When she entered the frame, it was white at first, but the further she fell, the darker it became. It felt like an omen—a bad one. A sharp pain struck her. She knew this couldn't just be the experience of passing through the frame; something was wrong. It had to be a spell. It's Alkea, she realized. He was the only one capable of such a thing.
On the other side of the frame, Alkea smirked as he watched. He flipped through the Book of Ages, and though he couldn't steal it, he had memorized a forbidden chant. The words spilled from his lips as Aria screamed. His chant grew louder.
"Seize him!" commanded the angel of the Church of Philadelphia, but Alkea wasn't going down that easily. He felt the power of the world itself coursing through him. After all, he had learned a chant that was supposed to be known only by the angels of the Seven Churches. Not even their leaders knew of it. The crowd's eyes widened in shock.
"Isn't that Ambatyat Dam?" someone whispered. "Yes, the forbidden spell," came the reply.
The guards charged at him in fury, but Alkea was ready. As he chanted, his hand conjured a shield that covered his entire body. The guards tried to break through, but no matter how hard they tried, it didn't work. They couldn't understand why, but Alkea knew—he had drawn power directly from his own soul. It weakened him, yes, but he was willing to die if it meant Aria would die with him.
This spell was dangerous. Forbidden, even, because it could kill the one who cast it.
"How many spells does he know?" was the thought running through everyone's mind. "If I can't be the Naghid Hamalakim, then no one can!" Alkea shouted in defiance.
He moved closer to the frame, but was stopped by the angel of the Church of Philadelphia. The other angels poured their power into the frame, purifying it. Alkea, desperate, tried to get closer, hoping to close the frame and trap Aria in a loop. But then, he felt it—a powerful force shattered his shield as if it were nothing. It was the angel of Philadelphia.
"So, this is the power of the angel of Philadelphia," he thought to himself. Just as he processed the thought, the angel unleashed another blast of power, and with that, Alkea was gone. His body vanished without a trace.
But even with Alkea gone, the battle wasn't over for Aria. She wasn't stuck in a loop, but something far worse had happened. Alkea's laughter echoed in the air, but it wasn't his voice. It lingered, hauntingly, as he spoke: "Yes, she might not be dead, but she is lost."
Everyone looked around, but there was no sign of him.
"Go find the leader's soul," commanded the angel of Philadelphia. The angels hid themselves, becoming invisible to normal humans, and began searching for Aria's soul. They scoured every living soul and reported back that she wasn't found.
Then, the Lorreaper—the guide of the dead—came forward with troubling news. "As I was leading the dead to his resting place, something strange happened. When the soul of the dead left the body, another soul entered. The body became alive again."
The guards immediately rushed to check the situation. And sure enough, it was her. She wasn't dead—just asleep. The guard angel placed a mark at the back of her neck, a mark that would identify her to the heavens. They reported back, confirming their findings.
Akiva
Akiva grew up in a harsh environment—or at least, that's what she believed. The only memories she had were of the previous owner of the body she now inhabited. Her name had been Liana. And Liana's life? It had been anything but easy.
Liana had been adopted by a wealthy American family, high-society aristocrats with pristine reputations. On the outside, it seemed like she'd won the lottery. But behind the grand doors and luxurious meals was a bitter truth—she hadn't been adopted out of love. She was taken in as a trophy, a convenient addition to make the family look charitable. She was never treated as a daughter. In fact, most days she felt more like a maid than anything else. Occasionally, they would show her kindness, just enough to confuse her, to make her wonder if maybe, just maybe, things would get better.
She had siblings in her adoptive home, but they weren't exactly cruel. As long as she obeyed them and understood her place, they let her be. But deep down, Liana always wondered if God had forgotten about her. She was a shy child, never one to cause trouble. With no biological parents to protect her, she drifted quietly through life like a leaf caught in the wind.
School was no better. In elementary school, she was a favorite target for bullies. She didn't even need to say anything wrong—they just picked on her because they could. And when she stood her ground, they would frame her, make up lies, and get her in trouble. Over time, teachers and students alike began to dislike her. She wasn't a people-pleaser; she simply preferred to avoid people altogether. But she loved animals. Animals didn't judge. They didn't gossip or punish her for existing.
Liana had been a deeply depressed child for as long as she could remember. Yet within her heart burned a small, fierce hope. She clung to the fragment of knowledge that she had a real family out there—somewhere. She had heard once that she had a brother named Joshua and younger sisters, separated from her at a young age. That spark of hope kept her alive. She made a promise to herself: she would grow up, get adopted by the right family, succeed, and reunite with her lost family.
Every day, Liana cried outside her house, wishing—just wishing—for a bit of warmth. She didn't want pity. She already pitied herself. She didn't care about appearances or fitting in. She had one goal: success. But life, as always, threw punches.
In school, she was frequently blamed for things she didn't do. When she tried to defend herself, she was punished—caned, shouted at, humiliated. After so many times, she grew numb to the pain and to the lies. Eventually, she thought, If everyone already believes I'm a liar, why not act the part? And so, she started lying. Not because she was deceitful, but because it was easier to accept the label than to keep fighting it.
She was insulted daily, ears ringing with cruel words. Still, she cried in silence and worked harder, believing she could earn her adoptive parents' love. But love doesn't work like that—not the kind she needed. At school, she wore expensive clothes and designer shoes, but no one knew that underneath the shine, she was breaking. Her parents thought money equaled love. But all she wanted was to be seen. To be acknowledged. To be held.
All that pain—she poured it into her studies. She became the smart girl. But even then, she couldn't win. Her handwriting wasn't neat enough, and that lowered her grades. It felt like the world had her trapped in a loop of failure. The pressure was so intense, she began experiencing severe mental strain. Her thoughts felt hazy, and she knew something inside her was slowly cracking.
She made a decision: if she couldn't be happy at home or at school, she would change something. So she started speaking. At first, it shocked everyone. She had been silent for so long, people didn't know what to make of her voice. Some avoided her. Others whispered. But then, something unexpected happened.
A girl named Lily accepted her.
Lily was different—she was a kleptomaniac, a compulsive thief—but Liana didn't care. She understood that people often carried pain that made them act out. And with Lily, Liana felt seen for the first time. They laughed, told stories, and walked to class together. For once, Liana had a reason to wake up in the morning.
But the universe wasn't done testing her.
One day, Lily was caught stealing. She was expelled. Liana cried. Her classmates mocked her: "Your only friend is a thief." Once again, she was alone.
Middle school came. She tried to start over—fresh school, fresh people. But her beauty sparked jealousy. Girls called her dirty, spread rumors, and isolated her. The bullying returned like a ghost she could never escape.
Liana was a Christian, and by eighth grade, she felt her spirit breaking. She couldn't end her life—her faith forbade it—but she longed for peace, even if it meant death. She started walking to and from school just to get alone time. She prayed that a car would hit her. That would be easier, she thought. That wouldn't be her fault.
And one day, a car did.
She saw a flash of light. Her life played before her eyes, and for the first time, she felt relief. Finally, she thought. I'm free.
But death wasn't waiting with open arms. A figure stood before her—a reaper, cloaked in darkness. But from his perspective, something strange happened. As Liana's spirit left her body, another entered. A spirit not of this world. Her name was Akiva.
The reaper reported the anomaly immediately, and Liana's soul was taken to the angel of the Church of Philadelphia. It was decided: Liana's soul would be cleansed, healed, and sent back to Earth—not to reclaim her body, but to guide Akiva. She would exist as a comforting voice in Akiva's mind. A guardian of sorts.
Liana agreed. But she was afraid. Her life had been filled with pain—how could Akiva survive it?
Back in the hospital, Akiva woke up. She didn't know who she truly was anymore. She had Liana's memories, Liana's pain, Liana's tears. It was like the two were one.
Doctors kept her for two extra days. As she recovered, she looked around at the other patients—so many people suffering. And something stirred in her heart. She began to pray for each one, quietly, gently. The next morning, every patient in her ward was healed. People praised her, thanked her. But Akiva couldn't believe it had anything to do with her.
When it was time to go home, a nurse pulled her mother aside and whispered, "Your daughter is a witch."
Her mother, stunned and scared, began dragging Akiva from church to church, desperate for answers. Things only worsened at home. Her mother treated her like something cursed. Yet through it all, Akiva smiled. She worked hard, helped everyone she could, and radiated love. People began to notice: Liana, or rather Akiva, was no longer the same.
She dressed beautifully—elegant, glowing. She wore earrings and jewelry, looked like royalty. But whenever she felt sad or overwhelmed, she opened her Bible, closed her eyes, and pointed to a random verse. Then she read it like it was a message sent straight from Heaven.
One morning, the verse read: "Remember the Lord in the days of your youth."
She smiled. She already did. She loved Jesus. She loved singing His praise. She had a beautiful voice but was painfully shy. Still, she started writing songs—simple, catchy, heartfelt. She dreamed of sharing them with the world. But she had no phone, no camera. And even if she did, her parents would punish her if they saw her online.
So she waited. Trusted. Believed.
One afternoon, as she walked home from school, she met a man—a seer.
He looked straight into her soul. Told her things no one could know. "Your earrings," he said, "they're blocking the voices. The spirits are trying to speak to you. But the jewelry is interfering."
She blinked, stunned. He continued, "You are powerful, but you are covered in a dark garment. But you are not of this world."
He asked her if she had read Revelation chapters 2 and 3. "You," he said, "you are from the Church of Philadelphia."
That night, Liana—or what remained of her within Akiva—took off her earrings. She opened her Bible to Revelation 2–3. And there it was. The seven churches. And as she read about Philadelphia, something awakened inside her. A pull. A connection. A whisper.
You are a blessed child.
From that moment on, she never wore earrings again.