In 1953, an expedition of archaeologists uncovered something that should not have existed. Deep in the Antarctic ice, beneath layers untouched for millennia, they found a blackened chest sealed in iron. Inside lay a single book—its leather cracked with age, its pages preserved as though time itself had been forbidden to touch it.
The cover bore no title, only strange symbols no one could decipher. But written across the first page in fading ink were two words:
Layer of the Paradise.
At first, it was dismissed as a curiosity. Scholars argued it was nothing but folklore recorded in an obscure tongue. The stories within spoke of "layers" stacked beyond the reach of mortals, guarded by beings neither divine nor human. The descriptions defied reason—lands of endless dawn, oceans that bled light, cities that vanished when one tried to approach.
To most, it read like madness.
But one archaeologist, curious beyond caution, translated fragments and leaked them to the public. Within weeks, copies spread across the world. Some read the tales as ancient fables. Others whispered they were warnings disguised as myth. And a few… a very few… believed with absolute conviction that the book was not telling stories.
It was describing a real place.
Governments scrambled to suppress it, declaring possession of the book illegal. But it was too late. Photocopies, hidden manuscripts, and word-of-mouth versions spread like wildfire. For every skeptic that mocked it, another became obsessed. And from obsession came something far more dangerous—faith.
March 11, 2005 – Mukali Province
Fleur was only a student, quietly studying in her small upstairs room, when her life unraveled. There had been no warning—no strange dreams, no omens, no touch of destiny. Only silence, broken by the turning of notebook pages.
And then, pain.
It began as a sharp twist in her stomach, so sudden she dropped her pen. Within moments, her belly swelled as though months of pregnancy had erupted in seconds. Her breath caught; her vision blurred. The chair clattered against the floor as she collapsed, the sound echoing through the wooden house.
Her mother, Marcella, rushed upstairs at the noise. She froze at the doorway, struck dumb by the sight of her daughter writhing on the floor, stomach unnaturally distended and glowing faintly as though lit from within.
"What—what is happening to her?!" Marcella's voice broke as she clutched the doorframe.
Fleur's grandmother, Mitso, pushed past her without hesitation. The old woman knelt by the girl, eyes narrowing not in fear, but recognition.
"She carries," Mitso muttered. "But not as humans do."
The words made no sense, not to Marcella, not to anyone. But Mitso's expression left no room for doubt—she had seen this before. Or something like it.
Marcella bent to help, hands trembling. "She's too young—she isn't—this isn't possible!"
Fleur's cries filled the room. The air grew heavy, thick, unnatural. The lanterns flickered though no wind stirred. From the hallway, Fleur's father, Mando, appeared, confusion written across his face.
"Marcella? What's happening? What's wrong with our daughter?"
Neither mother nor grandmother answered him. The glow from Fleur's stomach brightened, filling the small room with a pale light. Shadows vanished; walls seemed to bend. Marcella shielded her eyes, while Mando stepped forward in desperation—only to be hurled back by a force he could neither see nor understand.
His body struck the stairs. Blood splattered the wood. Marcella screamed.
And then—silence.
The light flared, blinding. Fleur's scream cut short. For an instant, everything in the world seemed to pause.
From above, a brilliance descended—a figure of radiance, neither man nor god, treading upon air as if it were stone. With every step, the world cracked and mended in its wake, as if reality struggled to keep pace with its presence.
It knelt by Fleur. One shining hand touched the child within her. The light devoured the room—then dimmed.
Fleur lay unconscious, her stomach flat once more. The house was whole again, her family alive and unbroken as though nothing had happened. Only Marcella knew it was no dream, for the figure still lingered in her memory—its face unreadable, its eyes ancient as the sun.
Something had arrived.
And it had chosen her daughter.
…The house was quiet again. Fleur lay unconscious in her bed, her body no longer glowing. The infant rested in her arms, small and fragile, as if the chaos of moments ago had been nothing but a fevered dream.
Marcella wept quietly beside her daughter, while Mando, pale and shaken, could not speak. The family clung to one another in silence, unsure whether to thank the heavens or fear them.
But Mitso stood apart, her eyes fixed on the newborn child. The others saw only a miracle, but she knew better. She had seen this before—not here, not now, but long ago, when she was still young.
In the silence of her mind, she remembered, the Keepers of Light. The secret order that taught her to read signs hidden in the stars and whispers carried by the wind. She had left them behind when she became a mother, burying their prophecies beneath the soil of her ordinary life.
But prophecy has a way of finding its bearer.
The glowing stomach. The impossible birth. The air bending, trembling, almost tearing apart. It was the very vision that had haunted her dreams for decades.
Her lips tightened, but her heart beat with dread.
This child should not exist. And yet, here he was—breathing, crying, radiating a force beyond her comprehension.
She turned her gaze upward, toward the night sky above the house. Somewhere, far beyond the reach of mortals, forces she once swore to serve were watching. Perhaps even the guardian she had only heard of in whispers—Apolaki.
Mitso clenched her fists. She had abandoned the Keepers, but fate had not abandoned her. Now she knew her purpose: to shield this child from the eyes of gods and men alike.
She looked once more at the infant. His cries had quieted, and his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
"Zelaive," she whispered, the name forming naturally from the spark she felt. Born of zeal, yet unnamed by the script of fate.