The Temple That Sang, Burned, and Bled

For seven days, the Stone Temple remained sealed.

No sound escaped its walls—only a trembling silence that settled like mist over the land. Jalen and Ayira kept their vigil at the temple door, unmoved as time stretched and the air grew thick with anticipation. They sat in silence, side by side, like twin sentinels before a divine storm.

Inside the temple, time bent.

One sang.

Her voice filled the stone, echoing through past and future—calling to spirits unborn and ancient alike.

One burned.

Her body ignited in spiritual flame, shedding her old self to rise anew—heat and light fusing into divine radiance.

One bled.

Her heart opened and spilled truth, sorrow, and love into the temple stones, painting sigils with sacred pain.

One wept with joy and fury.

Her tears summoned winds, and her rage forged iron—she danced with the wrath of her Lwa.

One held hands with Death.

And Death bowed.

They changed.

The temple became a cocoon of power and transformation. And on the seventh day, the air split open like a veil torn by the unseen.

They opened their eyes.

Standing before them was Maman Odetta, now glowing with ancestral light, veiled in colors of the afterlife and crowned in silence.

She smiled.

"My girls," she said gently, her voice wind and thunder, "You carry the spirits now. You are no longer walking for yourselves—you walk for the world. Come. It is time."

They spoke with her, not as mortals but as priestesses, no longer in training but awakened vessels of the divine. She gave them each one final word, one final thread of wisdom woven from the cloth of generations.

Then, without another breath, she turned to the sealed temple door and opened the way.

Outside, the clouds broke, the winds hushed, and Zion stood waiting.

From the shadows of thunder and reverence, the five emerged.

Ayomi, priestess of Papa Legba, with eyes like gateways to the beyond.

Ayola, priestess of Baron Samedi, her laughter echoing like bells in a graveyard.

Sael, priestess of Erzulie Freda, radiant and serene like a living love poem.

Thalia, priestess of Ogou Feray, her gaze sharp as iron and her steps forged in justice.

Elis, priestess of Manman Brigitte, silence wrapped around her like mourning lace.

They bowed to Zion, not as king—but as witness.