Eyes in the Dust, Stone on the Shore

The morning fog rolled down from the hills like a pale tide, quiet and cold. In the shadows of Nouvo Lakay's western district, beneath a grove of breadfruit trees, Ayola's spies moved like whispers.

The Eye Behind the Door had been watching for weeks. Quiet hands, soft questions, unusual accents—something in the way the outsider carried his weight screamed soldier, not trader.

When they moved, it was like breath vanishing.

He was seized, disarmed, and blindfolded before the dew left the leaves.

A Stranger's Name

Zion stood calmly as the man knelt before him. The stranger's hair was ash-gray. His accent was thick—likely from the cliffside tribes near the Shattered Teeth.

"Your name?" Zion asked.

"Does it matter?" the man replied. "You've already won. What's left to steal?"

Zion studied him—not with contempt, but with a quiet knowing. "You're not a thief. You're a messenger. Someone sent you to measure our heartbeats."

The man was silent.

"Go back," Zion said suddenly, signaling Ayola to step aside. "Tell those who sent you: We are not your enemy. But if you return in shadows, we will no longer speak as brothers."

Ayola narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Her trust in Zion was unwavering, even if it ran against her instincts.

The man was released at the edge of the forest. No chains. Just a message.

He would carry that mercy on his back like a blade.

Stone and Light: The Birth of a Port

Two days later, on the coast where River Sa Lavi met the Sea of Ghosts, the first stone was laid.

Zion stood at the cliffside with sketches drawn from memory—harbor walls, loading docks, and wooden cranes modeled after old Earth mechanics. He directed laborers with simple tools, gears crafted in iron and pulleys built with tension-tested rope. Earth knowledge woven into Bassoon muscle.

"We need windbreakers here," Zion pointed, drawing lines in the sand. "And a central dock deep enough for incoming trade vessels—even ones with heavy hulls. Eventually, we build wooden ships with inner ribs like Earth's schooners."

Carpenters and masons took notes in clay tablets. Children carried sand. Elders blessed the shoreline with coconut water and white ash.

The sea, once a place of mystery, now felt like a promise.

Knowledge Rising

Back in Nouvo Lakay, an open clearing was marked by five tall stone poles—each etched with the veves of Ayizan, the guardian of knowledge. This would become Zantrayel's first school.

Zion ordered its design after Earth's open-air academies—no walls yet, just shaded canopies, slate boards, and benches made from polished stone.

Lessons began with simple truths:

What is a Zan?

Why does fire rise?

How do you measure water?

How do you draw your Lwa's Simbo by memory?

The priestesses helped develop the learning structure, ensuring both divine tradition and practical knowledge remained in harmony.

⚔️ The Envoy from the Red Valley

On the sixth night, a caravan arrived under the cover of dusk—painted carts, oxen with red feathers, and warriors bearing spears tipped with volcanic glass.

The Red Valley Tribe, one of the last unconquered peoples within Zantrayel's new borders.

Their envoy, a tall woman named Ma'Kira, stood before Zion with her arms crossed.

"We do not want your Zans," she said coldly. "We trade in blood and beast, not coin. You are not our king."

Zion did not react with anger. Instead, he stepped down from the temple stairs and faced her as an equal.

"You are inside Zantrayel's borders," he said. "And we will not force your people to pray with us, or speak our tongue. But trade must have meaning. The coin is not just currency. It is sacred. It binds not with chains—but with choice."

Ma'Kira narrowed her eyes. "Choice is illusion when you hold the only road."

Zion smiled faintly. "Then I will build more roads. And I will walk with you until you believe this land is yours, too."

He offered her a single copper Zan, etched with Erzulie Freda's symbol.

She did not take it.

But she did not leave.

A Country in Motion

That night, as the stars pierced the dark veil, Zion stood on the temple roof watching lanterns glow from the first harbor cranes.

The stranger had been sent back with a warning. The port and school had taken root. And though resistance stirred at the edges, the land was breathing—shifting, changing.

Zion pressed a hand against his back, feeling the warmth of the Lwa's sigils alive beneath his skin.

"Let them doubt," he whispered. "We are still becoming