Ambassadors of Firelight

The sun broke through mist over the hilltops of Zantrayel, casting long golden rays down into the courtyard of the Ministry of Outreach—a new wing added to the capital's ever-growing heart. At its center, Zion stood cloaked in the deep navy of Zantrayel's diplomatic mantle, the sigils of the 234 Lwa glowing faintly across the cloth.

This was not a march to war. This was something older, deeper.

This was a mission to shape Bassoon's soul.

The Council of Approach

Gathered before Zion stood his seven closest companions, the five priestesses, and envoys trained from among the youth of the new land—readers, record-keepers, peace-walkers.

Each would be sent to a different region:

West, to the tribes of the Dust Hills, where warriors still fought for salt and river rights.

South, toward the marshland hunters who had never bowed to a name.

Northeast, where once-exiled clans had begun forming fragile pacts out of fear.

And the interior, where dozens of migrants arrived weekly, seeking light, but not yet understanding law.

Zion raised his hand over a large stone table carved with the relief of Bassoon's lands.

"You do not go as conquerors," he said. "You go as mirrors. Let them see what we have built. Let them question what they've known."

The Words They Carried

Each envoy was given a scroll bearing the Principles of Citizenship—a clear outline of what it meant to belong to Zantrayel:

Equality before the law.

Freedom of belief, unless that belief leads to blood.

Shared contribution to protection, learning, and trade.

Respect for the Lwa, whose sigils now guard the land.

Choice—entry into Zantrayel was never forced. But neither was its protection free.

Alongside the scrolls, they carried gifts from Nouvo Lakay—stonework, polished steel tools, parchment inked with language lessons, seed pouches from the blessed fields, and small talismans bearing the sigils of the five priestesses.

Each gift said: "We are not afraid to share."

Among the Migrants

Back in the southern edges of Zantrayel, Zion met personally with newly arrived groups, many from regions he had only heard about in whispers.

The leaders of these wandering bands were wary at first—men and women used to loss, distrust, and makeshift rule.

One approached the firepit where Zion sat with Ayola and offered his doubts plainly:

"Why should I give up what little I rule? I have my own people, my own name."

Zion didn't rise. He simply gestured to the circle.

"You are welcome to keep your name. But can you offer your people safe roads? A place to learn letters? Fields where harvests are protected by law, not blade?"

The man's silence was long and bitter. But he didn't leave. He stayed three more nights, and on the fourth, offered to send two of his daughters to be taught in Zantrayel's schools.

One day, he said, they would return—not just with knowledge, but with the truth of what leadership could be.

The First Embassy

From the south, near the Delta Tribes, the first formal agreement of alliance arrived.

Their scroll was crude—symbols carved into pressed bark—but it bore the seal of three chiefs, who declared:

"We do not yet understand this 'country,' but we will not stand against it. Teach us. We will send our own."

Zion placed the scroll in the Temple of Names, beneath the altar where the Lwa stones shimmered in quiet harmony.

Seeds Planted in Unfamiliar Soil

Not all diplomatic missions returned with peace.

One envoy, Maru of the Inland Reach, came back bloodied and bruised.

"They laughed at us," he told Zion, kneeling with shame. "Burned the scrolls. Said Zantrayel was a dream built by cowards who forgot the beast-world we live in."

Zion said nothing for a long while.

Then he placed his hand on Maru's shoulder and whispered:

"They do not know it yet, but one day they will envy our peace. And if their people ever come—hollow-eyed and desperate—we will feed them."

Zantrayel's Light Begins to Spread

As weeks passed, more envoys returned—some bearing letters of interest, others bringing would-be students, builders, and farmers. The first foreign teachers were approved to begin training in the capital.

Some called it a miracle.

Others—a threat.

But none denied that the world of Bassoon was waking up… and Zantrayel had become the beacon by which it now measured the future.