The Beast God Who Waited
Beneath the deepest roots of the world, beyond the reach of even the oldest chants of Ginen, something stirred.
It had not fought the Hive.
It had not raised blade nor claw.
Not out of fear. Not out of loyalty.
But out of hunger. A different kind of hunger.
The Beast God had not forgotten.
He had simply waited.
Before the Hive.
Before the gods.
Before even the First Naming, when beings were shaped from intention and breath…
…he had existed.
Not as word.
Not as flame.
But as instinct, raw and unshaped.
The first growl in the darkness.
The first predator beneath the stars.
In a forgotten hollow, where the ruins of the world curled in on themselves like dried roots, the Beast God opened one eye.
Only one.
It was enough.
A golden pupil set in pitch, shaped like the blade of a broken crescent moon. As it turned, the earth shuddered—not from weight, but memory. For the land remembered what it was to be hunted by Him.
He had watched the war.
He had smelled the Hive.
And He had smiled.
Let the gods burn themselves.
Let the Hive reveal their strategies, their forms, their bloodline weaknesses. Let the ancient ones open Ginen and bleed power into the world again.
He saw it all. And He waited.
Now, He no longer needed to wait.
He rose not as a shadow, not as a titan, not as a god—
—but as a truth.
A fundamental law.
That no matter how far life reached, how high gods climbed, how deeply they etched their names into the stars…
There would always be a fang in the dark,
that would remember how to bite.
Back at Nouvo Lakay
Zion felt it first. A stillness that didn't belong.
Even Baka la Kwa paused in the depths of Ginen, lifting his ruined face to the east and growling, "That one still lives…"
The priestesses, across the land, froze.
Even Papa Legba tilted his head, the bones in his jaw clicking softly.
"Mwen te bliye li…"
I had forgotten him.
Twaile didn't laugh this time.
She simply looked to the horizon, narrowed her eyes, and whispered:
"The Beast has smelled blood again."