The Harvest of Ash and Glory
Something still waited
The battlefield no longer roared.
There was no screaming, no clash of metal, no thunder of gods—only movement.
Quiet, deliberate, reverent.
The bodies of the fallen Hive soldiers—rare, otherworldly, and dangerous even in death—were collected piece by piece.
Their corpses shimmered, pulsed with dormant energy that refused to rot.
What had once brought terror now lay in defeat, and their remains became trophies of unimaginable value.
Even the gods moved carefully.
These were not mere corpses.
They were resources—fuel for divinity, ingredients for artifacts, remnants of ancient biostructure that could push even gods toward higher realms.
Where a mortal might see a horror, the wise saw a key.
A Hive heart.
A soldier's jawbone.
A second spine that pulsed like living coral.
Each piece was a fragment of knowledge, evolution, and raw cosmic hunger.
To consume it was to take in something older than fear—and reshape it.
The pantheons worked in order, forming quiet lines, no longer as enemies, but as participants of a grim communion.
Even the most powerful old gods took their share.
Papa Legba claimed the bones of a Hive Strategist, humming as he stored it within a bottle wrapped in silence.
Baron Samedi gathered a blackened rib, still burning with invisible flame.
Twaile dragged away pieces of a Hive beast three times her size, whispering lullabies to it as if it were a newborn.
Above all, Papa Ginen and Maman Ginen stood.
When the final trophies had been taken…
When the field was cleared and only the bloodstains of greatness remained…
They spoke.
"The real war has yet to begin."
Their voices, spoken together, cracked the ash in the wind.
"This was the Hive's test.
The drumbeat before the march.
The shadows before the descent."
Each pantheon looked toward their elders.
Each heard the call and understood what must be done.
This was not the end.
The gods turned toward their own.
One by one, pantheons returned to their realms—some to rebuild, some to prepare, others to pray.
The gateways opened and closed like blinking stars.
But the field did not empty completely.
A unit of soldiers—elite from every pantheon, led by the finest of mortals and divine-blooded warriors—remained behind.
They moved with purpose, establishing watchtowers, summoning protective wards, carving glyphs deep into the earth to anchor their presence.
This place, once chaos, would now become the first station.
A fortress at the edge of war.
They knew others would come.
The Hive was not done.
And when the next wave arrived—
They would be ready.