The Immortal - Prologue

The night in Lagos carried a weight heavier than the humid air pressing against the city. On its restless streets, humanity pulsed—laughing, scheming, dreaming, and surviving. But above the clamor of horns and vendors, another presence stirred, unseen yet palpable. Elijah knelt in the dimly lit chamber of the New Dawn Tabernacle, his silhouette flickering in the glow of a single candle. His hands rested lightly on the altar, where ornate carvings of wings and serpents curled in unnatural symmetry. The air crackled, faintly charged as if the room bristled with anticipation. “Are they ready?” came the voice—not spoken but embedded in the fabric of the silence. Deep and commanding, it rolled like distant thunder. Elijah’s lips curved into a serpent’s smile, slow and deliberate. “They crave miracles,” he murmured. “They beg for signs and wonders, for freedom from their suffering. I give them what they desire; in return, they give me their souls.” The voice hummed, low and satisfied. “And the president? Will he fall in line?”

“He already has,” Elijah replied, his tone sharp with certainty. “He will do whatever I command. It will be too late when they realize what they have worshipped.” A flicker of light passed over Elijah’s face—something that was not fire, not human, but something more. His shadow loomed impossibly large briefly, stretching across the walls and ceiling, bending and twisting like a beast set loose. “Good,” the voice said. “But watch the one called Moses. He does not yet know it, but he is a danger to our cause. Keep him blind. Keep him distracted.” Elijah’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, then returned, colder than before. “He is no threat. Just another man chasing wealth and comfort, drowning in his logic. He cannot see the power rising around him.”

“And yet,” the voice replied, its tone edged with warning, “light has a way of finding the blind.” The room fell silent, save for the faint hiss of the candle. Elijah bowed his head once more, though whether in reverence or defiance, it was impossible to tell. The candle sputtered, its flame dancing wildly before going out. Far across the city, Moses paced the marble floors of his luxurious apartment, unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon. To him, the world still made sense. His life, neatly arranged by logic and hard-earned success, left no room for prophecy or angels—dark or otherwise. But that illusion of control would not last.

As the city slumbers, lines are drawn in an invisible battle that pits faith against skepticism, light against darkness, and Moses against forces far beyond his understanding. And in the shadows, Elijah readies himself to tighten his grip.