The mist was heavier this time, clinging to Jabari's skin like damp cloth. Every breath burned his throat, thick and metallic, as though the air itself had curdled. His feet sank into the soft ground, and each step echoed faintly, not outward but inward, as if the sound went straight into his skull.
The plain stretched endlessly, but unlike before, there were no wandering shadows whispering regrets. Instead, silence reigned, broken only by the steady thrum of the stone in his palm. It pulsed in rhythm with his heart, so perfectly synced that he could no longer tell whether the beat came from his body or the rock itself.
And then he saw them—two burning red eyes cutting through the mist.
The figure emerged slowly, not rushed, not urgent. It walked as if it had all the time in the world, knowing Jabari could not escape. Cloaked in blackness that swallowed even the dim gray light, the figure's form shifted and writhed, never solid, never stable. One moment it seemed human, the next like some beast crawling on all fours, and then like smoke, twisting upward.
"Jabari…" the voice slithered into his bones, deeper than sound, deeper than thought. His name tasted bitter in its mouth, as though being claimed.
He wanted to run, but his legs betrayed him. They moved forward instead, carrying him closer with each unwilling step. The ground beneath seemed to tilt toward the creature, urging him into its grasp.
The closer he came, the more the mist pressed in. He caught scents—charred wood, decayed leaves, the sharp tang of blood. His stomach churned. His ears rang, filled with whispers layered upon whispers, countless voices chanting words too garbled to understand.
The figure smiled—or at least, the mist parted enough to form something resembling a mouth. And when it did, Jabari felt the temperature drop, his breath frosting in the air.
"You are mine," it whispered. "You have touched the stone. You have carried it. It answers to me, and now so will you."
Jabari shook his head violently, though his voice cracked when he tried to speak. "No. I didn't ask for this. I never wanted it!"
The figure's form shifted again, towering taller. "Wanting is irrelevant. You were chosen. And once chosen… there is no release."
The mist thickened, pressing against his chest until each breath was shallow. His body screamed to kneel, to submit, to end the unbearable pressure. He clutched the stone tighter, as if it might anchor him, though he wasn't sure whether it protected or ensnared.
The figure raised a hand—if it could be called that. A limb of smoke and shadow stretched forward, and when its fingers brushed the air, visions erupted around Jabari.
He saw himself standing in the center of the village, crowds gathered, their eyes shining with awe. He lifted the stone high, and with a word, the sick rose healed, the blind opened their eyes, the lame walked. Gasps of wonder filled the vision, people shouting his name in praise.
The scene shifted. He saw himself at the head of an army, armored and strong. Shadows bent at his command, striking down his enemies, burning their homes, bringing kings to their knees. He felt the intoxicating surge of power as nations bowed before him.
Then another vision: himself seated on a high throne of black stone, the world at his feet, the stone pulsing in his hand like a crown.
"Do you see?" the figure's voice coiled around his thoughts. "You were not made to live small, to toil in obscurity, to vanish nameless. You were meant to lead. To rule. To command both shadow and light. Take it. Accept me. And all of this will be yours."
Jabari's chest heaved. The visions were overwhelming, too vivid to dismiss as illusion. For a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of the crown on his head, the thrill of reverence in the eyes of others.
But somewhere, faint and fragile, a voice rose from his memory—his father's, stern but gentle: "What does it profit a man, Jabari, to gain the whole world, yet lose his soul?"
The words cracked through the illusion like a pebble against glass. For a moment, the visions flickered, the throne dissolving into smoke, the army scattering into mist. Jabari gasped, clutching the echo of the scripture like a lifeline.
"No," he whispered, though his voice trembled. "This isn't real. This isn't… me."
The figure hissed, the red eyes blazing hotter. "You resist, but you are weak. Your prayers are hollow. Your faith is dust. Only I can make you strong."
The visions flared again, brighter, sharper, tugging at him with promises his heart almost believed. Before he could falter, another voice split the mist.
"Leave him."
The cloaked figure emerged, its light faint but steady, pushing back the fog with every step. Unlike the shadowed beast, its form did not writhe or shift. It was constant, stable, cloaked in gray with only a faint glow spilling from its edges.
The red-eyed figure snarled, recoiling slightly. "You have no claim here."
"Nor do you," the cloaked one replied. Its voice was calm, yet its words carried power. "He has not chosen."
Jabari gasped for breath as the weight lifted slightly. The mist around him thinned, enough for him to stand straighter.
The cloaked figure turned to him. "You must understand—choice is everything. Neither shadow nor light can force you. You must decide whom you will serve."
Jabari's hands shook. "I don't want either of you! I just want my life back!"
The cloaked figure's tone softened. "Neutral ground does not exist. To run is to choose. To cling to fear is to yield."
The red-eyed figure leaned forward, shadows writhing angrily. "Decide, then, boy. Serve me and rule. Resist, and suffer. But you cannot hide."
The mist surged between them, light against shadow, pressing, clashing. Jabari covered his ears as the sound of their conflict tore through him, a silent war that rattled his bones. With a sudden lurch, Jabari awoke. His body arched from the bed, lungs burning. He coughed, gasping, but the room offered no relief.
The mist had followed.
It seeped under the door and coiled along the floor, pooling around his feet. The shadows on the walls stretched long, twisting into shapes that moved when he did not. His small room, once his sanctuary, had become an extension of the plain.
The stone in his palm burned hot, scalding his skin. He tried to drop it, but his fingers refused to let go, locked around its jagged edges. The pulse roared louder than his heartbeat, rattling his bones, filling his ears until he thought he would burst.
"No, no, no…" Jabari stumbled back, slamming against the wall. "Leave me alone!"
The shadows only leaned closer, curling like grasping hands. His lamp flickered, then died, plunging the room into near-darkness.
In desperation, he fell to his knees. The words came unbidden, cracked and halting, but real: "God… help me."
The shadows froze. Just for a heartbeat. Just enough for him to breathe. The pause did not last. A whisper slid through the room, not from the dream, not from his memory, but from inside his own home.
"Jabari…"
He spun toward the sound. The voice was too close, too familiar.
"Jabari," it repeated, drawn out, rich with malice.
The air thickened. His walls seemed to close in. The stone pulsed violently, each beat nearly breaking his grip.
He wasn't asleep anymore.
And yet the red-eyed figure was here.
The last thing he heard before the lamp shattered was the whisper curling into his very bones:
"You are already mine."