One Last Embrace

The five priestesses stepped out into the light, their presence radiating power and change.

Behind them, the Stone Temple remained open—but no one dared enter.

Except Zion.

As the door closed behind him, the world grew still. There were no chants, no winds, no thunder. Only the soft, warm glow of flickering spirits dancing along the carved stone walls, whispering in a language of memory.

And there she was.

Maman Odetta.

Not as a ghost, nor as a goddess. But as herself.

She sat upon a low stone bench, wrapped in a white shawl, her bare feet dangling slightly, just like when she used to tell bedtime stories on the porch in Port-au-Prince. Her eyes—still sharp, still kind—met his, and she smiled.

"T'cheri," she whispered, using the old Creole pet name she called him as a child.

"You always did walk too far ahead."

Zion stood frozen. The weight of nations in his bones, the echo of gods in his blood—but here, in this moment, he was just her grandson.

He dropped to his knees before her.

"I didn't want to forget your face."

She cupped his cheek gently, her hand warm—not of fire or spirit, but of memory itself. "You never could. It's carved inside you, deep and true."

They sat together in silence, not needing words.

After a while, she said softly, "The path you walk… is long. And heavy. But it's yours. And you're never alone. Every step you take—every choice—you bring us with you."

Zion blinked back the tears. "They don't understand the weight of it. Not even the gods."

"They're not supposed to," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "But you carry it anyway. Like your father did. Like your mother would've. And now, you carry it better than any soul I've ever known."

He leaned forward, resting his head on her lap like he once did as a child, when the world was still simple and safe.

"I miss you."

"I never left," she whispered.

The temple glowed softly around them. The sigils pulsed like heartbeats.

Then, as softly as she came, she began to fade—light unraveling into mist.

She pressed one last kiss to his forehead.

"Don't try to be perfect, Zion. Just be faithful to the promise in your blood."

And with that, she was gone.

The temple fell still again—yet something within Zion had been stitched back together.

When he stepped outside, he didn't say a word.

But those who looked into his eyes saw something different.

A peace. A knowing.

And the quiet strength of a boy who had once listened to his grandmother's stories—now walking forward as a king touched by gods, and loved by a woman who raised him to believe in more