36: Shadows of Two Worlds
The window gave a faint squeak as the latch lifted. A pair of hands, steady and precise, pulled it open just enough to slip through. The figure that climbed inside moved with the ease of someone who had done this countless times before, landing softly on the creaking floorboards.
Moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, brushing across his face. Anyone who looked at him in that moment would have sworn it was Peterson Joseph standing there. The familiar messy curls, the sharp jawline, the lanky frame, the tired but determined eyes—it was all there.
But it wasn't him.
This was the replica, a creation of the Midnight King, carrying Peterson's likeness, his voice, even fragments of his memory. He breathed like Peterson, thought like Peterson, and moved like Peterson. But beneath the skin was something colder, emptier—a shadow pretending to be whole.
The replica glanced at the sleeping twins Amanda and Miranda, curled up in their beds across the room. A small smile curved his lips, the exact way Peterson would smile when catching sight of his sisters. He closed the window carefully behind him, muttering to himself in a whisper only the night could hear.
"I'm Home."
The rooster crowed before the sun had even cracked the horizon. Cap-Haïtien's streets were still quiet, the market women just beginning to stir, their baskets balanced on their heads.
Inside the Joseph home, the replica stretched lazily, rising from his bed with the sluggish motions Peterson often had in the mornings. He rubbed his eyes, smacked his lips like someone shaking off sleep, and dressed quickly. Every gesture was practiced, memorized—yet hollow, like a drum echoing with no sound inside.
Downstairs, the aroma of fried plantains and steaming yams drifted through the house. Their mother, back bent from years of carrying baskets to the market, moved around the small kitchen with quiet efficiency. She didn't look up when he walked in.
"Peterson, good, you woke up in time, help me with these baskets before your sisters come down."
"Yes, Manman," the replica said with warmth that sounded natural. He lifted two baskets, one in each arm, balancing them with the same ease Peterson always did.
But Amanda, coming down the stairs with Miranda trailing close behind, froze on the bottom step. She blinked. For just a second, something about the way her brother smiled seemed… too smooth. Too deliberate. Also wonders, where Lili had gone.
"Morning sis," the replica said, his grin wide.
"Morning big head," Amanda replied, narrowing her eyes. Miranda glanced between them, whispering, "He feels… off."
"Shh," Amanda muttered. "I know, doesn't give the same vibe let's keep an eye on him."
At the table, they ate in rushed bites. The replica teased Amanda about being slow, swiped extra plantains off Miranda's plate, and even earned a scolding from their mother for trying to bolt out the door too soon.
It was all perfectly Peterson. And yet, Amanda and Miranda shared uneasy glances. Their instincts screamed something was wrong, even if they couldn't put it into words.
The three of them set off together, their sandals kicking dust along the road. Vendors were just beginning to shout their prices, the air thick with smoke from early cooking fires.
Miranda whispered while Peterson walked ahead. "I swear, Amanda. He's too… perfect. Like he practiced to be more himself overnight."
Amanda frowned. "It's still him right! It has to be."
"Then why do I feel like it isn't?" Miranda shot back.
The replica turned, grinning at them. "What are you two whispering about? Planning trouble already?"
"Nothing at all big brother " they shouted in unison.
He laughed, shaking his head. "You two are terrible liars, you know that!"
Amanda's stomach twisted. His laugh—it was the same sound as Peterson's. But to her ears, it didn't carry the same warmth. It was like an echo.
By the time they arrived at school, the yard was already loud with noise—students chasing each other, teachers yelling orders, the thud of a ball against the walls.
The replica slipped into place seamlessly. He greeted Wilkens with a friendly slap on the back, cracked a joke with Jean-Daniel about yesterday's lessons, even dodged Gregory and his crew with the same wary caution the real Peterson would have used.
It was flawless.
But for Amanda and Miranda, who sat under the shade of a tree and watched him laugh with his friends, the unease only grew stronger.
"Look at him," Amanda muttered. "He's… he's playing Peterson, we need to find Lili, maybe she knows something."
Miranda hugged her knees. "Then where's our real brother?"
Neither had an answer. Its gonna have to wait until they find Lili.
At lunchtime, the replica sat beneath a mango tree with his friends, biting into a piece of cassava bread.
That's when Naëlle approached. Her steps were slow, her expression carefully guarded. The other boys nudged each other, smirking, but Peterson—or rather the replica—looked up and smiled warmly.
"Hey! Naëlle," he said, as if her name alone carried light.
She hesitated. "Peterson… we need to talk. After school. It's important."
The replica's smile faltered just slightly. For the first time, a flicker of something colder passed across his face. But he caught it quickly, masking it with an easy grin.
"Sure. After school it is" he said.
Amanda, watching from a distance, saw the flicker. She grabbed Miranda's arm. "Did you see that?"
Miranda nodded. "I told you. That's not him."
Far from the dusty schoolyard, in a realm steeped in eternal twilight, the Midnight King walked among shadows.
The settlement stretched wide, its walls black as pitch, houses glowing with eerie blue veins that pulsed like living things. The air carried the scent of ash and ancient dust. But at the center stood the castle—vast, towering, consuming all light. It glowed with nothing. Instead, it swallowed the glow of the world around it, as if the shadows themselves bent to feed its hunger.
The Midnight King's form shifted as he approached. The monstrous shadow melted away. His veve marks vanished, his glowing white eyes dimming into a crimson human gaze.
What remained was his true self:
A tall man clad in black, his presence sharp and commanding. His dreadlocks, long and heavy, streaked grey and dark, were tied neatly behind him, reaching his waist. His beard was short, matching the colors of his hair. His body moved with the weight of authority—every step pressing shadows to kneel.
The settlement grew still as whispers passed through it.
Roi Minuit.
The Midnight King.
At the foot of the castle steps, a broad-shouldered man stood waiting. His arms crossed over his chest, his posture as solid as stone. When the Midnight King drew near, he bowed his head.
"Welcome home, my King."
The Midnight King studied him, lips curving faintly. "Frederick. Loyal as ever."
"I guarded what was yours," Frederick replied, his voice deep and steady. "But I never sat on your throne. It was never mine to claim."
The Midnight King's gaze drifted toward the heavy vault built into the castle wall. Its locks gleamed faintly, wrapped in layers of chain.
"You kept them sealed," he said.
Frederick nodded once. "Your weapons. Your armor. Your crown. No one has touched them. Only you and I can open the vault, no one else have access."
The Midnight King stepped forward, laying a hand on Frederick's shoulder. "Good. The world still remembers loyalty, it seems."
As if to answer him, the vault trembled. Shadows stirred like restless spirits, rattling the chains. Beyond the door, faint glimmers of power pulsed—his arsenal, his legacy, waiting to be wielded once more.
But he did not enter. Not yet.
Instead, he turned toward the throne room.
The black stone seat sat in silence at the heart of the hall, raised high above the ground. Cobwebs clung to its edges, dust layered its steps, but the air around it still crackled with dread.
The Midnight King walked slowly, each step echoing like thunder. The shadows bent low, Frederick lowered his head, and the castle itself seemed to sigh.
When he sat upon the throne, the entire settlement shivered. The walls quaked. The glowing veins in the ground pulsed brighter, spreading outward like veins of lightning.
The Midnight King's lips curled into a satisfied smile.
"Home sweet home," he murmured. His voice carried like a storm, filling the vast hall. "I want you to gather everyone, let them know that I have returned." The Midnight King said
"Yes your majesty, I will make sure every single ones know of your return." Frederick replied.
Back in the mortal world, Amanda and Miranda exchanged uneasy glances in class. Their brother was here—laughing, writing notes, answering questions. But their instincts screamed louder than ever.
Something was wrong.
"I can't take it anymore, let's find Lili after school." Amanda whispered to her sister.
And far away in the Loa's World, the throne of the Midnight King was no longer empty.
Everyone gathered in front of the castle waiting for the king to come out and give them his return speech.