Seeds in Strange Soil

The sun rose over Nouvo Lakay, gilding the city's rooftops in soft gold. Smoke curled gently from chimney stacks, children ran barefoot through the polished stone courtyards, and music danced through the open streets—a sound neither Kasa's nor Kalonji's people had ever heard played on metal-stringed instruments.

To the six envoys, Zantrayel was a dream carved from discipline and belief—an impossible vision made real.

The Eyes of the Flamewalkers

For Rasha, the eldest envoy of Kasa's tribe, the very concept of a city—of people living without walls of spears—was confounding.

"You have no lookouts?" she asked Zion's brother Tayé as they toured the city walls.

Tayé smiled. "We have towers, yes—but not to guard against neighbors. Our strength lies not just in stone, but in unity. A true country builds peace into its foundation."

That evening, Rasha walked the night streets alone, watching how lanterns lit paths for old women, how no patrol harassed the workers returning home. This was not weakness, she realized—it was order made from trust.

From Shell to Sky

Olon, envoy of Kalonji, stood in awe at the Library of Whispers—Zantrayel's modest but growing archive of Earth knowledge. Shelves bore writings on law, medicine, navigation, and agriculture. Scrolls and sketches shared space with Lwa-blessed tablets, offering both faith and function.

He placed a trembling hand on a blueprint of a water wheel.

"In Kalonji's domain, the rivers run free—but we have never thought to ask them to work for us."

His voice was hoarse with wonder.

A young Zantrayel boy, no older than ten, leaned over and whispered, "If the wind can work for us too, we can build boats that cross the whole sky."

Olon blinked.

Later that week, he asked permission to sleep near the workshop, just to hear the hammering of builders—just to listen to the rhythm of progress.

Shared Meals, Shared Minds

Zantrayel's people welcomed the envoys with curiosity. Children brought them offerings of carved wood and dried fruit; elders asked them to tell stories of their homelands.

The envoys didn't come to lecture. They came to learn.

They sat in schools beside villagers, learning mathematics for the first time. They watched lessons on planting cycles drawn from both Earth and Bassoon's natural rhythm. They even joined ritual offerings under the watchful eyes of the Lwa, learning the sacred names that now protected Zantrayel's borders.

They were no longer observers. They were becoming believers.

Reflections and Ripples

Each night, the envoys gathered in a small stone house built just for them, lighting a single lantern in the center.

Rasha turned to Olon and asked, "Do you think our people will accept this?"

Olon nodded slowly. "They won't understand at first. But if we bring back the light—not just the flame—they will see."

"What if they fear it?"

"Then we must be the ones who carry it gently, not as fire to burn, but as fire to warm."

They wrote everything down. They shared drawings. They recorded sounds, songs, prayers. They practiced their teachings with the people of Zantrayel until the words no longer felt foreign.

Zion Watches

From a balcony high above, Zion stood watching.

He did not interrupt their learning. He did not guide their hand.

He had lit the torch—now it was theirs to carry.

He turned to the priestess Sael, who stood at his side.

"Do you think they'll succeed?" she asked.

Zion smiled, his voice quiet. "They already are. Change begins in the heart long before it touches the land."

And so, the first six seeds of diplomacy and knowledge took root in Zantrayel soil, stretching quietly toward a new dawn.