The River Watches

The sun rose over Zantrayel, not as fire—but as warmth. A golden hush swept over the capital, Nouvo Lakay, where wide boulevards and busy stone streets hummed with new life. The air smelled of baked yam, river salt, and fresh ink—books being copied by hand for the growing schools. Children chased one another between stalls. Bakers shouted prices. Messengers dashed across bridges with scrolls pressed to their chest like treasure.

A country was no longer being born. It was growing.

Life in the Time of Change

In the fields beyond the walls, irrigation systems diverted river water to once-barren soil. Farmers no longer feared famine. Tools carved from steel—an Earth alloy reborn on Bassoon—dug twice as fast. More food meant more trade. More trade meant more conversation. And from conversation, new culture bloomed.

Women who once bore arms now bore tablets and chalk. Warriors trained in shifts and spent their off hours learning carpentry or law. A once-superstitious people now understood the stars enough to track seasons. Births were now recorded. Names remembered in writing.

Some of the old priests called it unnatural.

But the people—the everyday souls of Zantrayel—called it a blessing.

A Goddess Walks

And by the riverbed, where lilies bloomed thick as breath, Erzulie Freda emerged in silence.

She wore a dress of mist and pearls, and the water kissed her ankles as she stepped onto the soft earth. None saw her arrival. None heard her laughter. But as she walked among them—disguised in simple form, glowing ever so faintly—a peace swept through the square like perfume.

A young woman offered her a ribbon.

An old man tipped his hat, unaware who he greeted.

A child ran past her and stopped—gazing, eyes wide.

"You're pretty," she said.

Erzulie smiled. "So are you, ti cheri."

She moved on, unseen and known. Watching.

Watching how love had changed these people.

Not just romantic love, but the love of purpose, of shared future, of dignity.

She paused before the statue in the center of the square—a monument to unity, showing Zion with arms outstretched, his seven companions beside him, and the five priestesses surrounding them in protection.

Erzulie reached up and pressed her hand to the stone.

"He learns," she whispered. "He remembers love, even in power."

And the stone felt warm beneath her palm.

Ripples in the River

Not all was perfect. There were tensions.

Some feared change still came too fast. Others worried about enemies in the dark. The market had new disputes over coin and pricing. Scholars argued how much Earth knowledge should be taught. Even now, beyond the hills, border guards kept their spears close.

But through it all—the people had hope.

Zantrayel had become more than a refuge.

It was becoming an identity.

A rhythm.

A future.

The Goddess Turns

Erzulie walked back to the water's edge as the sun fell toward evening. She looked once more at the children playing near the temple steps, the elders laughing beneath shade trees, the priestesses teaching new acolytes the sacred signs of the Lwa.

Then she turned, stepping gently into the river. Her form dissolved into petals and foam.

But before the last ripple faded, a voice echoed faintly on the breeze:

"Keep choosing love, Zion. Even when war comes."