"Power calls to power. It always does."
The Sorcerer Supreme stood facing the eastern sky, where a single star burned brighter than the rest. Her voice was calm, almost distant, as if she were speaking to the night itself rather than the disciples behind her.
"He won't live an ordinary life. He'll notice the difference sooner or later, and once he does, there's no turning back. His talent surpasses all of yours… and that's not a blessing."
She paused.
"What you've never encountered, he will. Again and again. Don't envy him, Mordo. Kaecilius. I will place burdens on him that were never meant to be his."
A quiet breath.
"He will suffer."
Jezebel was in agony.
The kind that hollowed you out from the inside, like something clawing its way free.
She had no one.
New York was a city of millions, yet she existed in it like a ghost. No family, no friends, no past that anyone here could see or care about.
She had run.
Run from a marriage arranged by her father. Run from a life that felt like a slow suffocation. She had fled her country with nothing but a few crumpled bills, all of which had long since vanished into the hands of smugglers.
If not for the small hammer she'd found on the ship, things could have ended much worse.
Even so… she didn't regret it.
Not the cramped cargo hold where people could barely stand. Not the sickness, the fevers, the bodies tossed into the sea like unwanted cargo. Not even the hunger.
Anything was better than staying.
She still remembered the man they wanted her to marry.
Kroll.
Bald. Older. The kind of man whose gaze clung to her skin like grease. She'd been ten the first time she noticed it. Nineteen when he offered her father one hundred thousand shekels.
Her father didn't hesitate.
Why would he?
Her brother needed a house for his future marriage. Her younger siblings needed money. Pilgrimages weren't cheap. And in a household like theirs, daughters weren't people so much as… assets.
She had fought back.
It earned her bruises. More work. Harsher discipline.
Her father wanted obedience. A "proper" wife. At the very least, one who could secure payment.
So she prayed.
Over and over, whispering the name of God like a lifeline. Begging for a miracle. For someone, anyone, to take her away from that place.
And then, one day, the water turned to blood.
It flowed from the tap, thick and red, for seven straight days.
Her father dismissed it. Rust in the pipes.
Jezebel didn't.
She had only studied scripture, but that was enough. To her, it was a sign. A message. Just like the plagues of Egypt.
So she stole what little money her mother had earned… and ran.
She crossed the ocean chasing a promise.
A land of freedom. Of opportunity. Of milk and honey.
Reality had other ideas.
No papers. No education. No skills beyond working until her hands went numb.
Jobs came and went, paid in cash, barely enough to eat. She learned to keep her head down, to wrap herself in cloth to hide her face, to avoid attention.
Still, trouble found her.
Then came the nausea.
A woman she worked with, another undocumented immigrant, took one look at her and said it plainly.
"You're pregnant."
Jezebel laughed.
Then she panicked.
Then she checked.
She was still… untouched.
And yet, her body told a different story.
Her stomach grew.
And the dreams began.
A figure bathed in light stood before her, voice echoing without sound.
"Bear him," it said. "And you will be made holy."
She woke up shaking.
That wasn't her God.
Even if it was real… she wasn't worthy of anything like that. She wasn't Mary. She wasn't chosen.
This had to be a hallucination.
It had to be.
…Right?
She considered ending it.
But she didn't.
The teachings she'd grown up with wouldn't allow it. And somewhere deep inside, past the fear, past the confusion… there was something else.
Attachment.
The child had no father. And she wasn't about to marry a stranger just to fix that.
So she endured.
Worked while she could. Ate when she had food. Starved when she didn't.
Her body withered. Strength drained from her limbs. Eventually, she couldn't work at all.
Losing her job meant losing her shelter.
That's when the priest found her.
He didn't believe her story. Not really. But he saw her condition, and that was enough.
He let her stay.
During the day, she cleaned the church benches. In return, she got scraps of bread, leftover sacramental wine, and a place to sleep in the parking lot behind the building. He gave her blankets. Hot water when he could.
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
She was grateful.
Even as her body grew weaker, she forced herself to eat. Every bite was for the child.
Not for her.
For him.
The night was cold. The stars burned sharp and clear.
Jezebel knew.
It was time.
Her body was failing. Malnourished, exhausted, stretched beyond its limits. The child inside her felt like a parasite now, drawing the last of her strength.
Then—
A woman appeared before her.
Yellow robes. Calm eyes. Presence like still water over something unfathomably deep.
Jezebel didn't understand who she was.
But she knew.
This was someone important.
With trembling effort, she pushed herself halfway upright, tears spilling freely.
"Please… save my child…"
The Sorcerer Supreme knelt beside her.
"I followed the star," she said softly, pointing upward. "Your child is about to be born."
A brief pause.
"He will become my disciple."
She opened a small box and placed its contents beside Jezebel: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
Magic flowed from her hands, steadying Jezebel's fading life like a candle shielded from the wind.
The child was born moments later.
Crying.
Alive.
And… marked.
On each of his ten fingers were ring-shaped wounds, glowing faintly red, as if something had burned its way through him from the inside.
Jezebel never saw them.
The Sorcerer Supreme did.
"I can't save you," she said quietly.
Around Jezebel, a soft white radiance flickered. It had been holding her together, sustaining a body that should have already collapsed.
But with the child's birth, it faded.
And even magic couldn't replace it.
Jezebel understood.
Tears slipped down her temples as her gaze softened.
"Salomon…"
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Salomon Damonet," the Sorcerer Supreme said. "He will be a maker of miracles."
Jezebel gave the faintest nod.
Her eyes closed.
"You will go to heaven," the Sorcerer Supreme added.
A pillar of white light surged upward, piercing the night sky. A hymn echoed, unheard by ordinary ears.
Jezebel was gone.
The Sorcerer Supreme wrapped the infant in a crimson relic cloth.
The wounds on his fingers sealed instantly, leaving behind faint circular marks.
Then she opened a portal.
When it closed, both mother and child had vanished.
The priest woke to the light.
By the time he reached the parking lot, there was nothing left of the young woman.
Only the gold, the incense, and the myrrh.
At Kamar-Taj, the disciples had already sensed something was wrong.
Disturbances. Fluctuations. Something in the world had shifted.
They rushed to greet their master, questions ready—
She silenced them with a glance.
Instead, she placed the child in their arms.
Then she left again, to bury Jezebel in a quiet tomb near the sanctum.
That same night, the Abyss stirred.
Creatures began slipping into the world in greater numbers than usual. Nothing powerful, but enough to overwhelm unprepared sorcerers.
Chaos spread quickly.
In the end, the Sorcerer Supreme dealt with it personally, traveling into the Abyss and negotiating with its lords to end the surge.
As for the marks on the child's fingers—
She called them stigmata.
They vanished after healing, leaving no trace behind.
Salomon Damonet didn't cry again after that first moment.
When he opened his eyes, there was no innocence in them.
Only confusion.
Because inside his mind…
He wasn't alone.
He remembered being a shut-in, wasting away in a dim room, life passing by like background noise.
He remembered being a mage blessed by a god, only to fall into obsession, madness, and destruction. Burned to ash by another deity. Reborn centuries later as a lich. Slain by twelve holy knights.
He remembered being a great archmage from Golarion… and a servant to something ancient and unspeakable.
Fragments. Layers. Lives stacked on top of each other.
And as the Sorcerer Supreme left—
The marks on his fingers flickered once more.
Light. Dark. Light.
Then—
Silence.
Before his mind could shatter under the weight of it all…
Everything went still.
At last—
Salomon Damonet fell asleep.