The Weight of Justice

The morning haze had barely lifted from the valley when Jalen walked into the central circle of the settlement. Silent as always, his presence was felt before it was seen. His constant companion—a small black wolf with glowing gold eyes—trailed beside him, tail flicking lazily. Despite its cute appearance, the beast was marked by a faint crimson sigil just above its left shoulder.

A gift from Tijan Petro.

Not out of purpose or favor. Out of amusement. The chaotic Lwa had chosen Jalen as his champion not for shared temperament, but for the irony. A man of law and order, bearing the mark of destruction incarnate.

But even Tijan's twisted gaze had begun watching something else more intently these days.

Her name was Ayira.

A warrior girl from beyond the sea, not born of the tribe nor the land, but carried here by war, loss, and desperation. She had no sigil. No patron Lwa. Only her blades, her hunger to survive, and the cold determination in her eyes.

Jalen had met her after a tribal duel. She lost. Badly. But rose again with fire in her blood and a question in her voice:

"What do I have to do," she asked him, "to be chosen?"

He never answered with words. Only action.

On the days when no crimes were judged and no order was needed, he would take her hunting—deep into the hills where ancient spirits stirred and the trees whispered the names of the forgotten. They tracked beasts together. Killed in silence. Burned with reverence. Offered in sacrifice.

Always for her.

And always, the offerings vanished, consumed by unseen forces. But no sigil ever came.

Tijan Petro was watching.

From beyond the veil, the Lwa of fire and frenzy laughed to himself. Each time Ayira placed her hands on the stone altar, eyes closed, heart wide open—he would steal the moment. Pull the power just shy of her reach.

A cruel game. A delayed punchline. Jalen sensed it.

"He's toying with you," Jalen told her once.

"Then let him get bored and answer," she said, eyes burning.

He admired her. Quietly. Deeply. His love was a still river, dangerous in depth, never spoken aloud. But the truth hung between them like smoke.

Even the wolf could sense it. Sometimes, when they camped together in the wild, the beast would pad over and rest its head on Ayira's lap, gold eyes flickering as if laughing at a secret only it knew.

But in the village, Jalen never broke character. He was public safety, law, second in strength only to Zion himself. And that morning, when a hungry boy stood trembling before him, accused of theft, it was not Ayira's fire or Tijan's madness that guided him.

It was mercy.

The law said to punish. Tijan Petro whispered, "Break it."

But Jalen, as always, walked the blade's edge.

He knelt before the boy. Offered food from his own hand. Assigned the child to work, not suffer. Redemption, not ruin.

That night, as he sat atop the Great Hill with the wolf curled at his side, Ayira joined him. She said nothing at first, just handed him a fruit she'd picked from the northern grove.

"You gave him a path," she finally said.

"That's all I know how to give," he replied.

She looked at him, long and steady.

"I think… that's why your Lwa chose you."

He didn't respond. Somewhere in the distance, fireflies blinked like stars being born. The wolf yawned, its sigil glowing faintly.

"And you?" he asked after a pause. "Still chasing?"

"Always."

Her voice was defiant, but the sadness was there—underneath.

"Then I'll keep hunting with you," he said. "Until the Lwa stop laughing."

She smiled.

For a man like Jalen, it was a war cry