Distilling Madness

It began with mangoes, a market warning, and the vanishing laughter of Erzulie Je Rouge.

Now, Zion stood in the heart of Nouvo Lakay, sleeves rolled up, boots muddy, hair a mess—and eyes twitching.

He was building a distillery.

Not just any distillery. Zantrayel's first, cobbled together using scraps of Earth memory, old copper, carved stones, repurposed glass, and confused but enthusiastic villagers.

"Why do we need to make the fire water again?" asked a carpenter.

"Because the gods told me to," Zion snapped.

"The Lwa?"

"No. The market mango prophet. YES, the Lwa!"

Arresting Lwa Kanzo

As if that wasn't enough divine chaos for one week, Thalia—the ever-dutiful priestess of Ogou Feray—stormed into the makeshift distillery with fire in her eyes.

"Zion, we have a situation."

"Did something catch fire?"

"No. Worse."

She slammed down a scroll.

"We arrested Lwa Kanzo."

Zion choked on steam.

"You WHAT?!"

Thalia folded her arms.

"He broke into the military camp last night. Took six swords, seven loaves of bread, and the boots off a sleeping lieutenant. When we found him, he was teaching the recruits how to ignite swords with anger and rum."

"…Was it working?"

"Yes."

"Dammit."

Rushed Rum and Stressed Kings

Zion paced as the stills hissed and boiled, sweat dripping from his brow. Each moment felt heavier.

"They're coming," he muttered.

"They're already here," said Tijan Petro smugly, gnawing on sugarcane nearby. "And they want rum. Lots of it."

Zion cursed under his breath.

"I must be the dumbest reincarnated soul in history. They're not just visiting—they're settling in. And what do we have to give them? Courtyards and coconuts?"

He looked at the bubbling mash.

"We need to be ready. Rum isn't just a drink. It's an offering. A peace treaty. A defense mechanism. A bribe. A prayer. It's currency for gods."

The First Drops

By nightfall, the first drops of golden, burning liquid trickled into a thick clay jug.

Zion held it like it was a sacred artifact. It glowed faintly in the lamplight.

He looked up at the sky and whispered,

"Papa Legba, this better be enough to keep y'all entertained… and out of trouble."

A wind answered.

Soft.

Playful.

Somewhere in the shadows, someone laughed—a sound like leaves and old drums.

Zion exhaled and poured the first glass.

"To peace," he said.

"To peace with supernatural squatters," muttered Thalia.

"And to surviving one more week," Zion added.

He raised the glass.

And drank