Miss Fiona turned to Gershion, her eyes filled with both sadness and an unspoken weight. She had kept this secret for years, and now, it was time for him to hear the truth.

“Gershion,” she began softly, “there’s something you’ve always felt, haven’t you? That pull—like the shadows of the world have been following you, waiting for something to happen. It’s not just in your head. It all began the night you were born.”

Gershion leaned forward, sensing that what she was about to say would change everything he thought he knew about himself.

“There’s a place called Nyamekrom,” she continued, her voice filled with a deep reverence. “It’s a small village, where tradition rules over everything, and the people live simple, quiet lives, in harmony with the land. They know nothing of angelic battles, celestial essence, or the forces that shape our world. To them, the supernatural is the will of the gods—omens that guide or curse them.”

Gershion listened, feeling the story draw him in, each word wrapping around him like a blanket of mystery.

“On the night you were born, the peace of Nyamekrom was shattered by a storm—no ordinary storm, but one that seemed to tear the heavens apart. The winds howled like a thousand angry spirits, and lightning danced across the sky, casting the village in an eerie, unearthly glow. Everyone in the village huddled in their homes, terrified of what was coming.”

Miss Fiona’s voice lowered as she leaned closer. “But in a small hut on the edge of the village, a young woman, Anabelle Agyemang—your mother—was in the throes of labor. The storm drowned out her cries, but inside that hut, the battle between life and death was raging. The midwife, an old woman with years of experience, worked desperately to bring you into the world.”

Gershion felt a strange connection to the storm she described, as if somehow, that fury had never truly left him.

“The storm reached its peak just as you were born,” Miss Fiona said, her eyes locked on Gershion’s. “A bolt of lightning struck the earth with such force that the entire village was bathed in blinding light. And in that very moment, your first cry rang out—piercing through the storm’s fury. But… it came at a terrible cost.”

Gershion’s heart pounded as Miss Fiona paused, her expression pained. “Anabelle, your mother… she didn’t survive the birth. With her final breath, she brought you into this world. And as the storm raged on, far away on a distant battlefield, your father, Obed—the bravest warrior in the village—fell to an enemy spear.”

Miss Fiona’s voice grew quieter, sorrow seeping into each word. “The heavens seemed to mourn with you that night, Gershion. The storm wasn’t just a storm—it was a sign. A messenger arrived from the battlefield, drenched and weary, carrying your father’s bloodied armor. He handed it to the village elders. Your father, their leader, was gone. And your birth, so mysterious, so full of power, terrified the villagers.”

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Gershion’s chest tightened. He had always known he was different, but now it was as if the pieces of a long-buried puzzle were coming together.

“Inside that small hut,” Miss Fiona went on, “the midwife was left with you, alone in the dim light, her heart heavy with grief. She looked down at you, and as another flash of lightning lit the room, something happened.”

Gershion leaned forward, barely breathing.

“In that brief moment of light, she saw it—a dragon, formed entirely of crackling electricity, coiled around you. Its eyes burned with a fire that wasn’t of this world, and the air grew heavy with dread. It was a vision of something far beyond the understanding of Nyamekrom’s people. A symbol from the gods—or so they thought.”

Miss Fiona’s voice trembled as she continued. “The midwife tried to blink it away, but the vision shifted. Standing over you was not just any figure, but the one they feared the most—Lucifer, the Fallen One, with massive wings and eyes filled with terrifying intensity. He looked at you as though he was measuring your very soul, and before she could even cry out, he dissolved into smoke and entered your body.”

Gershion shuddered. His hands clenched in his lap, the weight of the revelation settling over him like a heavy fog.

“The midwife was paralyzed with fear,” Miss Fiona said. “She clutched you to her chest, trying to make sense of what she had witnessed. But it was too much. She ran from the hut, through the storm, desperate to warn the village chief.”

Gershion could picture the scene—rain pouring, the wind howling as the midwife burst into the chief’s compound, her clothes soaked, her face wild with terror.

“She told the chief and the elders what she had seen,” Miss Fiona explained, her voice growing quieter. “‘The mark of Lucifer,’ she called it. She swore she saw him enter you.”

Gershion’s breath hitched. His mind reeled. Lucifer? The word echoed in his head.

“The chief and the elders were terrified,” Miss Fiona continued. “Nyamekrom knew nothing of celestial essence, nothing of angels and demons. To them, what the midwife saw was a sign from the gods themselves. The storm, your mother’s death, the vision of Lucifer—it was all too much. They believed you were cursed, rejected by the Supreme God of the Heavens.”

Gershion felt the weight of his origin pressing down on him. “So… they wanted to cast me out,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Miss Fiona nodded, her expression grim. “The village believed that if they didn’t rid themselves of you, the gods would turn their backs on them all. The oracle confirmed their worst fears. She told the elders that you carried a power unlike anything they had ever seen—power that was not of this world.”

Gershion’s chest tightened, but Miss Fiona’s hand rested gently on his arm, her voice softening.

“But they didn’t understand, Gershion. They were afraid of something they couldn’t comprehend. The storm that brought you into this world, the visions, the fear—it was all part of a much larger plan. The Supreme God may have rejected you, but it doesn’t mean your fate is sealed.”

Gershion stared at her, trying to grasp the enormity of what he had just learned. “So… what am I, Miss Fiona? What does this mean for me?”

Miss Fiona’s eyes filled with a kind of hopeful sadness. “It means, Gershion, that you have the power to forge your own path. You are not bound by what they feared or by the curse they believed you carried. You are more than just the mark of Lucifer.”

She looked at him with all the love and strength she could muster. “You are special, Gershion. You always have been.”