The sky did not burn.
It changed.
Nicholas stood still, his eyes fixed upward as the blue above Otukpo deepened into something heavier and thicker, as though the air itself had weight. The sunlight didn't disappear, it dulled, its warmth fading into something distant and unfamiliar.
The village slowed.
Not stopped.
"What is that…?" Nicholas whispered.
No one answered.
A man nearby straightened from where he had been tying a bundle of wood. He squinted at the sky, his expression tightening.
"That's not a storm," he said.
Another voice followed, uneasy. "There's no wind."
Nicholas felt it too.
The stillness.
It pressed against his chest, making it harder to breathe, not from lack of air, but from something unseen, something wrong.
Behind him, his mother stepped out of the house.
"Nicholas," she called.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
"Come inside."
He didn't move.
"Look," he said, pointing upward.
"I said come inside."
Her tone shifted slightly, but firmer now.
Nicholas turned to her. "But..."
"Now."
He hesitated.
Then obeyed.
Inside, the air felt different. Cooler. Closed.
His father stood near the doorway, not sitting this time. Not working.
Watching.
"What is it?" Nicholas asked.
His father didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stepped closer to the entrance, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the village.
"Something we don't understand," he said finally.
"That doesn't help," Nicholas muttered.
His father glanced down at him. "It's not supposed to."
Outside, voices began to rise.
Confusion. Questions. Unease was spreading like a ripple through the village.
Nicholas moved toward the doorway again, unable to ignore it.
His mother caught his arm.
"Stay here."
"I just want to see..."
"You've seen enough."
"I haven't seen anything!"
"That's the problem."
Nicholas pulled slightly, not enough to break free, but enough to show resistance.
"What's happening?" he asked.
His mother's grip tightened.
"I don't know," she said.
And for the first time, she sounded like she meant it.
A shout came from outside.
"Look at the edge!"
Nicholas turned instantly.
His father stepped out before either of them could stop him.
"Stay," he said, without looking back.
Nicholas didn't.
He slipped from his mother's grasp and followed.
The village had gathered in the open space between the houses, all eyes turned toward the horizon.
Nicholas pushed forward, weaving between bodies until he could see.
And then, he stopped.
A line of light stretched across the edge of the world.
Thin.
Perfect.
Gold.
It didn't flicker like fire. It didn't move like sunlight. It just… existed. Clean and sharp against the distant earth, as if someone had drawn it there.
"It's beautiful," someone whispered.
"It's wrong," another replied.
Nicholas couldn't look away.
The light didn't grow.
Didn't spread.
It waited.
"Everyone back," his father said, stepping forward. "Move away from the open..."
The line shifted.
Nicholas's breath caught.
"Did you see that?"
No one answered.
Because they all had.
The gold deepened.
Not brighter.
Heavier.
"It's getting closer," a woman said, her voice trembling.
"No," his father replied quietly.
"It's not coming closer."
He stared at it, his expression hardening.
"It's… forming."
Nicholas frowned. "What does that mean?"
His father didn't respond.
The line split.
It didn't break apart.
It opened.
Like something unfolding.
A second line appeared beneath it, darker and sharper, cutting through the gold like a wound.
The air shifted.
Heat touched Nicholas's face.
Faint.
But real.
He stepped back instinctively.
"Why is it hot?" he asked.
No one answered.
The light expanded.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"It's not the sun," someone said.
"No," his father murmured.
"It isn't."
Nicholas's chest tightened.
The heat grew stronger now, brushing against his skin like something testing him.
The silence returned.
Deeper than before.
Then...
A sound.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
A low, distant crack.
Nicholas flinched.
"What was that?"
His father didn't move.
"Everyone get back," he said again, louder this time. "Now."
No one moved fast enough.
The sky split.
Not with thunder.
Not with lightning.
With fire.
The golden line tore open, and from it came something that did not fall, but descended in a precise and controlled manner.
Nicholas's eyes widened.
"It's..."
The first house ignited.
Not slowly.
Not spreading.
Instantly.
Flame erupted from the roof in a violent burst, sending heat crashing into the air as if the sky itself had struck it.
A scream followed.
Sharp.
Real.
Nicholas's body locked.
"That's..."
Another house ignited.
Then another.
One after the other.
Not random.
Chosen.
His breathing quickened.
"No…"
The fire moved.
Not across the ground.
Not through the air.
From above.
Nicholas stepped back as panic spread through the village. The fire did not behave like chaos, it moved with purpose, striking homes with terrifying precision. His father shouted for everyone to run, but Nicholas stood frozen, staring upward. In that moment, fear turned to realization: this was not destruction, it was something deliberate, something chosen.