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by monique alvin
09/04/25
For Sale
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Chapter 8 — The Prophetic Dream

The car smelled like old fries and dust.

I hadn’t planned to sleep here, but after the way Mama looked at me when she saw that circle, I couldn’t make myself go back inside. Couldn’t make myself go to Nyxion either.

So I parked three blocks away, cut the engine, and sat in the silence until it felt heavier than the night itself.

The seat wouldn’t recline right. My bag dug into my side. The journal and the blade lay on the passenger seat like passengers, like they were waiting on me to choose where we were going next.

I told myself I’d just close my eyes for a minute. Just breathe.

But the minute stretched too long.

And then I wasn’t in the car anymore.

---

I was standing in the middle of a hallway that stretched too long to make sense — marble underfoot, golden sconces flickering like they were holding back something darker than shadow.

At the far end was a throne.

Big. Regal. Empty.

It pulsed like it was alive — like it knew I was watching.

I took a step forward.

A voice echoed down the hall, soft but strong enough to shake the walls.

“Many are called…”

My feet stopped moving.

“…but few are chosen.”

Suddenly, the hallway shifted. Turned to smoke. Became fire.

I stumbled backward, but the floor caught me — now smooth black stone, etched with symbols I didn’t recognize but somehow understood.

A door opened behind me.

And I saw it.

A school — but not like any school I’d ever seen. The walls breathed. The windows glowed. Students walked in robes that shimmered like constellations, each one carrying weapons that looked both ancient and alive.

They didn’t see me.

Didn’t feel me.

I was watching, but I wasn’t there.

Then I saw her.

She walked through the courtyard with her head high, fire trailing in her wake like it followed her out of respect.

Her eyes caught me first — dark but alive, shot through with gold like embers refusing to die.

Her hair wasn’t just coiled — it burned. Every strand tipped in crimson, glowing faint as though flame itself had kissed it and claimed her.

A faint scar traced her cheek, catching the light, not disfiguring but declaring survival.

And on her wrist, for just a flicker, I thought I saw it — a mark, glowing faint as ember, like fire had branded her and refused to leave.

She didn’t see me. But I felt her. Felt the fire she carried.

And in that instant, it burned into me — a truth I couldn’t shake even after I woke.

The girl with the fiery red hair.

She paused. Tilted her head like she knew I was there.

And just as our eyes almost met—

“Not yet.”

The Voice.

I turned — and the throne was full.

A figure sat on it, cloaked in light too bright to look at, face hidden behind a veil of flame and glory. But the presence? Unmistakable.

Holy.

Other.

Familiar.

I dropped to my knees — not because I wanted to, but because my spirit did before I could argue.

“You were not made to serve two kingdoms.”

I tried to speak, but my throat closed.

“You were not made to sit in shadows.”

The figure raised a hand, and suddenly I was back in the courtyard.

Except this time, I was inside it.

Watching students train — sword to spirit, voice to flame, Scripture as weapon. Some fell. Some rose. All looked chosen.

All except me.

When I reached for a weapon, it burned my hand.

When I tried to enter the building, the doors shut.

And across the stone was carved the same words, over and over again:

“Many are called.”

And then, like a whisper in my own voice:

“But you... you are not ready.”

---

I jerked awake.

The car windows were fogged from my breath, my shirt sticking to me with sweat. My hands trembled on the steering wheel even though I hadn’t touched it.

My throat was raw, like I’d been screaming a name I didn’t remember learning.

The Voice was silent.

But my soul was not.

Something had been stirred. Shaken loose.

And all I could think was:

If God’s got a throne… then maybe I want one too.

I sat forward, staring at my hands like they weren’t mine. They were still shaking. Still tingling from something that wasn’t touch — something deeper.

The words kept ringing in my head like a bell that refused to stop swinging.

You are not ready.

My pride flinched. My flesh curled. My soul? It didn’t know whether to bow or run.

But one image wouldn’t leave me.

Her. The girl with the fiery red hair.

I grabbed my phone. Didn’t check the time. Didn’t care.

Nyxion answered on the second ring, voice groggy but amused. “You good?”

“No.”

I swallowed. My throat was dry.

“I’m in,” I said.

Pause.

“In what?”

“You know what.”

Silence. Then the faintest chuckle.

“Told you He talks too much.”

“I want the noise gone,” I said. “I want the power. All of it.”

He exhaled slow, like he’d been waiting for this.

“I’ll make the call,” he said.

Then he hung up.

The phone slid from my hand into the seat. My eyes burned.

I sat there in the dark, the car creaking as if it was holding its breath.

And I thought:

If He won’t have me yet, then I’ll make sure someone will.

---

Chapter 9 — The Departure

Morning came like a bruise—purple around the edges, tender to the touch.

I didn’t sleep after the Voice said what it said. I already won. The words sat in the room with me all night, uninvited, like a stubborn guest who doesn’t take hints. By sunrise, my mind felt like a locked jaw. I decided if I couldn’t shut Him up, I’d shut everything else out.

Be hot or be cold, Nyxion had said.

Fine.

I chose cold.

I started with the easy things. Clothes. Charger. Toothbrush. The black journal with the gold edges. The deck. The obsidian blade I told myself I only kept for “focus.” The little velvet pouch with the stones. The cheap lighter that always sparked on the second try. I packed like a thief in my own house, fast and quiet, as if pulling shirts off hangers could set off alarms.

Then came the hard things.

Bottom drawer, wrapped in an old T-shirt: the Bible Mama gave me when I turned twelve—my name in gold, a page still folded where I’d underlined something about God being close to the brokenhearted. It felt heavier than paper. I turned it over in my hands, the leather warm from memory more than the room.

I put it back.

Top shelf: a photo of me and Mama on the church steps. I was small enough to hide under her arm then, grinning with my eyes closed, a plastic crown from children’s church tilted to the side. I held it long enough for the edges to bite my fingers.

Back it went.

I wasn’t taking souvenirs of the war I was choosing.

From the kitchen came the sound of a pan and that song—soft, the one Mama always hummed when morning was merciful. It slid under the door and across the floor to my feet. The same melody that broke something loose in me last night tried to stitch it back together now.

“No,” I whispered to the air, to myself, to Him. “Not today.”

I zipped the bag.

The salt line from last night still chalked the floor, bright and stubborn. I kicked it with my heel so it scattered into nothing. The circle went quiet like a mouth finally shut.

I slung the bag over my shoulder.

When I opened my door, she was already there.

Not blocking the hallway. Not dramatic. Just standing with her hand on the frame like she’d been propping the house up while I decided whether to collapse it.

“You’re leaving,” she said.

“Yeah.” My voice was too steady. It sounded borrowed.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Elias… you don’t have to do this. There’s another way. You don’t have to throw yourself into something that’ll break you.”

“I think I’m already broken.”

“That’s not true. That’s not God talking.”

“I know. That’s me.”

Her mouth tightened. “What’s out there isn’t freedom. It’s slavery dressed up like choice.”

“At least it talks back,” I said. The words sounded like Nyxion, but they also sounded like me. I hated that I couldn’t tell the difference.

She shook her head. “Not everything that talks to you is for you.”

“I can’t breathe here, Ma. This house, this church—it’s all sermons. Every silence feels like God won’t leave me alone. I need space where I can think.”

“You think running will give you peace?” she asked. “It won’t. The fight out there is real. And it’s hungry.”

“I’m not scared of a fight.”

“You should be. Because this fight doesn’t play fair. And you don’t even see what it’s already taking from you.”

I swallowed. “I just… I need to do this.”

She looked at me a long time, then nodded once. “If you’ve already decided, I won’t stop you. But listen to me, Elias—God will still come after you. He’s not going to let you go easy.”

“I don’t want Him to find me,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her face fell, but her voice stayed steady. “Even if you don’t want Him, I’ll still pray for you. I’m not giving up on you.”

The kitchen pan hissed behind her, something egg-like going from soft to hard without anyone watching it happen.

The hall clock clicked once. Somewhere outside, a car door shut. The world kept doing ordinary things, disrespectful to the fact that mine was splitting.

We stood there, too many words behind us, not enough in front.

At the end, she only said, “Go then, before I make this harder for both of us.”

I stepped outside.

The morning had the nerve to be beautiful. Sky washed clean. Air cool enough to feel new in my lungs. A dog barked down the street like it was in on a joke. My bag thumped my back with each stair like a heartbeat trying to keep up.

Nyxion’s text sat open from last night: Door’s open. Couch until we set you up. A second message blinked in: Proud of you for choosing yourself. The words slid down easy like bad liquor.

The screen dimmed. Behind it, in the house I was abandoning, I heard her voice—low at first, then rising, not begging but warring. Scripture braided into breath. That melody from the kitchen turning into something with teeth.

It chased me to the curb.

I stopped anyway. Looked at my hands. They were steady now. That scared me more than the shaking had.

A rideshare crept onto the block. I raised my arm, then lowered it. Stupid. I didn’t need a witness to my exit. I started walking instead, past the mailbox we’d fixed twice, past the crack in the sidewalk that looked like a map to nowhere, past the place where I’d fallen off my bike at eight and bled loud enough to make the whole neighborhood walk outside.

Every step felt like tearing Velcro—loud in my head, sticky in my chest.

Halfway down the street, I did the thing I swore I wouldn’t.

I turned around.

Through the front window I could see only shapes. A flicker of candlelight. The outline of a woman on her knees. I couldn’t hear the words anymore—maybe she’d switched to whispers, the kind that move slower but sink deeper. Maybe the walls were holding them for later.

“Don’t,” I told myself. “Don’t go back in there. Don’t let one song undo a decision.”

I faced forward and kept walking until the house became another roof on a line of roofs, until it was just an address I wasn’t using.

At the corner, I pulled out my phone and typed On my way.

I didn’t send it.

I didn’t need to. I’d already said yes with my feet.

A train wailed somewhere far off, long and low, like it was mourning or warning—I couldn’t tell. The sun climbed higher. The cold I’d chosen settled into my bones like it’d been waiting for a room.

I adjusted the strap on my bag.

“I’m done,” I said to no one and to Him at the same time.

The wind didn’t answer.

Neither did the Voice.

For the first time in days, the quiet didn’t feel crowded.

I stepped into it and kept going.

Chapter 10 — The Company You Keep

Nyxion’s door was already open like a mouth that had been waiting on my name.

Inside smelled like smoke and something sweet—sage, cinnamon, a hint of orange peels drying in a bowl. Candles stood in skinny glass like saints dressed for a nightclub. A mirror leaned against the far wall, draped in beads and scarves that caught the flame light and tossed it back in colors.

“Shoes off,” Nyxion said without looking up. He was on the floor, legs folded, bracelets stacked to his forearms. “We honor the ground here.”

I kicked my sneakers by the door and set my bag beside them. “You knew I’d come.”

He smiled like he’d just won a bet with himself. “I knew you’d arrive. Coming is just feet. Arriving is agreement.”

The space felt crowded with quiet—heavy, but not the kind that pressed. The kind that invited.

Imani slid past me from the kitchen, barefoot, silk whispering. The crystal at her throat swung like a slow clock. “Welcome to your first day, pilgrim.”

“Pilgrim?” I asked.

“On a journey,” she said, grinning around the rim of her chipped wine-colored mug. “Not religious. Spiritual.”

Nyxion tapped the rug in front of him. “Sit.”

I sat.

He lifted a round chart from the table—circles inside circles, symbols like little arrows and squiggles, a sky drawn on paper. “Astrology first. The church told you the heavens were wallpaper. They’re maps.” He pointed. “Sun sign says how you burn. Moon says what you hide. Rising says the mask you meet the world in. The day you were born, the sky left fingerprints.”

“You can tell all that from some lines?” I asked, but my voice wasn’t daring him to prove it. It was already measuring where I fit.

Nyxion’s bracelets clinked as he traced the chart. “I can tell you why you hear too much. Why silence feels like a crowd. Why you run to noise when God gets close.” His eyes flicked up. “And why He feels like an intruder in your own head.”

My throat tightened. Imani handed me a glass of water like she’d timed the breath I didn’t take.

Nyxion set the chart aside and reached for a deck of cards. He shuffled like a drummer, cards snapping into each other in clean rhythms. “Tarot isn’t fortune-telling,” he said. “It’s reflection. You don’t kneel to it; you look through it. Church calls it witchcraft because it works without them.”

He cut the deck and laid three cards on the rug, face down. “Past. Present. Path.”

He flipped the first.

The Tower.

A spire breaking in lightning. Figures falling. Fire in the windows. I didn’t need a sermon to get it.

“Structure collapsing,” Nyxion said gently. “But not as punishment. As correction.”

He turned the second.

The Lovers.

Two figures under an angel. Hands almost touching.

“Choice,” he said. “Not romance. Alignment.”

He touched the last card like he liked what it would say and then turned it with two fingers.

The Hierophant—reversed.

A crowned priest upside-down, keys crossed under his feet.

Nyxion looked up at me and didn’t smile. “Tradition broken. Gatekeepers losing their grip. You’re not running from God, Elias. You’re running from their version of Him.”

A heat sang in my chest, uncomfortable and satisfying at the same time. “So this—” I gestured around us: the candles, the beads, the mirror. “This is… what? A different version?”

“This,” he said, tapping the cards, “is a mirror. That—” he pointed to the chart, “—is a map. And this—” he lifted a small velvet pouch and shook a stone into his palm, black and glassy, “—is a vessel.”

Imani plucked the stone from him and pressed it into my hand. It was cool, a tiny night with weight. “Onyx,” she said, like she was just naming the rock out loud, like it had nothing to do with me. “It absorbs what doesn’t belong to you.”

“What doesn’t belong?” I asked.

“Stray intentions,” she said softly. “Words you didn’t ask for. Prayers meant to chain, not heal.” Her eyes flicked, quick and knowing. “You’ve had a few of those slung your way.”

Mama’s kitchen hymn bled through my memory; my jaw tightened to keep it out.

“Before you get spooked,” Nyxion said, reading my face like a page, “listen to my language. I don’t worship rocks. I don’t bow to stars. I honor tools. I honor patterns. I honor the Divine where He actually shows Himself—everywhere.”

“He?” I asked, and I wasn’t sure if I meant to test him.

“Call Him He if you need,” Nyxion said without blinking. “Call Her She if you finally want to breathe. Call It Breath. Call It the One. Names are doorways. We use the ones that open, not the ones that lock.”

“That sounds like—” I started, and stopped.

“Like freedom?” he said.

“Like blasphemy,” Imani said cheerfully, sipping her tea. “And look at you—alive.”

Nyxion stood and offered me both hands. I took them. His palms were warm, dry, steady. He closed my fingers over the stone. “This isn’t about rebellion, Elias. I’m not asking you to hate the church. I’m asking you to stop letting it name what God can and can’t touch.”

He tilted his head toward the mirror. “Lesson one.”

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