The Birth of a Country

The morning sky above Nouvo Lakay broke open in a wash of golden light, like a divine blessing cast upon the land. Drums echoed through the valley, steady and full, not as a call to war—but as the heartbeat of something new. Beneath the rebuilt stone gate, once marred by beast and betrayal, the people gathered. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers, mothers with infants tied to their backs, elders leaning on canes carved from sacred wood. All of them had survived. All of them had endured.

And now, they would become more than survivors.

On the wide steps of the central platform, Zion stood beside the priestesses—Ayola, Thalia, Seal, Ayomi, and Elis—clad not in war paint, but ceremonial robes stitched with the symbols of unity. Behind them, the Lwa observed silently, their forms cloaked in human guise, but their power palpable like thunder waiting to break.

Zion raised his voice, steady, resolute.

"Today, we are no longer a scattered people. No longer just tribes clutching to fragments of the old world. Today, we are one."

He turned, and the priestesses stepped forward, placing their hands upon a carved stone—etched with the crest of the seven sigils, the crest of the new land.

"From this moment forward, we declare ourselves a nation. A sanctuary for the broken, a shield for the weak, a hammer for the unjust. This land, these borders, these hearts… form the sovereign country of Zantrayèl."

A wave of sound broke out. Not cheering, not shouting—singing. The song of the people, old hymns woven with new words. The fire of hope rising in their chests.

Zion continued:

"Our capital shall remain here, in Nouvo Lakay, the cradle of this new beginning. We are 2,457 strong. Not many, but enough. Enough to build, to defend, to thrive."

As the wind rose, Papa Legba stepped forward and placed a hand on Zion's shoulder.

"Let this land be blessed. Let its people walk with spirit, with wisdom, and with teeth bared only for the righteous fight."

A pillar of light shone from the heavens, then split in seven directions—each touching a region of the land. Each tribe, each mountain path, each valley where the lost had returned.

The nation of Zantrayèl was born—not from conquest, not from bloodlines—but from the ashes of survival and the promise of something greater.

And though shadows stirred beyond the far rift, and whispers of war still clung to the earth, for one moment… peace reigned.

And it was enough