The Olivia family dining hall glowed with the pale morning light seeping through tall glass windows. The air was thick with the scent of fried akara, freshly baked bread, and steaming pepper soup. A long mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, polished until it shone, lined with chairs that seemed far too grand for the people seated in them.
Peterson sat near the far end of the table, hunched slightly, his uniform shirt already wrinkled though the day had barely begun. He toyed with a piece of bread on his plate, dragging it through oil stains without ever lifting it to his mouth. His eyes were distant, his mind replaying the strange dream that had shaken him the night before.
Across from him, Tom sat tall and proud, shoulders squared, his uniform immaculate. His aura filled the room the way smoke fills a fire pit—choking, unavoidable. His voice carried easily as he spoke, drawing the attention of everyone present.
"Coach said I'll be representing Olivia High at the interschool ability showcase next week," Tom declared, his tone casual but laced with pride. "They're expecting me to win easily. No surprise there."
Their father slapped the table with a booming laugh. "That's my boy! Tom, the pride of the Olivia bloodline."
The cousins seated nearby clapped politely, their eyes shining with admiration. Even the servants hovering along the walls seemed to straighten when Tom spoke.
Peterson's mother leaned forward, smiling warmly at her firstborn. "You've always made us proud, Tom. Ever since you were little, you had that spark. I knew you'd become someone great."
Peterson's fingers tightened around the edge of his plate. His mother's voice was sweet, but it never carried that same warmth when it spoke his name. He knew it wouldn't, not today, not ever.
Tom's smirk widened as he noticed his younger brother's silence. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head with calculated arrogance. "And what about Peterson? Still moving bottle caps and pencils?"
The table erupted with laughter. His cousins snickered, their voices overlapping.
"Ehn, maybe one day he'll lift a spoon without using his hands."
"Abi now, he can help the servants carry plates with his 'telekinesis.'"
Even their father chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, Peterson. You should watch your brother and learn."
The words landed heavier than the laughter. Peterson lowered his gaze to his plate. He pushed a piece of akara around, fighting to keep his expression neutral. Inside, however, his chest burned with a mix of humiliation and something he couldn't name—something old, restless, like the stirring of a storm long forgotten.
The laughter lingered for a few moments before conversation shifted back to Tom, as it always did. Tom recounted stories of his training sessions, the awe in his classmates' eyes, the power he unleashed with ease. Every word seemed to etch Peterson further into the shadows of the table.
Only one person's eyes lingered on him—his grandfather, seated quietly at the far end. The old man's gaze was steady, unreadable, but Peterson caught the faintest glimmer there. Not pity, not disappointment… something else. Understanding, perhaps.
When breakfast ended, chairs scraped across the floor as the family rose. Tom strutted toward the door, surrounded by cousins and admirers. Peterson trailed behind, unnoticed, his footsteps quiet against the tiled floor.
As he stepped outside into the warm Port Harcourt morning, the noise of street vendors drifted over the walls of the Olivia compound. The cries of "Bole! Bole and fish!" mingled with the honking of okadas weaving through the traffic beyond. Life outside continued, vibrant and raw, while inside, Peterson's world felt like a cage.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and whispered under his breath, almost to himself:
"One day… I'll matter."
But even as the words left his lips, he wasn't sure if he believed them.
The sun was merciless that afternoon. By the time the bell rang, Olivia High's courtyard was already filled with students, teachers, and even a few parents eager to watch the monthly practical demonstration. It was one of the school's proudest traditions—a chance for gifted students to display their talents.
The courtyard buzzed with voices. Some students huddled in groups, boasting about what they'd show. Others whispered predictions about who would outshine the rest.
Peterson stood near the back of the line, his heart pounding. His palms were damp, and his uniform clung uncomfortably to his skin. He didn't want to be here. He never wanted to be here. But every student with an ability was required to participate. Even him.
The principal, a tall man with a sharp suit and sharper eyes, stepped forward and raised his hands for silence.
"Students of Olivia High," he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Today we witness not only your growth, but your pride. Show us your strength."
Cheers erupted. The demonstration began.
A boy stepped forward first. With a grin, he conjured a ball of flame that hovered above his palm, flickering like a miniature sun. The crowd gasped, then broke into applause.
Next, a girl walked gracefully to the front. She closed her eyes, raised her arms, and a gust of wind swirled around her, sharp enough to slice through a block of wood placed before her.
"Incredible!" a teacher exclaimed. The students clapped wildly.
One by one, more students showcased their gifts—sparks of lightning, bursts of energy, illusions that shimmered in the hot sun. Each display drew awe, each ability celebrated.
And then…
"Peterson Olivia."
The principal's voice cut through the air. A hush fell over the courtyard.
Whispers followed immediately.
"Him? Why bother?"
"Dark Toxin's brother is such a waste."
"This will be funny."
Peterson's throat went dry. His legs felt like iron as he forced himself forward, every step heavier than the last. He stood at the center of the courtyard, hundreds of eyes on him.
A teacher placed a metal rod on the ground. "Show us what you can do."
Peterson nodded weakly. He lifted his hand, focusing on the rod. His brow furrowed, sweat already gathering on his forehead. The rod trembled. It lifted an inch—two inches—then clattered back to the ground with a hollow clang.
Silence.
Then the laughter came, sharp and merciless.
"Ah! That's it?"
"My baby cousin can do more!"
"Useless!"
Peterson's ears burned. His heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the earth beneath his feet.
And then a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Pathetic."
Tom.
Dark Toxin strode forward, his very presence silencing the laughter. His aura pressed down like a stormcloud. He moved with effortless confidence, each step deliberate.
The crowd erupted in cheers. "Dark Toxin! Dark Toxin!"
Tom smirked at Peterson, brushing past him as though he were invisible. "Let me show you what real power looks like."
He raised his hand. Darkness rippled across the courtyard, thick and suffocating. The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of his aura. Students gasped, some stepping back instinctively.
With a flick of his wrist, Tom summoned a sphere of black energy that pulsed like a living heart. He hurled it toward the metal rod. The rod didn't just shatter—it exploded into fragments, scattering across the floor in a shower of sparks.
The crowd roared. Cheers, whistles, chants of his name filled the courtyard.
Tom turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto Peterson. He leaned in just close enough for his brother to hear, his words venomous.
"You'll never be me. You'll never even matter."
Peterson's fists clenched at his sides. His vision blurred for a moment, and—just for an instant—his reflection in Tom's eyes glowed silver.
But it was gone before he could understand it.
The demonstration continued, but Peterson barely heard the voices around him. The cheers for Tom, the laughter at his expense—it all melted into a dull roar. His mind was elsewhere. The whisper from his dream echoed in his skull, relentless.
"The seal is not eternal… Toxic X will awaken."
He staggered out of the courtyard once the demonstration ended, his body trembling. He needed air. He needed to escape.
The streets of Port Harcourt were alive with their usual evening rhythm—hawkers calling out prices, the aroma of roasted plantain (bole) mingling with the smoky scent of suya, and the chatter of tired workers making their way home. Peterson walked through it all as if moving in a haze, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his mind tangled with the bitter scenes of the day.
The memory of Tom's laughter still echoed in his skull. His brother had made the ground tremble with a mere flex of power, the entire school erupting in cheers. Peterson could almost still feel the heat of that spotlight, the sting of being invisible in his own bloodline.
He kicked at a loose stone on the road. Why me? Why was I born this way?
His steps carried him to the edge of a quieter street, where the clamor of the crowd faded into softer murmurs. A line of old buildings leaned against one another, their walls peeling, windows dusty. He paused, realizing he had strayed farther than usual from home.
And then he saw her.
An old woman sat by a wooden table stacked with cowrie shells, palm fronds, and bottles filled with strange powders. Her hair was silver-gray, wrapped in a faded headscarf, and her eyes—though clouded with age—seemed to gleam with a sharpness that made Peterson's chest tighten.
"Ah," she said, her voice rough but steady, as if she had been expecting him. "So the boy with sealed blood finally walks these roads."
Peterson froze. "What… what did you just say?"
The woman tilted her head, a knowing smile twitching at her lips. "Your grandfather was wise, though cruel. He locked away the ocean inside a bottle. But bottles, my child, were never meant to last forever."
His heart thudded violently. No one ever spoke about his grandfather. The Olivia family carried his name with pride, but whenever Peterson asked questions about him, the topic would change, eyes would darken, and silence would close like a door.
"You've got the wrong person," Peterson muttered, taking a step back.
But the woman laughed—a low, echoing chuckle that made the hairs on his arms rise. "Your shadow denies you, but your eyes betray you. They burn with storms you cannot yet see." She reached out a trembling hand, and for a moment Peterson thought she might grab him. Instead, she dropped something into his palm.
It was a cowrie shell, small and ordinary at first glance—but as the sunset light caught it, he noticed faint markings carved across its surface. Lines, almost like runes, faint but pulsing as though alive.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"A key," she said. "When the night calls your name, and the chains of your blood rattle, this shell will answer. But beware, child—the door it opens may not lead to peace. It may lead to war."
The words struck him like lightning. He wanted to demand answers, to shake her frail shoulders and force her to explain, but a sudden gust of wind rushed through the street, scattering the cowries on her table. Peterson shielded his eyes from the dust, and when he lowered his arm, the old woman was gone.
Gone. As if she had never been there.
Peterson's chest rose and fell rapidly. He looked down at his hand, and the shell remained—solid, real, and faintly warm against his skin. His throat tightened.
He shoved it into his pocket and hurried home, his thoughts a storm he couldn't quiet.
Night fell.
Peterson lay in his small bed, the wooden ceiling above him cracked and spotted from years of neglect. The distant hum of generators filled the air outside, mixed with the chorus of crickets. He turned the cowrie shell over and over in his hand, its strange carvings catching the glow of his bedside lantern.
"Chains of my blood…" he whispered, recalling the woman's words. "What did she mean?"
A sharp pain suddenly pierced his skull, so sudden and vicious he gasped. His vision blurred, and he gripped his head, dropping the shell onto the bed. His body convulsed as shadows—actual shadows—began to slither across his walls, writhing like snakes.
"What—what's happening to me?!" he cried, his voice breaking.
The shadows twisted together, forming shapes—faces, beasts, symbols he did not recognize. His body trembled, his breath shallow. He tried to scream, but no sound came out.
Then he heard it.
A voice. Deep, resonant, echoing through the very marrow of his bones.
Peterson Olivia… heir of the storm, son of the forbidden flame. Do you not feel it? The seal is cracking. Your blood calls to the old gods. Rise, or be swallowed.
The boy clutched his chest, sweat pouring down his face. He wanted to deny it, to shout that he was nothing, a failure, a shadow to his brother's light. But the pain forced the truth from him.
"I… I don't want this… I don't want to be nothing!" he gasped, tears welling in his eyes. "If there's power in me, then show me! SHOW ME!"
The shadows around him exploded outward, shattering the glass of his lantern. Darkness engulfed the room.
And for a single heartbeat, Peterson saw himself—standing tall in a form not his own, a figure cloaked in storm and flame, eyes burning with the fury of a god.
Then it was gone.
He collapsed on the floor, gasping, trembling, his body drenched in sweat. The cowrie shell rolled beside him, glowing faintly with that same strange light.
The night was silent again.
But Peterson knew something had changed. Something inside him had cracked open, and there was no going back.