“The Weight of Gods”

"All kings are tested—not by their enemies, but by the gods who made them."

The moon bled crimson over the Sacred Grove.

Zion walked alone, his shadow long behind him, cast by no fire. The people slept uneasily tonight, or pretended to. He heard no drums, no birdsong—only the pull, the silent command, calling him forward into the hush of trees ancient and watching.

He passed the woven reeds, the bone charms, the vevé drawn in ash and salt. His heart thundered. Not in fear—he had walked among gods before—but tonight… it felt different.

The veil between worlds was thinner than breath.

He stepped into the clearing.

And they were already there.

Papa Legba, seated on a broken gate, cane across his knees, his face both ancient and childlike.

Erzulie Freda, wrapped in crimson silk, eyes glowing with unshed tears.

Ogou Feray, armor cracked and steaming, his blade planted into scorched earth.

Ayizan, faceless, veiled by roots and leaves that moved like breathing.

And Baron Samedi, lounging on a throne of skulls and laughter.

They said nothing.

Zion lowered himself to one knee, then rose to stand. "You called," he said.

Papa Legba nodded slowly. "We watched."

The fire crackled without flame.

"You build councils. You speak of unity. But hear us well, child of two lands," Legba's voice rolled like thunder across memory, "do not become another Jean-Jacques Dessalines."

Zion's breath caught.

Erzulie Freda stepped forward, bare feet skimming the earth. Her voice was soft, sharp as crushed glass.

"He fought for the broken. Freed the chained. But in his fury, he forgot mercy. He forgot balance."

Ogou's sword trembled in the ground.

"He conquered, then ruled with fire," Ogou said. "He silenced fear with blood. Is that what you build, Zion? A nation ruled by the weight of your name?"

Zion's jaw tightened. "I seek peace."

Baron laughed. "So did he. Until the power tasted too sweet. And peace became obedience."

Ayizan finally spoke—through wind, through silence, through the rustle of leaves in Zion's soul.

"Remember: the one who frees the people must never become the cage."

Before Zion could answer, a voice echoed from the grove's edge.

"Zion?" Makho.

Zion turned, alarm flaring. "Wait! Don't—"

Too late.

Makho stepped into the grove. Tano followed. Two others behind them. Warriors. Brothers. Councilmen.

And then—

The grove changed.

The warmth shattered.

The Lwa turned.

What had been veiled in grace now roared in truth.

Makho dropped to his knees, eyes wide in terror. Tano screamed. One of the younger men collapsed, vomiting as shadows curled around him like vines.

Ogou rose, blade in hand, face blackened with smoke and rage.

"You come without offering. Without permission. Without humility."

His voice split the air like a blade drawn across bone.

Erzulie's beauty twisted—no longer radiant, but unbearable. Her tears flowed blood.

"You think us dreams and blessings. We are not tame."

Baron stepped forward, one finger pressed to a councilman's chest.

"You want to lead with Zion?" he hissed. "Then stand beneath the weight he carries."

And he pressed—gently, but the man screamed like his soul was cracking.

Ayizan's branches curled around them. A single whisper filled all their minds:

"Remember your place."

Zion moved. Not in defiance—but in pleading.

He dropped to his knees between his gods and his brothers.

"Please," he said softly. "They meant no insult. They are young. And loyal."

The grove pulsed. Silence.

Then, Papa Legba raised his cane. He tapped it once upon the ground.

The weight lifted.

The grove stilled.

The councilmen gasped, crawling back out of the grove like broken things. None of them dared look back.

Only Zion remained, breathing hard, hands trembling.

Baron tilted his head. "You still want to lead?"

"I do."

"You still want to share power?"

"I must."

Erzulie watched him for a long time. "Then remember: lead with love. Rule with restraint. And let no fear of loss drive you to cruelty."

Ogou nodded once. "We will not stop you, Zion. But we will stop what you might become."

Ayizan's voice drifted again:

"Lead as a servant, not as a savior. Or you will fall."

The Lwa turned, fading into shadow, perfume, steel, and wind.

And Zion stood alone in the clearing—marked not by glory, but by the ache of wisdom.

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