our ancestors erased it-why you've never heard of it until now. But," he added, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, "a native doctor like me isn't much of a doctor if he doesn't meddle in what's been forgotten."

"So you learned to speak it?"

"I've studied it enough to understand its danger." He leaned closer to the book, his fingers tracing the ancient script. "And if you've been speaking Sables in your dreams, then it means someone was trying to show you something. Whomever they are, they lived at least a thousand years ago."

A shiver ran down my spine. "What do they want?"

"That," Maham said, his voice low and grave, "is what you must figure out."

Maham returned from inside, a chewing stick balanced in his mouth and a small bottle in his hand.

"This is an herbal mix," he said, holding up the bottle. "Add it to the water you drink before bed, and you'll sleep like a baby. But don't get clever and pour the whole thing into one meal unless you're keen on ruining your liver. Just use a fingertip's worth each time. Understood?"

I nodded as he handed me the bottle. The contents inside looked like a thick yellow paste with earthy scent.

"What do I tell my mother?" I asked.

"Tell her about the herbs if you must," he said with a dismissive wave. "Say you've been having those kind of dreams because of stress, and I gave you something to help. No need to overcomplicate things."

I nodded slowly. "And the dreams themselves? What am I supposed to do if they keep coming?"

"When next the dream pulls you into its grasp, seek out a reflection. A mirror. A pool of water. Anything that will reveal your face to you. Stand before it, and say these words: Nakali' zour? It is the tongue of the Sables, the question that means, 'What is your name?'"

"And then?" I asked, my throat dry with anticipation.

"Then you wait," he said, his gaze locking with mine, unblinking. "The reflection will answer-mark my words, it will speak. Do not flinch, do not look away. Remember all that it tells you. Etch the words into your mind as if they were carved in stone. When the exchange is done, dip your head into water. That act will sever the tether and bring you back to this realm."

"Do not come back here unless you've done what I asked because I won't be able to help you," he added before dismissing me.

***

After supper, I sat cross-legged on the mat with my mother. The meal had been simple but satisfying, and she smiled at me as I explained the herbs Maham had given me. She accepted my explanation easily, her worry softening at the thought of me finding some relief.

"Stress," I had told her, feeling the weight of my lies. "Maham said it will help me sleep better."

"Good," she replied, her voice gentle. "You've been restless too many nights. That's not good for you."

We said our goodnights shortly after, her body sinking into the mat in exhaustion. I lay beside her, but sleep eluded me. My mind swirled with anxiety, the dreams and Maham's words echoing in my thoughts. The hut was dark and still, except for the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Unable to bear it any longer, I slipped off the mat and padded to the kitchen. I moved carefully, my steps soft against the floor to avoid waking her. The small bottle of paste was where I had left it, its dull yellow hue barely visible in the dim light.

I uncorked it, the faint scent of earth wafting up to meet me. Scooping a tiny amount with my fingertip, I stirred it into my cup of water and watched the liquid swirl. When it settled, I lifted it to my lips and drank it in one gulp.

The taste struck me immediately-thick, earthy, like clay smeared across my tongue. I grimaced but finished it, the bitterness lingering even after I set the cup down.

Returning to the mat, I lay down and stared at the ceiling, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. I shut my eyes and willed myself to sleep.

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The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of an arena. My clothes were little more than rags, worn and stained, clinging to me like the weight of my fear. Around me, the crowd roared, their voices a deafening sea of noise.

Before me stood a beast-a three-headed monstrosity with a massive body and dripping saliva, its growls reverberating through the air. The other gladiators in the ring were scattered, their weapons trembling in their hands.

The beast didn't hesitate. It lunged forward with terrifying speed, its massive claws tearing through three men in an instant. Their screams were drowned out by the crowd's cheers.

And then it turned its attention to my side.

I felt my heart pounding, my grip tightening on the blade in my hand. The beast crouched, preparing to charge. I took a deep breath and knelt, driving my blade into the soil. My hand scooped up a handful of sand, rough and cool against my palm.

I felt my mouth whisper "Obba, you saved me from the jaws of death once. Do not forsake me now."

The beast roared and charged, its massive form shaking the ground. The crowd's excitement reached a fevered pitch.

I stood, flinging the sand into the air. It scattered, blinding the beast's eyes, disorienting it. As it staggered, I tightened my grip on the blade, dragging it behind me as I ran. I leaped, my body surging upward as I aimed for its head...

I woke with a gasp, my chest heaving, my body drenched in sweat. The mat beneath me was soaked, my hands trembling as I tried to calm my breathing.

"No," I muttered, my voice trembling. "No, no, no."

My thoughts raced. I hadn't asked its name.

I wiped my face with trembling hands and forced myself to lie back down. My heart was still racing, but I had to try again. I shut my eyes tightly, willing myself to sleep once more.

This time, I found myself at the center of the arena, utterly alone-no other gladiators, no beasts. I was clad in gleaming armor, including a headpiece that concealed my face. The crowd roared and cheered, their applause echoing like thunder.

The gates to the arena creaked open, and the atmosphere shifted. The crowd fell silent as soldiers began to march out from both sides, their ranks fanning out to encircle me. Unease prickled my skin as I tightened my grip on my weapon, unsure of what would happen next.

From behind the soldiers emerged a man dressed in fine robes. His ginger hair was speckled with gray, his face dotted with freckles, and his frame was plump. By his side stood a tall young man-his son, by the resemblance-towering over him. Guards flanked them, their presence commanding.

"In all my years," the man began, his voice resonant and authoritative, "never have I seen a warrior as brave and skilled as you. Remove your helmet, gladiator, so I may look upon the face that has captured the hearts of the crowd."

Slowly, I lifted my hands to my helmet, removing it with measured movements. I had never seen my face in these dreams before, yet I knew instinctively that I looked different. My black hair tumbled over my shoulders as the helmet came away. The king and his son stared at me, their expressions filled with awe.

"What is your name?" the king asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

"My name is Gladiator," I replied, the words leaving my mouth with a calm finality. Without waiting for permission, I turned my back to him.

"How dare you turn your back on us! We haven't dismissed you," the prince's voice rang out, sharp and affronted. His tone carried the arrogance of entitlement. "Who do you think you are, Gladiator?"

"It was you, wasn't it? The one who sold my people into slavery. I remember your face," I snarled, rage building inside me, "I swore to the heavens I'd have your head." I drew my sword and slashed at the prince.

"Don't, don't, don't-" my thought screamed at my body. The world seemed to slow as I felt my soul tear free, slipping from his body like a thread unravelling.

Everything blurred, my vision darkening as my body fell backward, striking the ground with a heavy thud.

When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the arena. My breaths came in sharp gasps as I realized I was lying at the feet of a woman. She was familiar-the same woman I'd seen before-but her form was nothing more than ashes now, her body completely burned.

I pushed myself upright, my hands trembling as I took in my surroundings. The village was empty. The people who had killed her and tried to kill me had vanished, leaving only desolation.

Her ashes clung to my hands, and I looked up, feeling the weight of something unseen pressing down on me. This was no ordinary vision-this was a reckoning.

Tears flowed freely down my face as I sobbed, and he, too, let out a heart-wrenching cry.

After what felt like an eternity at her feet, I rose slowly and began to wander around the desolate place. The village, once bustling with life, was now reduced to nothing but ashes. Everyone had truly vanished, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened that night-something I couldn't quite grasp.

As I walked, I noticed a lake in the distance, and suddenly, a memory stirred, one I had almost forgotten.

With urgency, I sprinted toward it, my legs carrying me as fast as they could. When I reached the water's edge, I bent down, peering into the reflective surface.

But the face staring back at me was unfamiliar. His eyes were the deepest shade of blue, his dark hair cascading down my shoulders, his face oval, with a jawline so sharp it seemed carved by the gods. There was something about his features that mirrored mine, though, an eerie resemblance that unsettled me.

"Nakali zour?" I uttered shakily, the words slipping from my mouth in a language I didn't recognize.

Then, my reflection moved. Not me, but the figure before me. I froze in shock.

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down my spine. "Who taught you to speak in sables?" he asked in a deep, almost haunting voice.

"Ha..how is this possible? Who the hell are you?!" I demanded, my voice shaking as my heart hammered in my chest.

The reflection didn't flinch. A cruel, knowing smirk curled at the edges of his lips, and his voice, low and ruthless, slithered through the air like poison.

"Mir Nakali," he said, each word dropping like a death sentence. "Lucien Valerius Morningstar. Chief commander of the Phoenix Legions of the North. Loyal servant to the one true emperor of Oakwyn, Malak Severus-the third son of God, cursed to walk among mortals until the day I return to dust. I am the devil. I am the Prince of Darkness."

His eyes locked onto mine, cold and predatory, as if he could feel my soul trembling.

"And I am your father."

___

Did you know?

The story of the fallen angels isn't just a myth. It's the tale of Lucien Valerius Morningstar, the son of God, cast down to Earth to live among mortals as punishment for defying his father. A punishment that would teach him the harshest lessons in humility.

Lucien lived as a commoner, raised by an adoptive mother, until the day the villagers discovered his powers. In their fear, they accused his mother of being a witch, blaming her for giving birth to an evil spirit, and burnt them alive.

God didn't keep his son alive to save him. No, He kept him alive to make him endure even more suffering, forcing him to live through the consequences of his defiance. Lucien found himself thrust into the brutal life of a gladiator once again after being captured and sold into slavery by Oakwyn.

It was there, in the blood-soaked sands of the arena, that the King took notice of him, offering him a high rank in the military. But with power came envy, and soon, Lucien's rise in the ranks would ignite fierce jealousy in the royal court-an enmity that would follow him wherever he went.

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