After the Fire, the Smoke
The battlefield stood still.
Not in mourning—but in that strange hush that follows only after something unfathomable has passed.
The Hive was gone—scattered, torn, consumed.
Only traces remained: ash, broken ground, and the echo of screams that would never fully fade.
At the center, Zion stood.
Unbent.
Unshaken.
His presence did not radiate fire or fury now—only resolve, like a mountain that had weathered the storm.
Behind him, the five priestesses stood like the points of a burning crown—Ayola, Ayomi, Sael, Thalia, and Elis—each bearing not just power, but weight.
Their silence spoke of what they'd endured… and what they had become.
The 99 warriors of Zantrayel stood proudly, bloodied but undefeated.
Not one had fallen.
But 27 of them, despite surviving, would bear wounds so grave they could no longer serve in arms.
Their sigils shimmered dimly—not in defeat, but in sacrifice.
They would be honored, never forgotten.
The gods began to gather.
They were not broken—not in body.
They bore marks of war: torn cloaks, cracked ornaments, battle-scorched skin.
But not a single one had fallen.
And though they bled, they bled like stars—brief, bright, eternal.
They stood tall.
Some brushed soot from their armor, others cleaned their blades.
A few shared nods across pantheon lines.
There were no words. Not yet.
Even Papa Ginen and Maman Ginen were whole—glowing with quiet judgment.
Papa Legba spun his key between his fingers with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
Ogou Feray lit a cigar and exhaled the scent of blood and rum.
Erzulie whispered over Sael's shoulder, eyes filled not with grief, but something fiercer: protectiveness.
The Chosen had not fared as well.
Some had risen to new heights, unlocking divine pulses within them that even the gods did not foresee.
But others…
Some would never wake again.
Not because they lacked strength, but because the cost of victory demanded souls, and the Hive had claimed its due.
There were pantheons now facing their futures without key warriors.
The names of the fallen would be etched into temples, woven into hymns.
Their memory would not fade.
Yet it was Zion who stood tallest.
He did not weep.
He did not smile.
He walked the field—among gods, among wounded, among ash.
He looked at what had been saved…
At what had been lost…
And whispered words that only the wind could carry.
A new age had been carved here—by blood, by fire, by will.
But though the gods were fine…
Though the war was won…
Something still waited