Moses sipped tea from a wooden cup and glanced across the one-room hut at his friend. He wanted to speak about the bombshell Bayissa had dropped on him the night before. Moses was sleepy, his mind cluttered with lessons from the butakah master’s upcoming test on metaphysics. He wasn’t sure if he heard his friend correctly.

“I want to steal the Ilalin Spell,” Moses thought he had heard.

Bayissa Afewerek took a swig of herbal tea as though his tongue was immune to its heat. Moses noted his frown as he reached for the canister of sugar cubes. One, then two, and Bayissa stirred. When he sipped again, his expression hinted at a smile. 

Between them lay a cloth sack filled with books. Although Moses was grateful for the reading material, he could not shake his dissatisfaction. “You have only one day left to change your mind.” He spoke as if baiting a squirrel to take a nut.

Bayissa snorted. “I've changed my mind many times, my friend.” He sipped. “I'll miss the crossovers and using magic.” He placed the cup on the floor between his legs and pressed his back against the wooden wall. “I know I'm doing the right thing.” His voice grew louder, and he spoke faster. “Eleven countries fought on three continents. The world has changed. One day, this change will come knocking at our door. The butakah way will have to change too.”

Moses looked away, not knowing if he believed that. Change or adjust? He questioned.

“You've been here for two years. Haven't you seen change?” His voice was resolute. “The men who come to this island are not the same as you and me.” He paused and regret shadowed his face. “Tradition is fading.”

 Moses considered his friend’s idea. The butakah order had protected multiverse secrets for centuries. The world, no – all of creation – could not afford a change in the order. “Who will guard the gates if we all step away from tradition?”

“Secrecy will guard the gates.” 

“How do you mean?”

Bayissa rubbed his hands together and leaned forward as he raised his knees. His eyes illuminated as they often did when teaching Moses something important – something he had learned from Grandmaster Yoshi. “Tell me what you remember about toroidal flow.”

Moses gripped his cup with both hands. Why the fundamental question? What insight was Bayissa ready to reveal?  Moses answered, “The heart is a microcosm of it. Life begins with the heart, and the body builds around it. Blood goes out of it and comes back to it.”

Bayissa shifted and leaned closer, his voice softened, low, and secretive. “Good, that's the physical. Now, the spiritual?”

Moses hesitated. He could already feel the weight of another lesson coming. Still, he answered, “We reap what we sow. What a man does to others is eventually returned to him”

The mentor nodded his approval. “And the metaphysical?”

“The energies that create and bind the many worlds come from the same source. The multiverse is mental. It started with one consciousness, and other worlds formed around it. They are fractions of one consciousness; a flow of energy.”

Bayissa smiled. “You've done well to remember, but you must know it. Saying the words is not the secret. Knowing the secret is.” He paused and licked his dark lips, then moved his braided locks from his eyes. “The metaphysical toroidal flow is a superhighway we barely feel, only few can see it. It carries us to the astral realm, and beyond. I need to go deeper into it and I want you to come with this one last time.”

He studied Moses’ expression and must have read his hesitation.

“I will show you everything from where the worlds meet to where they end.”

 Moses took a deep breath. “Should we ask Grandmaster Yoshi? Last time, we did it without his permission. I didn't think it was right.”

Bayissa chuckled and stood. “We cannot get his permission, because he must keep the butakah code. We are not butakah, so we have no code to keep.” His expression darkened and his eyes grew sad.

“They are afraid.” Bayissa’s voice softened. “I overheard the masters talk of it more than once. There are few initiates like you and me who care about what happens here. You know this is true.”

Moses nodded. The tradition was fading among his people. Fewer initiates came to the island, opting for formal education in high schools and college, rather than the cultural learning of faith, power, and metaphysics.

“I will leave this island soon. My assignment is over, and as much as I love metaphysics and projecting my astral body, I do not want to stay here. I won’t join the butakah order.”

“You’d make a great one,” Moses said, hoping his mentor and friend would stay and become a monk.

“I’ll do something better,” Bayissa said confidently. “I will leave this island with a gift that will protect the butakah secrets better than spells.”

“A gift from the astral realm?” Moses doubted the possibility of bringing an immaterial object into the material world.

Bayissa nodded, his glance seemed to anticipate Moses’ curiosity. “It will be okay. I've done this a hundred times.”

Moses rose to his feet, thunderstruck. “A hundred times? Alone?”

Bayissa nodded as he walked over to a corner to gather a backpack. “Maybe more. I've started a map.” He faced Moses, holding a skeleton key he’d pulled from the backpack. “This time, we'll do it inside the Hall of Relics.”

“Why not here?”

“The Hall of Relics is built under a node. The energy is strongest there.” He dropped his arms to the side, and an apologetic expression shadowed his face. “I’m asking you to trust me this one last time. I know how you feel about tradition and the code, but it is inevitable. They will both fade away. An evil waits. Once the secrets are no longer read and protected, that evil will spring into our world. The masters know it, but they can’t stop it. I believe I can.”

Moses slid his hands into the pockets. He always wanted to become a Butakah master. Moses desired Bayissa’s education. He hoped the books on the floor would satisfy his thirst. But he needed to do things the right way. The brotherhood code was necessary, and Moses did not understand how deviation would make anything right. He sighed with the conflict. Bayissa was a mentor to him. “What is this gift.”

“An angel.” Bayissa’s voice grew with confidence. “I will bring an angel to the Hall of Relics and trap it here.”

Moses’ breath caught. An angel. The word alone sent a chill over him. “Angels don’t bargain; they don’t break. You can’t be serious.”

Bayissa’s gaze did not waver.

Moses exhaled slowly, his heart trembling as he tried to steady himself. His pulse pounded in his ears. “You can’t control an angel,” he hoped his words were convincing.

“There are many degrees to control,” Bayissa smirked.

The Hall of Relics was a cube-shaped building with a rounded top. A skylight allowed moonbeams to cast elongated shadows in monstrous shapes. The hall smelled of lime soap and wood polish. Bayissa fumbled with a kerosene lamp for a few minutes before successfully lighting it. 

Something obscure lingered in the air. It was as if each relic had a voice, whispering its identity in the shadows. When the shadows vanished, Moses scanned a collection of artifacts on polished shelves lining the perimeter. The butakah masters claimed the oldest was over several thousand years old. From behind one, an iron shield, Bayissa fished a lambskin parchment. With a smirk of satisfaction, he unfolded the parchment and sat on the floor. He invited Moses to sit across from him as he unfolded the parchment.

Moses studied the drawing on it. Bayissa had crafted a pattern of interlacing circles that Moses identified. “It's the seed of life.”

“It's bigger than that,” Bayissa explained. “It's the fruit of life. But even more than that, it is a map of the multiverse. Now I know why the scroll has this mark. It is the key to one of these worlds, maybe more.”

Moses shifted and glanced up at the shelves. On the top was the ancient scroll preserved in glass. He thought about retrieving it to compare the drawings. “What do you imagine will happen if we read from it?”

“Nothing,” Bayissa responded impatiently. “The words are a language that speaks more to your soul than your intellect.” He compelled Moses' attention back to the map, pointing. “Here is the material world – our world. That one,” he said, pointing to another, “is the Devachosic plane – where the djinn were born.”

Moses’ attention lingered on the circle. Djinn were made of cosmic fire, which explained the red ink. “In reality, none of them are planes. I don’t know why we say they are. They are spheres.”

Bayissa's finger traced a circle labeled Astral Plane.

“Notice how it overlaps the material world.”

Moses glanced nervously at Bayissa, trying to imagine what his friend and mentor had planned. What did he intend to do with the map, especially now that his time on the island expires in one day? Moses doubted Bayissa had shown the map to Grandmaster Yoshi.

Bayissa’s dreamy voice revealed his ambition. “I think this one is the Akashic, Metatron’s home.”

“It’s far away,” Moses muttered.

Bayissa nodded. “The masters say it’s impossible to project into it.”

“Don’t tell me,” Moses knew how silly he sounded before finishing his words. “You want to control Metatron?” His eyes shifted to the scroll on the shelf. It was encased in glass. According to Grandmaster Yoshi, the words on it were Metatron’s, the angel who records every deed of every soul – even the deeds of the Creator.

Bayissa sighed and chuckled lightly. “I’m not so ambitious.” He shifted and stared at Moses for a while, the smile slowly fading. “But we must go there,” he pointed to a place on the circle labeled Casual, Angelic stronghold.

Moses' skin prickled as if the air suddenly chilled. He was certain that Bayissa would go through with his plan. The urge to protect him – or at least stop him from going too far – weighed on Moses. He remembered how much Bayissa had taught him – things the masters would have taken years to explain. Something inside caused Moses to believe he owed Bayissa his trust. If the end game was to protect the brotherhood’s secrets, he should follow Bayissa through whatever trial was necessary.

“The map is not finished,” Bayissa’s voice rang with regret as he folded it. “Perhaps one day, you will do me the honor of completing it. For now, let’s go.”

Moses hesitated. He didn’t know the value of having a map of the astral realm, but there had to be a practical one. For an initiate, like him, with so little experience, creating the map was out of the question. The task would require countless journeys between worlds and inevitable communication with a djinni. The weight of the brotherhood’s code pressed against his thought. He wasn’t just breaking a rule-he was risking his spiritual safety and his place among the butakah. Yet Bayissa’s confidence, his certainty, was infectious. Moses couldn’t tell if it was loyalty or blind faith that led him. 

Bayissa pulled a long-handled spoon from his backpack and placed it carefully on the floor. Sitting cross-legged, he gestured for Moses to do the same.

“As before, focus on the spoon,” Bayissa instructed. “We’ll enter the astral world together.”

Moses exhaled, closing his eyes. The memory of his first projection tugged at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it aside. A familiar tingle bloomed in his fingertips and toes, the physical body loosening its grip on the soul. A sinking sensation followed as if his weight melted into the floor beneath him.

In the darkness behind his closed eyes, the spoon appeared as the only point of focus. Then Bayissa’s low chant began—a sound flowing in a toroidal loop, circling from his mouth to his ears, - simultaneously out and into the body uniting it with spirit.

Moses joined the chant, the vibration of the Hebrew letter aleph resonating in his chest. Aleph—the symbol of unity. Two yods, one above, one below, bound by the diagonal line of vav, connecting the higher and lower worlds. He remembered Grandmaster Yoshi’s lesson, but this time the meaning was visceral. The flow of energy, the oneness of creation, surrounded him.

And then it hit him—he was no longer tethered to the material world. He had already crossed into the astral realm.

Moses stared with fascination at the spoon, now floating before his eyes, glowing with an ocean-blue aura. The garden surrounding them was surreal-its perfectly trimmed aloe vera and gardenia shrubs encircled a cluster of massive, flowering trees. The sunlight was bright, yet he felt no warmth or breeze. The grass beneath his feet shimmered as vividly as emeralds.

Bayissa glanced at him, a faint grin spreading across his face. “Your astral body has grown.” He observed. “It looks like an adolescent – a good sign of maturity.”

Moses nodded, still absorbing his surroundings. Their teachings often spoke of how a soul’s maturity rarely aligned with the body’s. A fifty-year-old could have the astral presence of a toddler, stumbling and crawling in this realm. Bayissa's astral body was as steady and composed as his physical body.  

“I don’t recognize this place,” Moses admitted, his voice tinged with awe.

“This is the interstice. My interstice,” Bayissa said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the towering trees and vibrant garden. “This is the link between the astral world and my mind. Without it, I’d lose my grip on reality.”

Moses marveled at the meticulous design—the enormous trees, the gravel path that led to a small bridge, and the sea of golden sand beyond. “This is the Sand of Formation,” Bayissa explained, crouching to scoop a handful. “Everything you see here was built from these sands.”

Moses followed suit, letting the light, smooth grains trickle through his fingers. They lacked the rough texture of ordinary sand and tingled faintly against his skin. He remembered reading the sands could form whatever a dreamer imagined. As Moses palmed a handful, it swirled and rolled into a ball before taking the shape of a porcelain cup. 

“It’s essential you build a garden of your own,” Bayissa said, his tone turning serious. “When you travel between worlds, your mind needs a home—a place to stay balanced.”

Moses watched the cup dissolve, returning to its original form. The sand slipped through his fingers as the cup returned to its natural form. How often had Bayissa projected himself here to need such an elaborate refuge? He couldn’t help but wonder how many others had broken the rules to visit this place—perhaps even the Butakah grandmasters themselves.

“It’s unwise for me to bring you here,” Bayissa admitted, his gaze fixed on the sands. “But there’s no other way to teach you.” He stood and walked across the golden expanse toward a distant door framed by endless brick walls. The walls stretched out so far, they seemed to meet the horizon.

Bayissa stopped and turned to Moses. “Are you afraid?”

A smile flickered across Bayissa’s face. “Good. Beyond this door is the astral world. But listen closely—this location must remain secret. If anything enters through this door uninvited, it could destroy my mind. Do you understand?”

The weight of those words settled over Moses. He nodded solemnly. Without another word, Bayissa touched the door and vanished. Moses inhaled sharply before stepping forward and following.

Darkness swallowed him. A high-pitched noise pierced his mind, followed by a sensation like his head was pulled in two directions. He stumbled, disoriented, vertigo threatening to overwhelm him. Through the chaos, Bayissa’s voice echoed faintly: “Stay calm.”

Gradually, the spinning subsided. Moses opened his eyes and found himself on a narrow mountain ledge. Behind him, the door was barely visible, camouflaged against the rock face. Bayissa gestured for him to follow, and they began climbing the winding path. When they reached the summit, Moses froze at the sight below: a vast field of black hills stretched toward the horizon. In the distance, a cluster of small buildings stood beneath a faint, golden light.

“That’s the City of Dreamers,” Bayissa said, his tone quieter now. “When souls leave their bodies at night, many end up there. It’s beautiful, but it can be dangerous.”

Moses scanned the landscape, his attention drawn to another structure.

“And over there,” Bayissa continued, “is the Hive of Portals. Beside it lies Reitzel Row.”

“Reitzel?” Moses asked sharply. “The priests of Agaliarept?”

Bayissa nodded grimly. “You’ve heard the stories of how they poison the mind with rebellion and animosity? They’re true.”

Moses stared at the shadowy buildings, a flicker of anger rising within him. “I think I was one of their victims once,” he muttered. “After my father was killed… I blamed my mother for everything, even though she had nothing to do with it. My mind spun out of control.”

Bayissa placed a hand on his shoulder. “It happens to many. But now that you’re aware, you can fight it.”

Moses’s gaze shifted to the glass booths lining Reitzel Row, where souls were trapped, their attention stolen by hooded figures marching and yelling discord. He felt a pang of helplessness. How many of those souls would lash out at loved ones or make irreversible mistakes, all because of manipulation?

“This way,” Bayissa urged, pointing toward another part of the landscape. Rows of tall stalks, faintly glowing, stretched as far as Moses could see. “That’s the Mogyain Fields.”

“What are they?”

Bayissa’s expression darkened. “Those stalks contain larva. When they’re ripe, the bulbs burst, scattering thousands of mogyain parasites into the air. They latch onto souls, draining their willpower. The poor souls walking the Road of Despond are easy targets.”

Moses followed Bayissa’s gaze to a line of shadowy figures trudging toward a distant smoke tower. “Above them,” Bayissa continued, “fly the Saudadis. They sing sad songs and whisper tales of despair. One note from their violins can cast you into a pit of hopelessness.”

Moses shuddered at the thought but pressed on. He could sense the gravity of what Bayissa was showing him, even if the full purpose still eluded him.

“What happens at the tower?” he asked, nodding toward the structure releasing thick, rust-colored smoke.

Bayissa’s jaw tightened. “The mogyain parasites are removed from the souls there, but not out of mercy. The tower processes the energy stolen from them, and what emerges on the other side is… diminished. A shadow of what they once were.”

Moses’s fists clenched. “So, the legends are true. Agaliarept rebuilt the astral plane using stolen human energy.”

Bayissa pointed again, this time to a labyrinth in the distance. “There. That’s where Agaliarept is bound. He won’t create anything else.” His voice softened. “But his influence lingers.”

Beyond the maze, Moses could see a dense, dark forest stretching into the horizon.

“That forest leads to the causal world,” Bayissa said. “That’s where we must go.”

“Why?”

Bayissa hesitated, his tone growing heavier. “Because no one else will map this realm if I don’t survive. If I fail, you must continue my work.”

Moses frowned. “What work?”

Bayissa began descending the winding path, his pace quickening. Moses followed, confusion mounting.

“Someone will come for the relics,” Bayissa said abruptly. “The Butakah are losing their ability to protect them. And when the relics are taken, the gates between our world and this one will collapse.”

Moses understood Bayissa’s conviction but was not convinced. “The butakah have protected the relics for nearly four hundred years. That’s why we train for battle.” Pride surged inside Moses. He had become a very effective shooter, and his combat skills had improved – all to protect the Hall of Relics. “What do you think will change?”

“Apathy,” Bayissa growled. “The new initiates are less convicted – they don’t care about old relics. They don’t know the power in each of them.” He stopped abruptly and gleamed at Moses, his eyes nearly illuminating. “Time is different for djinn. Four hundred years to us is less than two for them. Time is on their side.”

“So, the djinn will wait for the butakah order to fade away?” Moses followed Bayissa again. He walked faster now.

Bayissa’s voice grew hostile “You don’t understand. The threat won’t come from tanks and guns. It’s already here, in this realm.”

Moses’s convictions wavered as Bayissa pressed on. “People are already searching for the relics, manipulated by the djinn. And when they come to our island, it will be too late. That’s why we need a warrior in both worlds.”

They entered a forest, the air thick with tension. Faint chanting grew louder as they approached a clearing. Moses peered out from behind a tree and saw hooded figures kneeling in a circle, their voices an eerie, mechanical drone. Above them, a stream of lavender smoke coalesced into a winged figure.

Bayissa motioned for silence and led Moses away. “Dark mystics,” he whispered. “Human souls practicing forbidden magic.”

They stopped at a crossroads. On one side, the sky was bright with fire. The other side was as golden as a sunrise. Moses admired the division. He spun around. The orange sky of the astral plane was behind him. To the fourth side was the blue sky of the material world. He did not have to ask. They were at the junction where multiple realms merged. 

“We are here.” Bayissa did not seem as fascinated as Moses. He stepped forward. “What I am about to do is dangerous. I've trained myself, but I may fail.”

“I still don’t understand.” Moses kept close as they walked. Ahead, green hills rolled out like a painter’s canvas, speckled with flowers that shimmered faintly in the light. Bayissa’s gaze fixed on the distant black mountain. “You’ll have to wait for me there. Stay on the mountain and don’t wander far.” His voice was calm but edged with warning. “This is angelic land.”

Moses eyed the mountain warily, almost shaking from the threat of angelic justice. “Will you tell me what you’re planning? How can I continue your work if you won’t explain it?”

Bayissa stopped and turned, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a quiet, urgent tone like someone sharing a forbidden truth. “I intend to reassign an angel to the Hall of Relics.”

Moses froze mid-step, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “Reassign an angel?” He barely managed to keep the disbelief from spilling into outright scorn. “Bayissa, grandmasters have died trying that.”

“I know.”

“Angels don’t negotiate,” Moses pressed, his tone rising with frustration. “They follow divine orders. They guard what they’ve been charged to protect, and their roles are tied to the stability of the multiverse itself.” He took a sharp breath, trying to rein in his growing agitation. “You’re no grandmaster. You don’t have the authority or the skill—”

“I know.” Bayissa’s steady reply was laced with grim resolve. “But no one else will do it.”

Without waiting for Moses’s response, Bayissa resumed walking, his shoulders squared, his steps unshaken. “I will enter the valley beyond that passage,” he said, gesturing to a narrow path framed by vibrant red and pink blossoms that seemed to pulse with light. “There is an angelic being at the end of the path. That is the one I intend to reassign.”

He turned slightly, pointing toward the black mountain. “If you climb high enough, you’ll see everything.”

He didn’t look back. Without another word, Bayissa stepped onto the path, the neon blossoms seeming to brighten around him, their colors refracting like shards of stained glass. Moses could only watch as his friend disappeared into the valley, the air around him shimmering faintly before swallowing him whole.

Left alone at the foot of the black mountain, Moses stared at the path Bayissa had taken, a knot tightening in his stomach. The stakes were clearer than ever, but so were the risks. If Bayissa failed, there would be no one left to protect the Hall of Relics—or to carry on his mission.

Moses clenched his fists and turned toward the steep climb ahead. He could already feel the pull of the mountain’s strange energy, urging him upward.

"Be careful, Bayissa," he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing against the brilliant glow of the blossoms in the distance. Then he began the ascent, every step heavy with the weight of what might come next.

Heading for the black mountain, Moses recalled the subject of reassigning angels. He remembered reading and dismissing it as a far-fetched concept, one no sane person would dare attempt. Yet here he was, watching Bayissa attempt the impossible. For Bayissa to succeed, he needed to move an object that an angel protected. Moses couldn’t begin to predict what the angel might do if it saw Bayissa’s actions as threatening. If Bayissa’s life was in danger, Moses knew he would have to intervene. But how? Against an angel?

Moses climbed the mountain with hesitant steps, his fear mounting with every ridge he crested. When he finally saw Bayissa again, his friend stood on an elevated plateau, seemingly unbothered by the silver light descending toward him. Moses watched in awe as the light morphed midair, shifting and reforming until it became an identical replica of Bayissa. The angel’s transformation was so precise that Moses could only tell them apart by their positions. One figure gave commands, and the other obeyed.

Bayissa extended his hand, revealing a pile of black metallic balls clumping in his palm. With a flip of his wrist, the balls burst into flames. The angel moved behind him, its presence imposing, but Bayissa seemed unaffected. His focus remained on rods that rose from the grass at his signal. They bent and twisted as if they were putty, shaping themselves into two yods of the Hebrew letter hovering midair. One hand seemed to cast the rods in place without touching them, while the other called the fire. From the flames emerged another rod, which drifted to Bayissa and formed a vav. He positioned it between the yods, creating a triangular formation.

The object flared to life, a light so blinding that Moses shielded his eyes. When the brightness faded, Bayissa held a brass box and fell to his knees. With the angel's command, a wave of its hand, the box opened. Moses’ curiosity burned. What was inside? He climbed higher, hoping to get a better view. He couldn’t make out what had entranced Bayissa, but the angel’s agitation was clear. Its movements grew erratic as it began circling Bayissa, scanning the grass as if searching for something. Bayissa knelt, motionless as if a replica of himself was before the angel.

Antlers burst from the angel’s head, and its massive wings unfurled. Moses’ breath hitched. He had read of angels’ wrath, but witnessing it firsthand was terrifying. The angel summoned a sword, its blade crackling with blue electric currents. The air around it vibrated, and the ground beneath Moses quaked. He lost his footing, dropping to his knees as unseen forces whipped around him.

Before Moses could gather his thoughts, faint shapes began flitting toward him. He squinted and made out butterfly-like wings. They weren’t insects but djinn helpers, mouthless creatures with long, trailing tails. They circled him, their voices overlapping in eerie unison.

“Son of Adamu,” they intoned, “reveal your intention.”

Moses lowered his head and muttered the code he had been taught. “The code forbids me from interacting.”

“Show us!” they demanded, their tone more forceful.

Moses refused to respond, keeping his gaze fixed on the black grass. He repeated the code under his breath, willing himself to remain silent. Fear had no place in this world, he reminded himself. He could not let it control him.

The djinn circled tighter, their presence pressing against him. “We’ve found him,” one of them finally said, and the group dispersed, their tails disappearing into the dark.

Moses looked up in time to see Bayissa running. A second projection of Bayissa emerged, wearing a white hooded robe and surrounded by a red aura. The projection moved faster than anything Moses had ever seen, leaping in bounds to reach the plateau. The angel noticed the second projection – its speed blinding fast. With the sword lifted, the angel prepared to strike. It swung the sword, but the projection vaporized into a scarlet mist before the blade connected. The mist floated to Bayissa and merged with his astral form. Bayissa seemed oblivious, his attention still fixed on the brass box.

“What have you done?” the angel roared, its voice shaking the mountain.

Bayissa snapped out of his trance and stumbled to his feet. The angel’s sword was at his throat in an instant. Moses couldn’t hear their exchange but prayed for the angel’s mercy. When Bayissa suddenly bolted, Moses knew it was time to leave. He scrambled down the mountainside, his heart pounding.

At the base of the mountain, Bayissa caught up with him. “Let’s go. He said, his voice breathless and urgent.

Moses wanted answers. “What just happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” Bayissa promised as they ran through the dark forest. Once they reached the mountain from which they had entered, Bayissa stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“What are we running from?” Moses asked.

“Soon, it will know that I’ve taken its words.” Bayissa’s tone was grim. “If you try to return through my cerebral portal, our thoughts from this experience will merge. We would both experience mental psychosis. You must return another way. Go to the City of Dreamers.”

“But you said it was dangerous.”

“We’ve been in danger all along.” Bayissa’s expression was resolute. “Go to the City of Dreamers. Look for a place named Coles. It that looks like a tavern. Once you’re inside, find a corner near a window. I will send you a sign. Like before.”

Moses nodded reluctantly and turned away. He ventured into the astral world, weaving through the surreal chaos of the City of Dreamers. The streets buzzed with activity, a kaleidoscope of disconnected fragments. He passed two men in full fencing gear, their blades clashing in an acrobatic display. A teenager peered into a window, fixed on something Moses couldn’t see. A serpent slithered past him, pursued by two terrified girls whose screams echoed in the strange air.

Moses turned a corner and found himself in a marble-floored room. A red-haired woman in a wedding dress spun in front of a mirror, her friends showering her with compliments. Feeling like an intruder, Moses turned away, and with one step, he was outside again. The city’s dream logic twisted reality around him, but he pressed forward, focused on Bayissa’s instructions.

Finally, he spotted a sign that read Cole’s original Tavern. Its swinging doors creaked open, releasing a soft, golden light. Moses entered, his nerves on edge but his determination was steady. He found a corner near a window and waited, hoping for the sign Bayissa had promised.

Moses entered Coles Original Tavern. The music would have relaxed him, but the laughing to his right caught his attention. Turning, he peered at a djinni's hypnotic eyes. He was compelled to stare deeply, but a sound like a growling bear broke the spell. Moses blinked, shaking his head. The sound came from a round table nearby where a group played cards. The dealer shuffled the deck using a telekinetic spell that hovered the deck in mid-air. A hulking creature with fur-covered knuckles slammed a fist against the table, making the cards ripple in the air.

Moses forced his gaze forward and passed the group, taking a corner seat near the window. The music droned on, blending with the low murmur of conversations. He hoped Bayissa’s sign would come quickly. Torn between his code and curiosity, Moses struggled to ignore the projections around him.

The tavern buzzed with a mix of djinn and human souls. They interacted as if nothing was unusual, but Moses found it hard to remain detached. These weren’t real people—they were projections of human minds wandering the astral realm while their bodies slept in the material world. He was torn. Part of him was fascinated by the interplay, the countless dreams interweaving here in a single space. But then the fascination slipped into regret. He remembered the souls he’d seen trapped in the booths on Reitzel’s Row -their minds poisoned by the venom spewed by the Reitzel priest. Moses clenched his fists. If only he could summon an army of butakah warriors to free them. How much suffering in the material world would they prevent?

And then there was the Road of Despond. The line of souls haunted him—people whose wills had been devoured by mogyain will-suckers. They had given up, left apathetic, procrastinating their lives away. How many initiates from the island training were already lost to that road? The thought unnerved him. His jaw tightened. The butakah swore to protect the Hall of Relics, to preserve its ancient knowledge and treasures. But what if, in their narrow focus, they had abandoned their true mission? Perhaps Bayissa was right. A map was needed. Every corner of the astral realm required reconnaissance. Human souls were in danger, and Moses could no longer pretend otherwise.

Just as the realization solidified in his mind, he felt them: two figures watching him. He turned slightly, catching sight of their faces—house cats, humanoid in shape but unmistakably feline. Their slitted eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. A third figure approached them, a human soul. He strode confidently, pistols strapped to his sides, and slid into a seat near Moses. The house-cat djinn didn’t bother lowering their voices.

“Do you know why we called you?” asked the first, her voice sharp and commanding.

The human hesitated, his tone dripping with arrogance. “Something is missing, and you want me to find it.”

“No,” said the second feline. Her voice was softer, almost a whisper, but it carried clearly to Moses. “Something was stolen, and we want it stolen again.”

“Before the angel finds it,” added the first.

The man slouched in his chair, smirking. “No problem. Bejangli djinn pay well. That’s why I came.”

“You will be well compensated,” promised the whisperer.

Satisfied, the man asked, “Was it stolen from an angel?”

“Yes. The Ilalin spell, taken by a son of Adamu.”

Moses froze. His body chilled – they were talking about Bayissa. He turned his eyes to the window, pretending to glare at the dark, dreamlike landscape outside, but every fiber of his being was tuned to the conversation. The human’s laugh cut through the air, tinged with sarcasm. “A spell to stop bullets? Only in children’s tales.”

Moses forced himself to stay calm, repeating his mantra under his breath: “Focus on the path ahead.” The words anchored him, but the proximity of her voice made his skin prickle. He could feel her presence pressing against his mind, a creeping, insidious sensation that made him clench his fists under the table.

He tried to focus deeper on the City of Dreamers’ landscape. The surreal skyline was breathtaking, but his thoughts did not linger. Instead, they retraced as though he were walking backward through time. His skin chilled as he remembered the laughter, the slamming paw, and even his embarrassment at the woman in the wedding gown. Each moment replayed like a scene on fast rewind.

The chill lingered. Was the bejangli tampering with his mind? He dared another glance at the feline djinni, and their eyes locked. Her pupils seemed to ripple, as though pulling him into their depths.

“He had an accomplice,” she purred to the human soul at her table, though her gaze never left Moses.

The man chuckled, tapping his pistols. “Well, if you’re right, neither of them will get far.”

Moses tried to ground himself. He rubbed his temples, whispering an old mantra under his breath, but it felt like trying to stop a flood with bare hands. He was jittery. Hurry, Bayissa.

The bejangli stood, her movements deliberate. Her voice carried over the tavern noise like a knife slicing through the air. “The master has escaped already, but the novice…” She paused, taking a step closer to Moses. “…can’t. Isn’t that right, son of Adamu?”

Moses’ blood turned to ice. She was speaking to him now. The tavern blurred around him, the voices, the music, everything fading into a dull hum. He glanced at the table, desperate for Bayissa’s sign. Nothing.

She took another step, her feline eyes narrowing. “You can’t run.”

The spoon appeared then, hovering above the table. Its glow, like fire wrapped in steel, caught the corner of his vision. Relief surged through him. The djinni yelled, “Get him!”

Moses didn’t hesitate. He lunged, his hands grabbing the spoon as he slid across the slick varnish. Heat scorched his palms, and his vision blurred. Darkness consumed him before he hit the floor.

Blinded in darkness, Moses felt his head spinning. When his vision cleared, he was inside the Hall of Relics again. Not far away, Bayissa squatted over the flame of a kerosene lamp.

“Welcome back, my friend,” Bayissa said, without looking up. His voice was calm, but his hands worked quickly, carving a glyph into the handle of a silver spoon.

Moses crawled closer, light-headed and disoriented. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to ground himself in the present.

“Embedding the spell,” Bayissa replied, still focused on his work.

“The Ilalin spell?” Moses inhaled sharply. “Is this what the angel was guarding?”

Bayissa smiled faintly. “Yes. Imagine a spell that repels anything thrown at you.”  He held the spoon over the flame, heating the blade again. “This is a Trithphiyan glyph,” he explained, pointing to one mark, “and this one is Lemurian Kadmii. The spell was written in many languages.”

Moses watched in awe. “How did you manage this?”

Bayissa blew on the spoon handle, cooling it. “Entanglement,” he said. “The particles of your astral body—the energy of it—can exist in two places at once. While my astral body read the spell, my mental self projected the glyphs onto my physical form. As the energy cycled between the planes, I inscribed the glyphs on myself.” He held up his hand, revealing blistered burns in the shape of intricate markings.

“Toroidal Flow,” Moses gasped. “That’s why I saw two of you. It was the mental projection of your astral body, circling back.”

Bayissa chuckled, though his voice was strained. “An old grandmaster wrote about this. It’s too bad he died trying.”

Before Moses could respond, an explosion shook the Hall of Relics. The blast threw Bayissa to the ground, and the spoon clattered out of his hand. A searing light flashed, blinding Moses. He shielded his eyes, but the coldness of the light pierced his skin, chilling him to the bone. He exhaled sharply and saw his breath crystallize in the air.

When he lowered his arm, the angel stood before them.

Its form was both beautiful and terrifying: a human figure with branching antlers that scraped the ceiling, eagle wings spread wide. The light radiating from its body was cold, and the air seemed to freeze around it.

“Go!” Bayissa shouted, stumbling toward the trap door. Moses hesitated, rooted in place by awe and fear, but the angel’s gaze snapped to him, and he felt its weight like an avalanche.

Bayissa pulled the door open and shoved Moses through. He tumbled down the stairs, landing hard on the rocky floor of the tunnel below. A moment later, Bayissa fell beside him, gasping for breath. The darkness was absolute, save for the dim glow filtering through the trap door above.

Then the angel descended. Its light filled the tunnel, illuminating the jagged walls and casting long shadows. Moses scrambled back, but Bayissa grabbed his leg, holding him in place.

“No,” Bayissa said, lifting the spoon in trembling hands. He began to chant in Arabic, his voice steady despite the pain that wracked his body. The words were ancient and powerful, resonating in the narrow space. Moses recognized some of them, but most were beyond his understanding.

The angel paused. Its light dimmed slightly, and its form began to shift. The antlers receded, the wings folded, and its body transformed until it was an identical copy of Bayissa, though its eyes still glowed with electric energy. Moses realized it mirrored Bayissa’s form, reflecting his thoughts and fears.

Bayissa spoke again, his voice commanding. The angel tilted its head, as though listening, and Moses felt a strange pressure in his mind. He realized the angel was communicating telepathically with Bayissa.

After a moment, Bayissa nodded. “It will remain here,” he said through gritted teeth.

The angel’s light dimmed further, and it stepped back into the tunnel’s depths. The cold air dissipated, leaving Moses and Bayissa in darkness once more.

Moses reached out, finding Bayissa by the braid of his hair. “Are you all right?”

Bayissa grimaced. “Let me stay here for a moment.”

They sat in silence. Moses tried to process what had just happened. Bayissa had bound an angel to the underground tunnel. The angel, permanently assigned to guard the spell's power, was not compelled to guard a spoon, the spell engraved on it. The implications were staggering.

“You’ve changed things,” Moses said finally. “Forever.”

“I made things better,” Bayissa replied confidently.

Moses shook his head, though Bayissa couldn’t see it in the dark. “Not for me. You’ll be on a boat back to the mainland, and I’ll have to explain to Grandmaster Yoshi why we must abandon the code.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Bayissa said, shifting against the stone wall. “Yoshi has already violated the code. Together, we’ll convince him. The spoon must stay here. Nothing with ill intent will pass through this tunnel as long as it does. Further down are catacombs. The secrets hidden there are protected forever.”

Moses was silent, staring into the darkness. The code had always been clear: no direct communication with angels or djinn. Such acts were considered witchcraft, dangerous, and corrupting. But Moses had seen the danger human souls faced in the astral realm. He had witnessed the vulnerability of their world. The Butakah’s rigid adherence to the code had left them ill-equipped to protect humanity from the greater threats beyond. To fulfill their purpose, there had to be dialogue—at least with some angels and djinn.

This realization settled over him like a heavyweight. The code was not sacred; it was a tool. And like any tool, it could be reshaped.

“You did it,” Moses said quietly, his voice tinged with admiration and trepidation.

Bayissa reached out, placing a firm hand on Moses’s knee. “We did it.”

At that moment, Moses understood that this experience would shape the rest of his life. One day, he would lead the Butakah, and the angel in this tunnel would remain here, a silent witness to the shifting tides of their order. The code would change, as it had to, but the responsibility of protecting humanity would endure. The catacombs, the secrets, the angel—all of it would be his burden to bear.

But for now, he sat in the darkness beside his mentor, the future stretching before them like the endless tunnel ahead.