Of Other Skies

The first thing Michael noticed when he opened his eyes was light—too bright, too clean, too sharp to belong to the world he remembered. He blinked, expecting the murky glow of a flickering bulb, the half-shadowed corners of an apartment he could no longer pay rent for, the colorless walls that had grown as cold as the people around him. Instead, the air shimmered with radiance, not warmth, but sanctity: a silver hue that poured through latticed windows high above.

He lay upon a bed of silk. His body—wrong, heavy, too strong—stirred beneath sheets embroidered with holy symbols he didn’t know but somehow recognized. The scent of incense lingered thick in his nose, frankincense and myrrh laced with something sharper, metallic, almost electric.

“Prince Michael.”

The title came from a voice close by, reverent but trembling. Michael turned his head and saw them: men and women in long white vestments, their sleeves embroidered with golden script. Priests. Or something like priests. Each carried a staff crowned with a lantern, within which a steady flame burned—not fire but light itself, pulsing with soft radiance that pushed the shadows back.

A boy, a pawn, that’s what they saw when they looked at him.

Michael sat up slowly. His body moved strangely, taller, broader than he remembered being. His hands were long-fingered, calloused but unscarred. And when he caught sight of his reflection in a polished basin set by the bed, his breath caught.

Silver hair. Pale, flawless skin. Eyes that gleamed faintly with inner luminescence.

Not him. Not the broken man who had staggered into bars, not the husband who had once screamed in grief at the sight of a baby wrapped in a red cloth. That face had been ordinary, forgettable. This one was sculpted like a statue.

“You must rise,” the eldest priest said, bowing low. “The Church awaits. Today you will be revealed to the people.”

Michael wanted to laugh—reveal what? That their so-called miracle was a soul misplaced? That their prophecy had been botched, their god had sent them not a savior but a man whose only talent was enduring disappointment?

But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded, as though this was normal, as though he belonged.

They dressed him in ceremonial robes, layers of white and silver, the fabric heavy on his shoulders. A sash bound his waist, embroidered with script that glowed faintly when touched by the lanterns. His wrists were wrapped in bands of woven gold, symbols of bondage disguised as reverence.

He was led through corridors of the Dome.

The Dome itself was unlike anything Michael had known. Its walls rose not as flat stone but as seamless crystal infused with pale blue light, curved in vast arcs that made him feel as though he walked within the ribcage of some ancient god. Windows shaped like crescents spilled colored light across the marble floors. Statues of saints and spirits lined the halls, their faces serene, their hands extended as if blessing all who passed.

Everywhere, lanterns. Some small, dangling from hooks. Others towering as tall as men, their flames unwavering despite the drafts that whispered through the corridors. Each lantern pulsed faintly, as though breathing.

The priests murmured prayers as they walked, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic cadences. Michael only half-listened. His attention snagged on the fragments flickering in his mind:

—A child’s hand clutching his thumb.
—A woman’s voice whispering, “Don’t let them see you break.”
—The sterile beep of hospital machinery.

He blinked, and the Dome returned. The memories faded like smoke.

The procession ended at the heart of the Dome: the Sanctum of Ishim.

The chamber was vast, circular, its ceiling a dome within the Dome itself, painted with constellations of gold. At its center rose the Grand Altar, a slab of white stone veined with silver. Behind it loomed the icon of Ishim: a faceless figure carved of crystal, wings unfurled, arms raised in eternal benediction. The crystal glowed faintly, not with light but with presence.

And gathered before it, waiting, were hundreds.

Priests in white. Knights in steel, their weapons—astral summons of divine flame, ice, and storm—resting against their shoulders. Ordinary Dome citizens pressed close, their faces upturned, their eyes hungry for a miracle.

“Behold,” the eldest priest cried, his voice carrying across the chamber, “the Nephilim reborn, the long-awaited prince, the sign that Ishim has not abandoned us!”

The crowd erupted in cries, cheers, prayers. Some wept openly. Others knelt. Lanterns were raised, their flames flaring as if in answer.

Michael stood frozen. Their faith pressed against him like a physical weight. He wanted to step back, to flee, to deny. But he couldn’t. He had no place to flee to.

The eldest priest gestured, and Michael was guided to the altar. A knife was drawn—a ritual blade, silver-edged, carved with scripture. His palm was cut, shallow but stinging. Blood dripped onto the stone. The crystal figure behind the altar flared with light.

The people roared.

Michael felt nothing but a hollow ringing in his ears.

The ceremony stretched long. Blessings were intoned. Oil was painted across his brow. A lantern was placed in his hands, its flame unnervingly warm, pulsing against his skin as though alive.

“You are destiny’s child,” the priest whispered in his ear. “Your path was written before you were born. You cannot fail us. You must not.”

Michael smiled faintly, the kind of smile that did not touch the eyes. He had worn it before, many times, in another life.

As the crowd continued to chant, he let his gaze wander past the priests, past the knights, to the faces of ordinary Dome citizens gathered at the fringes. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed. Old men leaned on canes, tears on their cheeks. And in the very back, he caught sight of a boy—not kneeling, not cheering, simply watching with sharp, restless eyes.

Lewis.

Michael did not know his name yet. But he knew the look. It was the same look he had once carried: hunger, not for food but for meaning, for a place in a world that had no place for him.

The lantern pulsed in his hand. The people chanted. The priests smiled.

And Michael thought, not for the first time since waking:

This life is not mine.The first thing Michael noticed when he opened his eyes was light—too bright, too clean, too sharp to belong to the world he remembered. He blinked, expecting the murky glow of a flickering bulb, the half-shadowed corners of an apartment he could no longer pay rent for, the colorless walls that had grown as cold as the people around him. Instead, the air shimmered with radiance, not warmth, but sanctity: a silver hue that poured through latticed windows high above.

He lay upon a bed of silk. His body—wrong, heavy, too strong—stirred beneath sheets embroidered with holy symbols he didn’t know but somehow recognized. The scent of incense lingered thick in his nose, frankincense and myrrh laced with something sharper, metallic, almost electric.

“Prince Michael.”

The title came from a voice close by, reverent but trembling. Michael turned his head and saw them: men and women in long white vestments, their sleeves embroidered with golden script. Priests. Or something like priests. Each carried a staff crowned with a lantern, within which a steady flame burned—not fire but light itself, pulsing with soft radiance that pushed the shadows back.

A boy, a pawn, that’s what they saw when they looked at him.

Michael sat up slowly. His body moved strangely, taller, broader than he remembered being. His hands were long-fingered, calloused but unscarred. And when he caught sight of his reflection in a polished basin set by the bed, his breath caught.

Silver hair. Pale, flawless skin. Eyes that gleamed faintly with inner luminescence.

Not him. Not the broken man who had staggered into bars, not the husband who had once screamed in grief at the sight of a baby wrapped in a red cloth. That face had been ordinary, forgettable. This one was sculpted like a statue.

“You must rise,” the eldest priest said, bowing low. “The Church awaits. Today you will be revealed to the people.”

Michael wanted to laugh—reveal what? That their so-called miracle was a soul misplaced? That their prophecy had been botched, their god had sent them not a savior but a man whose only talent was enduring disappointment?

But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he nodded, as though this was normal, as though he belonged.

They dressed him in ceremonial robes, layers of white and silver, the fabric heavy on his shoulders. A sash bound his waist, embroidered with script that glowed faintly when touched by the lanterns. His wrists were wrapped in bands of woven gold, symbols of bondage disguised as reverence.

He was led through corridors of the Dome.

The Dome itself was unlike anything Michael had known. Its walls rose not as flat stone but as seamless crystal infused with pale blue light, curved in vast arcs that made him feel as though he walked within the ribcage of some ancient god. Windows shaped like crescents spilled colored light across the marble floors. Statues of saints and spirits lined the halls, their faces serene, their hands extended as if blessing all who passed.

Everywhere, lanterns. Some small, dangling from hooks. Others towering as tall as men, their flames unwavering despite the drafts that whispered through the corridors. Each lantern pulsed faintly, as though breathing.

The priests murmured prayers as they walked, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic cadences. Michael only half-listened. His attention snagged on the fragments flickering in his mind:

—A child’s hand clutching his thumb.
—A woman’s voice whispering, “Don’t let them see you break.”
—The sterile beep of hospital machinery.

He blinked, and the Dome returned. The memories faded like smoke.

The procession ended at the heart of the Dome: the Sanctum of Ishim.

The chamber was vast, circular, its ceiling a dome within the Dome itself, painted with constellations of gold. At its center rose the Grand Altar, a slab of white stone veined with silver. Behind it loomed the icon of Ishim: a faceless figure carved of crystal, wings unfurled, arms raised in eternal benediction. The crystal glowed faintly, not with light but with presence.

And gathered before it, waiting, were hundreds.

Priests in white. Knights in steel, their weapons—astral summons of divine flame, ice, and storm—resting against their shoulders. Ordinary Dome citizens pressed close, their faces upturned, their eyes hungry for a miracle.

“Behold,” the eldest priest cried, his voice carrying across the chamber, “the Nephilim reborn, the long-awaited prince, the sign that Ishim has not abandoned us!”

The crowd erupted in cries, cheers, prayers. Some wept openly. Others knelt. Lanterns were raised, their flames flaring as if in answer.

Michael stood frozen. Their faith pressed against him like a physical weight. He wanted to step back, to flee, to deny. But he couldn’t. He had no place to flee to.

The eldest priest gestured, and Michael was guided to the altar. A knife was drawn—a ritual blade, silver-edged, carved with scripture. His palm was cut, shallow but stinging. Blood dripped onto the stone. The crystal figure behind the altar flared with light.

The people roared.

Michael felt nothing but a hollow ringing in his ears.

The ceremony stretched long. Blessings were intoned. Oil was painted across his brow. A lantern was placed in his hands, its flame unnervingly warm, pulsing against his skin as though alive.

“You are destiny’s child,” the priest whispered in his ear. “Your path was written before you were born. You cannot fail us. You must not.”

Michael smiled faintly, the kind of smile that did not touch the eyes. He had worn it before, many times, in another life.

As the crowd continued to chant, he let his gaze wander past the priests, past the knights, to the faces of ordinary Dome citizens gathered at the fringes. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed. Old men leaned on canes, tears on their cheeks. And in the very back, he caught sight of a boy—not kneeling, not cheering, simply watching with sharp, restless eyes.

Lewis.

Michael did not know his name yet. But he knew the look. It was the same look he had once carried: hunger, not for food but for meaning, for a place in a world that had no place for him.

The lantern pulsed in his hand. The people chanted. The priests smiled.

And Michael thought, not for the first time since waking:

This life is not mine.