Eye Of The Storm

Amanse emerged from the marine world with awestruck wonder etched across his features. One moment he had stood before the obsidian gate beneath the sea; the next, he was somewhere utterly different—suspended in a world not of water, but of wind.

The Realm of the Air.

A thick shroud of fog encased everything. The howling winds rose and fell like the cries of a thousand banshees, disembodied and wailing across endless horizons. Amanse glanced back instinctively, hoping to glimpse the gateway that had brought him here—but it was gone, vanished without trace. Only an ocean of fog stretched behind him.

As he moved forward, something began to shift. The fog thinned just enough to reveal the outlines of his surroundings. He blinked in disbelief. What he had taken for mist and vapor were clouds—actual clouds, thick and luminous. He was thousands of feet in the air, floating within the very breath of the heavens.

The realization hit him like a crashing wave. Vertigo threatened to overwhelm him, but he steadied himself. This wasn't his first time flying—though his past flights had always been inside the body of a bird. But this was different. This was not borrowed vision or shared instincts. This was him, awake and aware, high above the world.

He had no idea how he had ascended from the deepest trench of the marine kingdom to this heavenly domain, and he didn't bother trying to figure it out. Not here. Not now.

The realm stretched out in every direction like a vast, unending dream. There was no clear source of light, yet everything glowed. Light seemed to pour from the very clouds themselves—each one tinged with hues of gold, silver, lilac, and cobalt. Birds of impossible colors soared past him, their wings catching the spectral radiance. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance, suspended impossibly in the air, like the world had been unhinged from gravity.

He could feel it. Power. Ancient and pure. The air here shimmered with divinity.

According to Mami Wata, this was a realm ruled by supreme deities, the most revered among the Alusi. This was where justice, judgment, and destiny were born—and Amadioha reigned.

Suddenly, the wind changed.

It no longer howled aimlessly but seemed to whisper—to call. It pulled at Amanse's body with growing urgency, dragging him toward a specific direction. He fought it at first, but the force was overwhelming.

In the distance, he saw it: a patch of black clouds, boiling and violent. Lightning arced within them like serpents of fire. With each second, the dark mass grew, spreading across the heavens like ink in clear water. The sky dimmed.

The wind became chaotic, howling and shrieking, pulling at him like invisible hands.

Panic surged.

Amanse struggled, but there was no resisting. The current dragged him toward the storm. Soon, he was consumed by it.

The storm swallowed him whole.

Everything turned to chaos. The wind screamed. Thunder clapped with earth-shattering violence. Lightning exploded around him in brilliant flashes. He was tossed and twisted, flung in every direction like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

But something strange happened with each flash of lightning.

He saw… himself.

Each burst of light revealed a memory:

His first breath—his mother's face, muddied and strained. The warm laughter of his father during their first fishing trip. His father's death—shrouded in blood and mystery. His isolation. His shame. His stutter.

Each memory struck him like a blade to the chest. He closed his eyes, curling into himself, trying to block it all out.

He had come so far to forget… and the storm wanted him to remember.

And then—

Silence.

The winds stopped. The clouds cleared.

He opened his eyes.

He was in the eye of the storm.

A realm within a realm.

Everything was cloaked in darkness, save for a single source of illumination: a towering bonfire at the summit of a jagged, floating mountain. The fire blazed with sacred wood, its flames licking the sky with silver tongues. Lightning snapped above it, but none dared touch the peak.

The wind, now a gentle force, carried Amanse upward.

He ascended the mountain's slope until he reached the summit. There, hovering just above the ground, was a lone figure.

A god.

Amanse gasped.

The figure floated effortlessly, arms crossed over a powerful chest. His skin was the color of storm clouds, and his eyes glowed with a dazzling white light—no pupils, no irises. His dreadlocks crackled with static, sparking bolts of lightning. Around his head buzzed a dense swarm of bees that moved in hypnotic patterns, never once touching him.

He exuded divine authority. Justice. Power. Wrath.

Amanse knew without needing to be told: this was Amadioha, the god of thunder, lightning, and justice—the enforcer of divine will.

"You have come," Amadioha said, his voice deep as thunder and smooth as judgment.

Amanse dropped to one knee, breathless.

"Rise," the god commanded. "There is no need to grovel. The storm has already tested you."

The fire flared higher.

"You carry within you the flame of destiny—but also the stain of fear. You must be reforged, Amanse. Not in water. Not in earth. But in sky and fire. In judgment and justice."

He gestured toward the fire.

"Step into the flame. Face what still burns within you."

Amanse hesitated. His mouth went dry.

"Step forward," Amadioha said again, eyes narrowing. "Or be cast down as unworthy."

Amanse took a breath, clenched his fists—and walked into the flame.