The Crossroads Open

The winds in Bassoun whispered, and the sky bent.

Above the Stone Temple, a light cracked through the clouds—neither sun nor flame, but something far older. The people stood still, breath held. Even the gods within flesh grew silent.

And at the center of it all, seated calmly at the Crossroads, was Maman Odetta.

She sat beside Papa Legba, his face marked with timeless wisdom, his cane resting lightly across his lap. He puffed a pipe made of bone and smoke, eyes watching everything and nothing.

"The gate is open, chère," Legba said, his voice warm like rum and thunder.

"What comes next, only power can answer."

Maman Odetta looked to the horizon—through realms, time, and fate.

She nodded. "Then open the door, Papa. Let them see."

With a tap of his cane, the veil shattered.

Above the land of Zantrayel, the sky ripped like cloth.

Through the tear came the Pantheon—not just the Lwa, not just the beast gods, but entities old enough to remember the first star's breath. Their forms loomed massive, yet insubstantial, visible only to those who had touched power.

The heavens became a court.

And at its center stood a single figure.

Clad in obsidian war-armor etched with glowing red glyphs, his dreadlocks swayed like serpents in the astral wind. His eyes were eclipses, and in his hand was a spear that bled smoke.

Ozanfé, son of wrath, child of forgotten fire, born of the beast-wars.

He stood atop an invisible platform in the sky, gazing down at the world below, then to the gathered watchers in the pantheon.

He pointed the spear upward—not in defense, but challenge.

"I see you watching," he said, his voice echoing across skies and realms.

"I see your fear hiding in judgment. I see your silence clothed as wisdom."

"Then come down. Come test the flesh of men.

Come see if your bones can still break."

"I'm ready.

Who will be the first to die?"

The clouds churned.

Some gods narrowed their eyes. Others leaned back in amusement.

But all knew this moment meant one thing:

The balance had shifted.

And no power—not even the devoured, nor the ancient gods hiding in higher realms—would ignore Zantrayel now