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In the beginning there were three lights.
One burned.
One unmade.
And one waited in the dark between them.
The first became the Phoenix, the song that gave stars their heat.
The second was the Chaos, the pulse that undid what the first had dared to create.
The third—neither song nor silence—was the shadow that kept them apart: Balance.
When the heavens grew tired of their own brilliance, Balance sank into flesh and bone, into a man who dreamed in colorless light. The world called him Samuel Herindor.
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(Rain Over Abuja)
Rain veiled the city like a tired blessing. The streets glistened, red earth turning to mirrors that caught the light of traffic. Abuja was still waking, restless generators humming, the scent of damp dust and suya smoke mingling in the dawn air.
Samuel sat by the window of his small apartment in Gwarinpa, his hand hovering over the glass. The raindrops paused under his palm before falling again, as if the weather itself obeyed his hesitation.
His reflection stared back: light-skinned, fine-boned, eyes an odd shade between gray and gold. He looked human, but the air around him was too still.
"Balance," he whispered to himself. "Always the middle ground."
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A knock at the door broke the quiet.
"Guy, you wan sleep forever?"
The voice was unmistakable. Daniel stepped in without waiting for permission, his grin bright enough to compete with the weak sunlight. He was light-skinned like Samuel, though his hair was cropped close and his smile far warmer. His T-shirt read I'm not lazy, I'm on energy-saving mode.
He carried a plastic bag that smelled suspiciously like jollof rice.
"I brought food," Daniel announced. "Because I know say you no go cook."
Samuel turned from the window. "You could at least greet first."
Daniel laughed. "Abeg, no form serious man this morning. Eat first, then philosophize."
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They ate at the small kitchen table, the rain pattering against the roof.
"You remember the museum prank?" Daniel said, mouth full. "That security guard still no gree forget how the statue dey scream."
Samuel almost smiled. "You're lucky they didn't arrest you."
"Us. They didn't arrest us," Daniel corrected. "You dey there too."
"I was trying to stop you."
"Balance boy always dey form holy," Daniel teased. "You fit stop time, but you can't stop cruise."
Samuel chuckled, the sound quiet but genuine. "You talk too much."
"Someone has to. If I leave you alone too long, you start thinking about stars and destiny again."
For a moment, Samuel's gaze drifted past him, to the framed photo on the shelf: a woman laughing in golden light. The world seemed to dim around the memory.
⸻
Lyra
He remembered the first time he met Lyra—not on Earth, but in a realm where sound shimmered like light The Rêâlm lumino .Her hair caught the glow of that eternal dusk, silver and rose at once. Her eyes were a mirror of stars, reflecting every emotion she refused to name.
They had walked along a river that sang instead of flowing after having an extremely passionate intimacy .Samuel hugged Lyra from behind ,inhaled her neck before kissing it,then proceeding to rip her soft satin dress off her body ,revealing a smooth pale brown skin complexion,she smelled like butter and honey,Samuel lubricated his already hard c**k with saliva and inserted himself agressively into her blossom ,he spoke dirty erotic words to her ear while going In and out of her aggressively and all she could do is endure in submission and whimper in pain and pleasure, after 5minutes of aggressive thrusting Lyra finally climaxed and begged Samuel to stop thru*ting her so hard but he didn't listen,he was too far In to stop now,they both started moaning loudly in ecstasy as Samuel also reached climax , uses his telekinetic void powers to lift them off in the air and slowly landed them on the soft grass,both catching their breath they decided to stroll naked while Samuel used his void power to bend and manipulate people's perception of light sorrounding himself and Lyra,making them invisible.The closer he moved, the more the song trembled, like a heartbeat under glass.
"Your silence is heavy," she had said.
"And your voice," he replied, "is dangerous."
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that turns into gravity. When she stepped toward him, the river brightened. When he touched her hand, the air itself bent.
Light twined with shadow; warmth met the hush of the void. The world stilled, not out of fear, but reverence.
He remembered the look in her eyes—the way time folded around them, how creation itself seemed to hold its breath for their closeness—and then how quickly it all fractured when dawn came.
She had left before he woke.
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Daniel's voice brought him back. "You dey okay?"
Samuel blinked. "Just thinking."
"About her again?"
A pause. "Maybe."
Daniel leaned back, studying him. "Sometimes I forget you're not just one of us."
"I'm trying to be."
"Hmm." Daniel grinned again. "Try harder. We still get prank ideas for next week."
Samuel smiled faintly, though his mind was already far away—from Abuja, from the rain, from laughter. Somewhere, the heavens were stirring.
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Later that night, when the rain stopped, the city's air hung thick and warm. Power flickered off across the street; generators coughed back to life. Samuel stood on his balcony, looking up.
The clouds split for a moment, and he felt it: two familiar forces moving through creation like tides. One hot and radiant, the other cold and boundless. His sisters.
"Jean," he whispered. "Wanda."
The names alone made the world tighten.
Far above the curve of Earth, beyond mortal knowing, light and shadow were already stirring.
⸻
(The Realm of the Sisters)
Between galaxies lay a sea of colorless flame. There the two sisters of creation reigned:
Jean Grey, the Phoenix, whose hair burned like a sunrise that never ended, and Wanda Maximoff, the Chaos, whose eyes were twin storms of crimson light.
They had not spoken aloud in centuries, yet their silence crackled with the weight of a thousand destroyed worlds.
"You feel him," Wanda murmured, her voice rippling through the void. "The Balance wakes."
Jean's wings shifted, throwing sparks that became whole constellations. "Our brother always returns when the cosmos tilts. But he forgets his place every time."
"Perhaps the universe has tired of waiting for him."
A third presence stirred—cool, patient, magnetic. Femi stepped from a horizon that was not a place but a thought. He was tall and elegant, his skin carrying the faint shimmer of star-dust, his eyes the calm gray of a storm before rain.
He bowed low. "My ladies. Forgive my intrusion. I bring news."
Jean studied him with lazy interest. "A mortal dares to cross the Aether?"
"I have walked among mortals long enough to hear what they whisper," Femi said. "They speak of your brother as myth, not god. Their prayers no longer reach you."
Wanda's gaze sharpened. "You mock us."
"Never." He smiled, and the smile carried a subtle pull, as though gravity itself leaned toward him. "I only offer a mirror. Without worship, even divinity fades. Balance does not seek you; he hides in dust and rain."
Jean's flames dimmed. "You think we should awaken fully?"
"I think the world needs to remember."
The words hung like a spell. Wanda's reflection in the void trembled; Jean's fire brightened in response. They did not see the faint gray threads that slipped from Femi's hands into the air—threads that drank the echo of their power, storing it in his own heart.
When he withdrew, they believed they had dismissed a servant. In truth, he had planted an idea.
Few days later ,Femi decided to go deal with some personal stuff
He stepped back into the mortal realm through a city made of light, the Realm of Tir Halon—a world ruled by the elite whose minds glowed with constant thought.
Femi walked among them like a shadow, every motion deliberate. His gift was subtle: he could draw strength from emotion itself, weaving belief, fear, and longing into a current that obeyed him.
He entered the Hall of Thought where an elite counselor awaited. Her voice was sharp as crystal. "You come seeking permission to feed again?"
Femi smiled. "Not permission. Demonstration."
He lifted his hand, and the air thickened. The counselor's defiance faltered; her confidence turned to fascination. He spoke softly, each word landing like a heartbeat.
"Your conviction has edges, Councillor. Let me smooth them."
She shuddered—not in pain but surrender. Threads of pale light rose from her chest, wrapping around his fingers. Her emotions—pride, ambition, desire for control—poured into him as shimmering energy. When he released her, she fell to her knees, drained but alive.
He exhaled, light burning briefly behind his eyes.
Now he could taste it: the raw pulse of thought, the charge of awe. His power had deepened. He was no longer just a manipulator of essence; he was becoming a weaver of will, able to twist truth itself if he drank enough belief.
And all he needed was more.
⸻
Across worlds, the Five who would soon cross Samuel's path were already shaping their legends.
Ignara, the Fire Witch, fought in a desert of black glass. Her copper skin glowed red under the sun, hair a river of flame. Each breath she took scattered sparks that turned to phoenixes before fading. Raiders charged her caravan; she answered with a smile. Fire rose from the dunes, coiling into burning serpents that swallowed their weapons. When the last man fled, she whispered, "Next time, bring ice."
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Zephira, the Storm Witch, sailed the upper air on a glider of silver wings. Lightning cracked around her as sky-pirates tried to board her craft. She was lean and wiry, eyes the color of a brewing storm, and her laughter mingled with thunder. With a sweep of her hand, she turned the storm itself against them, wind and water obeying like loyal beasts.
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Nysara, the Water Witch, moved through a labyrinth of flooded ruins. Her dark braids floated around her head like ribbons. When monsters of salt and coral rose to block her path, she summoned currents that coiled and sliced like blades. The ruins quieted, and she guided refugees through tunnels of living water, her voice steady as the tide.
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Velyd, the Witch of Illusion and Divination, knelt in a dream-hall of mirrors. She was pale as moonlight, eyes ringed with faint gold, her smile a secret. Around her, guilty nobles relived their crimes as visions that burned. When the last mirror shattered, she whispered, "Truth is a kindness we rarely deserve."
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Tristan Talon, the Earth Warlock, stood alone in the caverns of the Deep Reach. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark-blond hair tied back, his eyes the calm green of ancient moss. The monsters that came for him were made of living stone; he met them with his bare hands. Each strike sent ripples through the rock, each word he spoke called roots from the earth to bind and heal. When it was over, he sat among the still forms and said quietly, "Back to sleep."
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Abdulrosheed the Oracle Speaks
Far below the cosmic quarrels, in quiet Abuja, Samuel watched dawn crawl up the city's hills. The rain had left the roads shining.
A whisper brushed his ear, dry and old as sand.
"The Balance fractures."
He turned sharply. A figure stood at the edge of his balcony—its body made of dust and faint starlight, eyes hollow and kind.
"The sisters have woken," said the Oracle of Dust. "Their war will burn the fabric of being. Only you can temper them."
Samuel's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," the Abdulrosheed the Oracle replied. "Find the Five that Bind. They wait at the edges of worlds. Without them, even void will burn."
The wind rose, scattering the figure like sand into sunlight.
Samuel looked at his hands; darkness rippled beneath his skin.
⸻
By noon, he had packed a small bag. On Daniel's door, he left a note written in his neat, restrained hand:
Keep the jollof rice. Don't break the universe.
He looked back once at the city—its crowded rooftops, the faint hum of life he had almost called his own—then stepped into the shimmer between worlds.
The silence between suns was over.
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