Coins and Shadows

The sky over Nouvo Lakay shimmered with morning light, soft and golden, spilling across the temple steps and the open square below. Zion stood at the center of the gathering circle, the rising sun glinting off the polished stone behind him. At his side stood the five priestesses and his seven lifelong companions, their eyes fixed on the future.

He raised a hand, and the voices of the people hushed. The market quieted. The forge fires cooled. From the humble farmers and fishers to the elders of the outer tribes, all eyes turned to the one they now called Zion the Reforged.

"Today," he said, voice clear and resolute, "we shape the bones of Zantrayel's future. Not with blade or fire, but with trust, meaning—and purpose."

He reached into a wooden box carved with sacred veves and pulled out a small, gleaming coin.

It was not ordinary metal. The coin pulsed with a faint warmth. Its surface bore the sacred Simbo of Erzulie Freda, goddess of love, beauty, and balance. The coin was a prayer hammered into copper—a promise.

"This is a Zan," he said. "A gift from the gods and the people together. Our currency. A sacred way to trade, to build, to grow—not just with one another, but with the world beyond."

He held up four more coins, each cast in silver, gold, and rare mithril. Each bore a different Simbo—Papa Legba's crossroad, Ogou's flaming blade, Ayizan's sacred gate.

Together, they weren't just coins.

They were a language.

The Coins of Zantrayel

Each coin shimmered with meaning.

The 1 Zan, copper and humble, bore Erzulie Freda's veve—for the common folk, for balance in trade.

The 10 Zan, forged in silver, carried Papa Legba's symbol—for passage, for communication, for daily commerce.

The 100 Zan, bold and golden, bore Ogou Feray's mark—for strength, honor, war, and reward.

The 1000 Zan, rare and mithril, pulsed faintly in the dark. It carried Ayizan's symbol—for law, for sacred structure, for legacy.

Every coin was a spiritual offering. Before use, it must be kissed to the forehead or passed over incense—connecting transaction to divine blessing.

⚖️ Resistance and Doubt

Nouvo Lakay welcomed the change quickly. Markets shifted. Coins clinked. The sound of hammers forging sacred symbols echoed through the city.

But in the distant villages—places where offerings were made with gourds of milk, or bundles of yam—the new order stirred confusion and quiet rebellion.

In a rocky village nestled along the Singing Cliffs, an old woman turned over a copper coin in her calloused palm.

"What do I feed my grandchildren with this?" she asked, handing it back. "Can I plant it in the earth? Will it give birth to cassava?"

Another elder spat to the side. "No spirit told us to use these."

Word of the unrest reached Zion, and he went to them—not as a king, but as a brother. He wore no crown. Only his staff, and the sigils across his back.

He sat by their fires, broke bread, and listened.

"A coin is not a goat," he admitted gently. "It cannot be eaten, it cannot sing. But it carries a promise. With one Zan, a fisherman from the river can trade with a herder on the mountain. With ten Zans, your child might pay for a future lesson. And each coin bears the face of a god—so that even in the market, we remember the sacred."

His words planted seeds, slow to grow but firm in soil.

To help, the priestesses organized Blessing Circles, where villagers brought the first coins and watched them be anointed with oil, water, and ash. Children learned to trace veves with chalk, then match them to the coins in their hands.

In time, doubt gave way to ritual, and ritual gave way to trust.

Beneath the Light, Shadows Stirred

But while Zion sowed unity, others watched from the dark.

Across the sea of trees, beyond the Whispering Ridge, cloaked travelers moved between border villages—whispering in foreign tongues, offering rare spices for low prices, and always asking: Who leads the capital? Where do the coins travel? How are the guards trained?

They were not traders.

They were spies.

Some worked for rival tribes. Others for distant nations curious about Zantrayel's sudden rise. One infiltrator made it all the way to a blacksmith's forge in Nouvo Lakay, asking questions about coin molds and smelting temperatures.

But Ayola, priestess of Papa Legba, had already seen signs in her mirrors and bones.

"The gods open doors," she told her most trusted scouts. "We must stand behind them."

And so, she formed a quiet counter-force. The Eye Behind the Door. Disguised as vendors, scribes, and herbalists, they recorded every strange name, every awkward accent, every hand that touched a coin too carefully.

The Pulse of a Nation

Back in the capital, the coins flowed like water. Market stalls expanded. Children learned to count Zans in school alongside reading and ritual.

One child held a gold Zan to the light and whispered, "Ogou, let me be strong like you."

At night, the priestesses offered baskets of coins at the central altar. As the fires rose, the coins glowed—answering.

Zion watched from his tower, arms folded, a tired but fulfilled smile on his face.

"We've given them a tool," he murmured to Ayomi beside him. "Now let's give them the world to shape with it