The Crimson Path and the Laughing God
"The gate is open, little brother."
Papa Legba's cane struck the stone of the Crossroads.
A breeze stirred—hot, wild, unnatural.
"Let the watcher dance."
When the message arrived by wolf—edges blackened by heat and spirit-flame—Zion read it without blinking.
Ayira had been taken.
Jalen had given chase.
And somewhere in the Otherworld, something ancient laughed.
He turned to Thalia.
"Take the Swiftwind Guard. Go now. Follow the eastern rise. If you see smoke or gods—don't hesitate."
She bowed.
"Will Jalen listen to us?"
Zion exhaled.
"Jalen listens to me. No one else."
Beyond the Veil, at the Crossroads
Papa Legba opened the passage—not with command, but with curiosity.
And through the shimmer came Tijan Petro.
He spun out of the Otherworld like a blade tossed by a drunken king. His laugh hit before his form did. Wild eyes. A grin too wide. His coat flared with ember-stitched chaos. A thousand whispers swirled around him, and every step sparked ash.
But this time, he brought no war.
He bowed politely to Papa Legba and muttered:
"Not here to wreck things—unless I'm invited."
"You understand the rules?" Legba asked.
"Clear as bone," Tijan Petro replied. "If Jalen calls me… or one of those self-important tribal gods gets itchy and strikes first—then I dance."
He perched on a crooked tree limb just beyond the veil of the world.
Watching. Smiling. Waiting.
"For now," he chuckled, "I'm just here for the show."
At the Iron Caves
Jalen found their trail within hours.
Four tribes had united—medium in size but heavy in ambition—led by a self-proclaimed king, Talek the Crownless. They'd captured Ayira, dragging her like spoils across territory soaked in ancient curses.
They thought themselves safe, surrounded by warriors and favored by ten ancestral gods, invoked by ritual and blood.
They had no idea what hunted them.
When Jalen arrived at their main camp, there were six hundred soldiers between him and the woman he loved.
He stood alone. His shirt was gone. His sigil burned like coals across his chest, wild and jagged, gifted by Tijan Petro himself.
He inhaled.
And charged.
The first two hundred fell within minutes.
He moved like wrath wearing human skin. Weapons broke on his bones. Men cried for mercy—and received none. Not because Jalen lacked empathy, but because they had taken Ayira. And in his mind, that meant they had signed their own death.
Then the gods stirred.
Ten divine spirits—patrons of the united tribes—gathered above the battlefield. Not small gods. These were ancient, blood-oathed deities bound to their people's survival.
They appeared as wind and shadow, as flame and storm, surrounding Jalen from above.
And still… Tijan Petro did not move.
He leaned on his crooked staff, sitting lazily on a twisted branch just beyond the mortal plane. He licked his lips, watching with delight.
"Will they dare?" he whispered.
"Come on… just one tap. Just one spark…"
The gods hesitated.
Jalen looked up at them—bleeding, breathing hard, Ayira still not yet found—and roared. A sound so full of will and soul it cracked the air.
Still… the gods held back.
They had seen madness. But what stood before them was something worse: controlled rage.
Thalia arrived with the Swiftwind Guard at sunset.
They found no enemy left to fight.
Jalen stood atop a hill of the dead, Ayira in his arms, unconscious but alive. Blood covered his chest, arms, and face—but he didn't tremble. His wolf companion sat beside him, tail flicking, gold eyes watching the last embers fade.
"She's alive," he said simply, as Thalia approached.
"What of the gods?" Thalia asked, glancing toward the sky.
Jalen looked up.
The veil shimmered.
And from the shadows, Tijan Petro laughed.
He leaned forward, balancing on his branch with glee.
"Tell Zion," he said,
"I kept my promise. Didn't lift a finger. I was very good."
He winked at Jalen.
"But next time… just ask