When Moses projected his astral body, he found himself in a blissful garden. He had not reached the astral realm yet. This garden was a construct of his intellect-an interstice between sleep and dream, designed to be the perfect transition. He had used the sands of formation surrounding the garden. Every serene object he knew in the physical world was here. In this place, however, he was not Grandmaster. He was only Aksumon, son of Adamu.

He sat on a large stone ledge facing a waterfall. Mist hung in the air like a veil. He stepped through the spray and followed a graveled path that twisted and dipped toward the garden’s edge, where it met the shifting sands.

Aksumon quickened his pace. He imagined a sheathed sword across his back. The sand responded—its energy intensified, vibrated, and shaped itself into the weapon he pictured. When he extended his hand, the sand surged forward and formed a glistening shield of metal.

Fifty steps beyond the garden, his battle gear had fully manifested. At the foot of a lone teepee, he stopped. Inside was a door that had no wall attached. It stood erect and the edges illuminated when he approached. The moment he touched it, he was pulled into the astral realm.

His vision blurred during the transition, but once it cleared, he stood before the City of Dreamers. The city pulsed with noise and motion—a cacophony of dream-energy. He felt the pull of curiosity but resisted it. Instead, he knelt and etched two sigils into the ground.

“Find me,” he whispered.

He turned south.

When he reached the Hills of Answers, he jogged. By the time he arrived at Retzel Row, he was running.

A lanky spirit stepped into his path. “Stop!” it boomed, voice baritone and laced with dark energy. The sound alone stirred anger in Aksumon’s chest—but he didn’t stop. He drew his sword and swung.

The retzel turned partially and summoned a rod with a flick of his hand. Their weapons clashed—the djinni’s blow was vicious, but Aksumon’s shield held. He jabbed under the retzel’s arm. The creature stumbled back, laughing.

The retzel delayed long enough for Aksumon to dart past him.

Continuing to laugh, the retzel called after him. “I can feel your anger.”

Others joined in. “I feel it too.”

Aksumon sprinted through them. Retzels always preyed on human anger—weaponizing it, seducing teens with the lie that rage gave power, edge, identity. Glass cubicles lined both sides of the path, each glowing with a psychic barrier. Inside, teenagers sat, entranced by the venom the spirits whispered.

One day, Aksumon promised himself, he would destroy Retzel Row. And perhaps, by some miracle, end teenage rebellion in the physical world. He knew the cubicles only held their souls. Perhaps, in the physical world, they were asleep, angrily sitting in their bedrooms, or under adult chastisement while retzels pumped rage and rash notions into their thoughts.

At the end of the row, Irmana and Krifla were waiting.

“I knew you'd come,” Irmana said, arms folded. “And I suppose you want more proof of the book.”

“Yes.”

Krifla circled, studying him. “Many men carry swords on their backs. Makes them slow.”

“Not me.” Aksumon opened his hand. The sword that had been strapped to his back now rested in his palm.

Krifla smiled. “I taught him that,” Irmana said with pride.

“I must be quick,” Aksumon said, turning to Krifla. “I’ll need your al-Miraj.”

Krifla’s grin sharpened. “Are you certain?”

Aksumon nodded. “Somewhere in the Hive of Portals is a door. It leads to the Book of Asmodeus.”

“It will be dangerous,” Irmana warned. “Only a few have even seen the book. A fakyo guards it.”

Aksumon didn’t believe her. More had read from the book than admitted. And if the guardian had been beaten before, it could be again.

Krifla’s confidence surged. He adored his al-Miraj—twisted rabbit-like creatures with fangs, a single horn, and eerie sounds that caused hallucinations and false memories. They fed on fear and could drive minds into frenzies. Irmana had every right to fear them. But Aksumon trusted them. They would find the correct door in this maze of doors.

The Hive loomed before them, tall and vast like a sacred library. Krifla stepped through a door that didn’t open—it absorbed him. Aksumon followed. Irmana hesitated but came last.

Inside, she paused at the sigil on the lobby floor. “We should be quick,” she whispered. “Many unfriendlies come here.”

Aksumon looked down.

“Agaliarept’s mark,” Krifla said. “He built the portals. All of this—powered by human energy, flowing through their chakras.” He spoke as if educating the djinn on what they already knew.

“We don’t have time,” Irmana snapped.

Krifla turned to Aksumon. His eyes flared. Wings spread. He tapped the floor with long nails. Smoke rose. As he tapped faster, the smoke thickened, darkened—until only his horned head remained visible.

“You should step aside,” he said.

              Aksumon obeyed.

The floor trembled. Shapes formed in the smoke. Krifla uttered inaudible commands, then clapped his hands. A gust blew Aksumon against a wall as dozens—hundreds—of al-Miraj leapt from the smoke, racing toward each door.

“There are many portals,” Krifla said. “We may need more.”

The creatures vanished behind the five doors. The circular lobby grew more ominous. The golden walls illuminated. Streaks of light raced from the high ceiling to the floor in waves of neon colors. The sigil on the floor began to tremble – an hallucination, or warning that portals were opening. The al-Miraj entered them, but would they return alone? Would something deadly follow them back?

The first wave returned. They bounced playfully, climbing Krifla’s back, leaping from his horns. He knelt and whispered to each, sending them back.

Irmana floated above, pointing. “That one hasn’t moved. Why doesn’t it obey?”

Krifla approached the silent al-Miraj. Its chirps sounded like ground squirrel chatter. Krifla grinned. “She’s found it.”

“Go, my friend,” he said. “Lead us to the book.”

The creature darted toward a center door. Aksumon followed it down a long hallway. The air dimmed. Doors pulsed with light or sat dull and dead. The al-Miraj stopped at a plain, dark door.

“You’ve done well,” Krifla whispered. He spoke three words, and the floor opened. “Soon we shall hunt fear and trepidation.”

Shaking a cotton tail, the creature liked the sound of that. It circled the hole before leaping inside.

Krifla paused. “The book—and the fakyo—are behind this door.”

Irmana paled. “Fakyo is a hinn from the water. Peaceful there—but on land... few have returned from beyond this door.”

Aksumon knew she wanted him to reconsider, but he could not. The book posed too many dangers.

“I’ve heard the fakyo has defeated angels,” she added.

“I must do this,” Aksumon said, steadying his voice despite the dread he felt.

Krifla entered first. Aksumon followed.

Tentacles slithered and curled through the darkness.

One whipped toward Aksumon—he dodged it. Another came low—he leapt. A third swung at him—he slashed it, severing the tip.

Krifla hurled ectoplasmic orbs at the guardian.

A fourth tentacle struck Aksumon's sword. This time, the blade didn’t cut—it reverberated with energy, numbing his arm. A fifth came for his head. He blocked it with his shield, but the blow sent him flying. The shield shattered.

Aksumon looked around for Krifla.

Gone.

Tentacles closed in.

Aksumon crawled backward. He needed space between he and the fakyo. Then he saw Krifla reappear—his legs wrapped in the creature’s grasp. His body whipping through the air like a tethered rag-doll.

Krifla had attacked the creature on one side, Aksumon, the other – both had failed. He resigned himself to the idea that the creature had no weakness. Its many eyes could track enemies from any angle, and its long tentacles regenerated and adapted too quickly to allow close combat. 

There must be a way,  he told himself.

Something soared overhead– Irmana.

She had climbed high above the creature’s line of sight. With an angelic bow in her grasp, she loosened an ethereal arrow. A spark of light descended, exploding into a powerful gust that hurled the fakyo to the ground. Blue neon liquid coiled around its tentacles, then hardened into a silvery metal, anchoring the beast to the terrain’s floor.

Aksumon exhaled sharply. The fakyo was pinned. He sprang to his feet, sword in hand and circled the beast until he found Krifla, still struggling in the creature’s grip. 

He hacked at the tentacle, severing it. Krifla dropped free.

Above them, Irmana hovered. “Hurry. I don’t know how long the magic will hold.”

 Aksumon turned toward her, wanting to acknowledge her cunning. But she was already darting ahead.

“I've seen the book,” she called back. “This way.”

Aksumon followed, careful not to step on the scattered bodies strewn across the floor.  Two figures lay with backs twisted at impossible angles at his feet. A glossy film covered them reminding Aksumon of silk used by spiders to wrap their victims.

“This would have been us,” Krifla whispered, his voice a grateful tone.

“These are the ones who tried to read the book,” Irmana circled overhead, her voice solemn.

Aksumon glanced at a white-bearded man as he lept over him-and froze. The man’s eyes moved, tracking him.

“They’re still alive,” Aksumon murmured. “We should help them.”

“We haven’t the time,” Irmana warned. Her voice trembled with urgency.

Aksumon hesitated. He heard the white-bearded man whisper, Help me.

“You go ahead. I’ll help him.” Krifla lifted off and hovered beside the man. “It’s an angel.”

An angel? Aksumon’s felt a shiver. He remembered Irmana’s warning. He glanced at the fakyo – still trapped. The glowing energy that bound the creature was already dimming.

He had a second thought: Now that we’re inside… how will we escape?

Irmana called again, frustration bleeding into her voice. She flew toward a towering heap of twisted metal. As Aksumon neared, he realized it was a mountain of weapons—shields, swords, enormous wheels.

Were these the tools of those who now lay broken behind him?

He scanned the pile for his shield and began to climb. Time stretched. What felt like a half-hour passed, and yet he’d barely moved.

His limbs trembled with fatigue. He paused.

“Son of Adamu,” Irmana called, desperate now. “Don’t stop. You’ve nearly reached the top!”

“The top?” Aksumon laughed bitterly. “I’ve gained no ground.”

“Look at me.” She stood at a plateau just above him, an arm’s reach away. “It’s an illusion.”

Aksumon frowned, still hunting for another foothold.

“This hill drains your will,” she said, extending a hand scaled like teardrops. “But human will is a power unmatched in the universe.”

She was right. How had he forgotten the most elementary lesson?  He closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself. Then he repeated an affirmation, “I am resilient.” He whispered. “My heart is steady, and my will is unshakable.”

He crouched low, gathering his resolve. With a surge of will, he launched himself upward. A second leap and he reached the top. He smiled victoriously, but Irmana did not share his enthusiasm. Instead, her gaze revealed trepidation.

Aksumon followed her gaze.

There it was—the book. It was placed there by angels, who like Aksumon understood the danger it could cause. The fakyo was there to protect it, but it had failed more times than was acceptable. I must destroy it.

Its pages were as wide as his torso, resting open on an ebony stand. As he approached, the stand’s legs pulsed with light, sensing him.

A flash of lightning drew Aksumon to the ledge. Below, Krifla hovered midair, the angel beside him, now radiant and fierce in battle against the fakyo.

Satisfied, Aksumon turned back to the book.

Its pages shifted, as if eager to show him something.

“I don’t think he should read from it,” Krifla’s voice came from behind, cautious.

But Aksumon ignored him.

The angelic script didn’t wait for his eyes. The words rushed into his mind like wind through a crack. He heard them. He saw them.

An amatrix angel – fluffy, white; its tiny wings fluttered - trapped inside a sphere of red energy. Two djinn stood nearby. One had her back to him—silhouetted, human shaped, feline features. The other’s face glowed in the sphere’s crimson light – striped like a tiger. He recognized their species – banjangli.

“I will stay and guard our little prisoner.”

“Will you guard against the Abdal?” asked the tiger faced one, her voice laced with doubt.

“No. That’s why you must be quick. Find the needle. We’ll abstract the quarks and set it on its path to—”

“Bahir Dar,” the tiger faced one moved closer – her body more visible. Her hurried step, the echo in her voice saturated in irritation. “We’ve been over this. You must remember. Unless you want war. It goes to Liya.”

“Yes, I remember.” The silhouetted one said apologetically. “Her name is like our mother’s – Lilith.”

“Very good,” anger slipped away from the striped faced one. “The one we’re trying to rescue. Please remember that?”

“I will, but don’t worry about me. Get to Jijiga and find the needle.”

As the djinni turned, Aksumon saw her thick whiskers, and red nose.

“Gyllo,” her sister called.

Gyllo, the striped face one paused.

“Be careful.”

The vision dissolved into another.

A boy—no older than seventeen—lay on a recovery bed. A Butakah master sat beside him, speaking softly.

“This is why our work matters,” the master said. “We protect the keys.”

The boy nodded, wide-eyed.

Then the vision changed again.

An army descended from the mountains. Leading it was the striped-face djinni – Gyllo. Aksumon’s hands were covered in blood draining from a wound below his chest. Startled, he looked away from the pages.

Krifla must have known what Aksumon saw. “This is why you should not read the book.” The djinni's empathy was short-lived. He ran forward. “Follow me.” He vanished, and the scarred air shimmered where his body disappeared.

Irmana moved toward the scar. “There are many threads of futures.”

Aksumon hesitated. He examined his hand, the was no blood.  His chest was whole. Did the book show him his future? Would he die by a bullet wound to the chest?

The book lies, he told himself, as he reached for the sword.

The book pulsated as if knowing Aksumon’s intent. But before he attempted to plunge sword into the book pages, he lost grip of it. The metal clang at his feet.

Irmana’s voice echoed from the scar shimmering behind the book. It was closing. Aksumon reached for his sword, it did not move. He pulled again, only to notice it had melded with the others.

Irmana called again warning that if the scare closed, he’d have to fight the fakyo to escape. He’d do it alone.

Aksumon promised one day he would return – he’d have a better plan then.