The Mourning Ends, But the Fire Remains

The seventh night came and went.

The drums that once beat on their own fell silent at sunrise, as if the world itself bowed in respect. Bassoun, once cloaked in the rhythm of remembrance, exhaled as though the soul of the land had finally accepted what was lost.

And Zion rose.

Not as the grieving grandson.

But as the Chief of the Living.

He walked through the morning mist wrapped in a simple white cloak, his hair unbraided, his eyes carrying a new stillness. His feet, bare against the earth, touched stone and root like prayer beads. Behind him trailed no guards, no banners—only silence, and the echo of Maman Odetta's laughter in memory.

He visited each village, each camp, each market along the wide river and deep forest edge. Where he saw broken tools, he stopped to mend them. Where a child cried, he knelt to comfort them. Where disputes lingered, he listened and offered wisdom—not as king, but as one who had mourned deeply and now chose to build deeply.

At the Grand Square in Bassoun, a towering memorial flame was lit—built from blackstone and soulwood, carved with her likeness, and crowned with a ring of pure silver.

Beneath the flame, an inscription read:

"She fed the gods and whispered to kings."

"May her spirit walk in every hearth that still believes."

Zion poured holy oil at the flame's base and whispered:

"I honor you with peace, Gran. I will give them peace."

The Signs in the Smoke

Within the Stone Temple, the five priestesses sat together for the first time since their transformation.

Each bore a new aura—not just power, but presence.

Ayomi, Papa Legba's chosen, spoke in riddles and walked with a cane that never touched the ground.

Ayola, priestess of Baron Samedi, saw death before it arrived and laughed in its face.

Sael, beloved of Erzulie Freda, now healed with a whisper and wept for others' pain.

Thalia, warrior of Ogou Feray, honed her body until it moved like a spirit-blade.

Elis, daughter of Maman Brigitte, was quiet but her gaze made liars tremble.

Together, they fasted for three days in silence, then gathered at the temple's inner chamber, where the walls shimmered with ancestral faces.

They burned seven herbs, each sacred to a Lwa, and waited as the smoke curled toward the sky.

Ayomi was the first to speak.

"The veil grows thin again.

Our temple was not only opened from within—but seen from beyond.

Eyes… eyes that hunger, not for worship, but for entry."

Elis nodded solemnly.

"I see a gate… and a key forged in blood."

Sael, her hands trembling, said:

"I feel something old—older than gods—shifting. It doesn't speak. It only devours."

Thalia stood and drew her blade.

"Let them come. We will send their bones back as warnings."

But it was Ayola, laughing softly, who said:

"We are not the only ones watching…

The ones across the ocean stir.

They felt the gods rise.

And now they plan to test our gates."

Shadows Beyond the Horizon

Far across the sea, in lands of towers and machines, kings and technocrats sat in stone halls and rubbed ancient scars.

They had felt the pulse—that sudden, divine tremor when Ginnen touched the world of mortals.

Their oracles whispered in terror, their weapons hummed in response.

"Zantrayel," one tyrant spat, "dares awaken what was buried."

"Let them play gods," another murmured, stroking an iron globe. "Let them pray to beasts. We will bring their sky down with fire."

Ships were being fitted. Spies activated. New names placed on ancient lists.

Meanwhile, in the forgotten corners of the Casmo, the Devoures who had felt the death of one them stirred againfor the first time in centuries—slowly they turn their gaze toward the casmo.

He had seen Zion mourn.

He had felt the fear even the gods carried.

And he would wait.