The Breath Between World
2 Corinthians 11:14 (NIV)
"And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light."
---
Morning came pale and wrong.
The light slid across Mahogany like a thin sheet of water, bright but cold. The air held no birdsong, only the soft groan of wood and the faint, steady pulse from beneath the mountain — that low hum the elders called the world's heartbeat.
No one spoke of it, but everyone felt it. Pots slipped from hands. Doors stuck in their hinges. The well water tasted faintly of ash.
Teuwa stood by the shrine at the edge of the village, staring into the brazier that refused to burn. The ashes inside were gray as bone. A fly circled, then fell dead into the dust.
Regbolo approached, his breath misting in the chill. "You told them, then?"
"I did," Teuwa said. His voice cracked like old wood. "Word is already moving. By nightfall, every ear will have heard."
Regbolo wiped his hands on his tunic. "They'll panic."
"They already do," Teuwa said, and smiled without warmth. "Now they'll have purpose in their fear."
"You called it a test of faith?"
Teuwa nodded once. "Said the gods are silent because we've grown faithless. That Uwa demands proof — sacrifice, prayer, fasting. Whatever the people can give."
Regbolo's jaw clenched. "You think they'll believe it?"
"They want to believe something. Anything. Fear needs shape."
He leaned over the brazier, whispering words that only half belonged to this world. For a moment the ashes stirred, and a thin red spark flickered. He drew back quickly, heart hammering.
Regbolo saw it too. "It's listening," he muttered. "That wasn't you."
Teuwa wiped sweat from his brow. "Then let it listen. If it gives us the strength we need, I don't care what it is."
---
By midday, Mahogany hummed with the sound of whispers.
Children were kept indoors. The smith's hammer went silent. Old women knelt by doorposts, muttering prayers both new and old, as though layering one faith atop another might make them safer.
Elena walked past them, clutching the Canticle of Fire close to her chest. She could feel the weight of the air pressing down — the tension that words alone could not break. When she looked toward the shrine, she saw Teuwa's broad figure moving through the smoke, his face hidden under his hood.
Micah's hand touched her shoulder. "Don't confront him yet," he murmured. "The people are watching."
"I'm not afraid," she said softly.
"Good," Micah replied. "But fear isn't the only thing that burns."
---
At the market square, Teuwa stood atop a broken cart, his voice rough and heavy. The villagers had gathered, drawn not by faith but by confusion.
"The gods test us!" he cried. "They watch and weigh our hearts! The silence is not their absence but their question. Will we prove our devotion, or will we perish like the villages beyond the ridge?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
A woman clutched her child. "What kind of proof?"
Teuwa raised his arms. "Fasting! Prayers at the altar! Offerings of your best grain, your cleanest lambs! Let your tears be your sacrifice, and maybe mercy will return."
Someone whispered, "And if it doesn't?"
Teuwa's smile cracked wider. "Then we will know we are truly cursed."
Regbolo stood behind him, silent, his eyes darting over the crowd. He could see doubt forming — not toward Teuwa, but toward themselves. That was how fear worked; it made every heart its own enemy.
Elena watched from the edge of the square. The words from the Canticle still echoed faintly in her memory: "The Fire bends for none, it hides for none." She wanted to speak, to cut through the falsehood, but Julia's parting words held her back: "The Flame teaches before it burns."
So she waited. And prayed.
---
That night, Teuwa couldn't sleep.
The air in his hut felt thick, damp with the scent of smoke. His dreams came alive before he even closed his eyes — red shapes twisting at the edge of his vision, faces whispering promises that sounded like threats.
He woke to find his candle had melted to nothing though he hadn't lit it. The wick still smoked faintly.
Sleep never settled on Teuwa's hut. The walls creaked with every breath of the mountain, and the air smelled of burnt oil. He rose before dawn, already dressed, his robe clinging damp to his back. Outside, the mist clung low, thick as breath.
He crossed the path toward the shrine, boots whispering through dust. A figure waited there, half-kneeling in the dirt. Regbolo. The man's shoulders trembled as though the earth itself pressed on them.
"They're starting to question us," Regbolo said when he heard Teuwa's steps. His voice was hoarse. "They say the mountain's voice sounds wrong. Even the air feels—"
"Alive?" Teuwa cut in. "Yes. The Veil is thin tonight. It's the Breath Between Worlds . Power waits near."
Regbolo looked up sharply. "Don't call it that. Don't say their words."
"They are our words now," Teuwa said.
The earth shuddered lightly beneath them. A sound like wind rose, though the trees did not move. From the shrine's ashes, a faint red thread of light began to coil upward, twisting into the air.
Regbolo staggered back. "You said it was just talk — fear to keep them quiet!"
Teuwa's voice broke into a laugh that wasn't laughter. "And yet something listens. Do you think they will ignore faith offered in their name?"
The red glow swelled briefly, then sank into the soil. The air smelled of iron and old blood.
Teuwa whispered, "The gods accept."
Regbolo's face went pale. "You're mad."
Teuwa grabbed his arm. "We're beyond madness. We are chosen. The Court—" He bit back the last word, but Regbolo heard it.
His eyes widened. "You mean those women in black robes? That's what all this is?"
Teuwa's grip tightened. "They have power. More than your prayers ever did. They promised safety if we prove our devotion."
"Safety?" Regbolo spat. "Or servitude?"
"Does it matter? We live."
The silence between them thickened. In the distance, thunder rolled — but no storm followed. The sound came from deep inside the mountain.
Regbolo tore his arm free. "You've damned us, Teuwa."
"Then damnation will be our refuge," Teuwa whispered. "Until the Fire itself proves otherwise."
---
By dawn, a gray mist covered the village.
It wasn't fog — it had weight, texture, and a faint shimmer, as if the Breathlight itself had soured. People coughed when they stepped outside, yet none dared speak of it aloud.
Elena stood by the well again, the Canticle open in her hands. Her breath made small clouds in the cold. Across the square, Teuwa and Regbolo spoke in hushed tones.
Liron joined her, his voice low. "They say the gods demand more. That the test isn't finished."
Elena looked at him. "And you?"
"I say they lie," he whispered. "But the others don't want truth. They want relief."
She nodded. "Then the Fire must be patient."
When Teuwa turned and saw her, his face tightened. For a moment neither spoke. Between them, the mist seemed to pulse with unseen breath.
Finally, he said, "You read your book while the world crumbles."
"And you feed it ashes and call them faith," she answered quietly.
His hand twitched toward the amulet at his neck — a piece of carved bone tied with red string. "If your God listens, tell Him to prove it."
Elena's gaze was steady. "He already has. You just weren't listening."
The words struck him like a slap. His jaw worked soundlessly. Regbolo shifted beside him, eyes darting between them.
A villager nearby whispered, "She defies the priest?" Another hissed, "She'll bring ruin."
Elena closed the Canticle gently. "Fear makes false prophets, Teuwa. But faith unmakes fear."
The mist stirred then, swirling briefly around her as if drawn by her voice. The lantern beside the well flared with sudden light — not red, but gold. Warm. Clean.
Gasps broke through the silence. Teuwa stumbled back, shielding his face. Regbolo froze, awe and terror warring in his eyes.
Elena's voice was calm. "The Fire remembers."
The light dimmed, leaving only the faint scent of rain.
Teuwa turned sharply and strode toward his hut, heart hammering. Behind his ribs, something burned — not warmth, but shame.
Regbolo lingered, staring at the well where the light had been. Then, softly, he murmured, "Maybe she's the test."
---
That night, Teuwa dreamed again.
The mountain loomed larger, the moons Vareth and Lunara crossing paths overhead, their lights blending into a cold silver fire. From that fire stepped a figure—hooded, faceless, holding a bowl of ashes.
A voice whispered from behind him, familiar and cruel. "You promised them a test. Now you will taste it."
He woke screaming.
Outside, the wind was finally moving again—but it didn't sound like wind. It sounded like laughter under breath.