THE OFFICE PARTY PROPHECY
1158 Words
The office buzzed with an odd kind of tension—the kind that came when management handed out party invitations with plastic smiles and vague promises of “team building.”
Ama stared at the gold-foiled envelope on her desk. Inside: one elegant card embossed with a crescent moon and the words: TONIGHT. 8 PM. LEVEL 21.
Level 21 didn’t exist on the company directory.
“Secret club meeting or mid-tier attempt at fun?” her colleague Nnenna asked, peeking over the cubicle wall.
Ama smiled faintly. “Somewhere between a rave and a ritual, I guess.”
She didn’t mention the mark burning softly beneath her blouse. Again.
---
At 8:03 PM, Ama stepped into the mirrored elevator wearing a sleek black dress and uncertainty wrapped around her like perfume. Her curls framed her face, her eyes lined in gold. She hadn’t dressed for a party.
She dressed for war.
The elevator dinged.
Level 21 was nothing like she expected.
A wide-open loft, glittering with chandeliers and string lights. Music floated through the air—soft jazz with a tribal rhythm beneath it. People laughed, drank, danced. At first glance, it looked like a regular office party.
But she could feel it.
The veil.
Some of the guests shimmered—subtle glamour hiding their true forms. A woman in white with a wolf’s shadow. A man whose eyes didn’t blink. Another who seemed to have no reflection at all.
And then…
Kyen.
By the bar. In a charcoal suit. Collar open, sleeves rolled, eyes already on her like he’d felt her enter the moment the doors opened.
He didn’t smile. Just watched.
Ama made her way to him, weaving through veiled strangers who parted around her like water.
“Didn’t peg you for the party type,” she said as she reached him.
Kyen’s gaze traveled the length of her, unapologetically. “Didn’t peg you for a goddess in black. Yet here we are.”
She raised a brow. “That your version of a compliment?”
He leaned in slightly. “Would you like a better one?”
“I’d like answers.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
He handed her a glass—water, not wine. She took it, surprised. “You’re being careful.”
“Your power is waking. Alcohol might blur the edges in ways you’re not ready for.”
Ama sipped. “You say that like you’ve watched it happen before.”
His gaze darkened. “I have.”
They stood in silence, watching the crowd. The music shifted—subtle dissonance woven beneath the melody. Ama felt a pulse beneath her feet.
“What is this really?” she asked.
Kyen tipped his glass toward the crowd. “A convergence. Once a year, the court allows a gathering in the neutral zone. Safe ground. Supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“Sometimes… secrets bleed through.”
As if on cue, the music stopped.
A hush swept the room. A figure stepped onto the stage—a woman, tall, draped in silver. Her face masked. In her hand: a tarot deck.
“Tonight,” she said, “a truth will be revealed. The stars demand it.”
She turned toward the crowd, eyes falling on Ama.
“The one who bears the spiral must draw.”
Murmurs.
Ama froze. Kyen touched her elbow.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
“I do,” she replied, stepping forward.
The masked woman held out the deck.
“Think of nothing. Let the night choose.”
Ama drew.
The card pulsed with warmth. She flipped it over.
The Lovers.
But the art was wrong. Twisted.
The two figures were chained back-to-back. One bore fire. The other shadow. And between them: a crumbling bridge.
The crowd reacted. Some gasped. Others turned away.
The masked woman bowed. “The prophecy awakens. The spiral binds two. One shall choose light. One shall fall into the dark.”
Kyen’s expression was unreadable.
Ama turned to him. “What does it mean?”
He took the card from her hand and whispered, “That fate hasn’t decided who becomes the night.”
---
Later, when the crowd scattered and the lights dimmed, Ama stood by the balcony. Lagos glittered below like a constellation fallen to Earth.
Kyen joined her, his jacket now slung over one shoulder.
“Still not going to explain that prophecy fully?” she asked.
“I’m waiting for the part where you demand it.”
“I thought we passed flirty riddles,” she said.
“We haven’t even scratched the surface,” he murmured, stepping closer.
She met his gaze. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“I think you’re scared of what you might become. And maybe… of how much I already know you.”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “Then tell me who I was. Before all this.”
Kyen didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a hand and gently brushed her hair back, exposing the mark on her collarbone. His fingers lingered, reverent.
“You were fire in a world of shadows. You were the girl who ran toward the storm. And I was the one sent to watch you fall.”
Ama’s breath caught.
“Did I fall?” she asked.
His thumb traced the mark. “No. You made the storm kneel.”
And then he kissed her.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
It was a memory returning home.
---
They parted too quickly.
The sky cracked with thunder.
Somewhere below, a scream.
Kyen’s eyes shifted, briefly glowing silver.
Ama turned toward the city.
“Something’s coming,” she said.
Kyen nodded. “And we’re no longer hidden.”
Behind them, the tarot card on the stage caught fire.
The Lovers burned.
---
The woman in silver was gone by the time Ama returned inside. No sign of her. No deck. Only ash. A handful of guests still lingered, sipping drinks and whispering like the night had split something open.
Ama scanned the room. Her spiral mark still hummed. But not in fear.
In awakening.
Kyen moved through the crowd like a shadow. His presence calmed her and unsettled her at once. She followed him with her eyes as he approached a man standing near the piano—tall, with gold cuffs and eyes too still.
“You saw him?” she asked as Kyen returned.
He nodded. “A watcher from the Silent Order. They don’t usually appear at gatherings like this.”
“Why now?”
“Because the prophecy’s been activated. Your presence confirmed it. That card wasn’t random.”
She exhaled. “What happens now?”
“Everyone will want a piece of you.”
Ama turned toward the darkened glass. “Let them try.”
Kyen smiled. “There’s the girl I remember.”
---
Back in her apartment, the spiral glowed. And outside her window, the moon pulsed once—and disappeared.
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