The Wedding of Winds and Flame

Zantrayel pulsed with new energy.

The streets of Nouvo Lakay were alive with color—banners of deep crimson, gold, and emerald waved from rooftops. Market stalls brimmed with fresh spices, woven fabrics, glass beads, and goods never before seen in the region. Traders had come from every tribe, some skeptical, others eager, all curious about the new country that dared to call itself the heart of the future.

But it wasn't just trade that brought them—it was the wedding of Kael, one of Zion's seven closest companions, and a woman named Senna, a fierce herbalist from a mountain tribe known for their stubborn independence and ancient rites.

This union, though born of love, was also symbolic. It marked the first high-profile marriage between the founding leaders of Zantrayel and a tribe not yet fully part of the country.

Inside the temple courtyard, priestesses draped flowers over carved stone benches, and youths swept the pathways with palm-frond brooms. The temple drums sounded, not in warning or mourning, but in joy—an unfamiliar rhythm to many.

Zion stood at the temple gate in ceremonial robes woven with Lwa symbols. He watched Kaeo nervously adjust the obsidian brooch at his collar.

"You look like you're about to face a warlord," Zion teased, elbowing his friend.

Kael exhaled. "Marriage is worse. A war ends. This… this is for life."

Zion chuckled. "Exactly why it matters."

Senna arrived barefoot, in a white gown embroidered with green leaves and sky-blue threads. Her eyes held fire and resolve. Behind her, women from her tribe whispered blessings in their native tongue. They did not yet fully trust Zantrayel, but they trusted her—and today, that was enough.

The priestesses, led by Ayomi, performed the ceremony. Instead of a single blessing, five Lwa were invoked: Erzulie Freda for love, Ogou Feray for protection, Ayizan for wisdom, Papa Legba to open the path forward, and La Sirène for the waters that would carry them into the unknown.

As Kael and Senna exchanged vows, a gentle breeze picked up, swirling petals around them. Some swore the wind shaped itself into sigils before vanishing.

That night, the celebration spilled through the city.

Fire dancers leapt in the streets. Cooks served roasted beast and river stew. Drums, flutes, and strange new instruments crafted from copper and animal hide filled the air. From the port, sailors sang sea shanties as they hoisted lanterns.

But perhaps the most remarkable sight was in the Grand Square—elders from different tribes sitting together, debating trade, storytelling, even sharing recipes. Children from rival clans ran hand-in-hand. No one had told them to; it had simply… happened.

Zion watched it all from a balcony above.

Ayomi joined him, sipping a drink made from the first barrel of Zantrayel's own rum. "This," she said, "is how a nation forms. Not through swords, but shared moments."

Zion smiled, though his eyes were tired. "It's beautiful. But fragile."

Ayizan nodded. "So is life. But look how hard it tries."

Below, Kael and Senna danced, surrounded by people who just weeks ago might have refused to share a road.

One step. One union. One trade at a time.

Zantrayel was blossoming