The Taste of Victory
The sun rose with the weight of triumph.
Zion, returned from the battlefield where gods clashed and priestesses bled starlight, stood on the high terrace of Zantrayel's citadel, overlooking the sprawling city below. The scars of war still lingered in the air—faint, sharp like smoke caught in stone—but beneath it bloomed something else.
Joy.
The people had stood. The warriors had endured. And now, Zion gave his command.
"Distribute the Hive's meat."
His voice rang out, low but absolute.
"Every soldier who took up arms in our absence.
Every healer who kept the pulse of Zantrayel alive.
Every citizen who stood guard when no guards remained.
They shall eat from the fallen Hive.
They shall taste what it means to survive a godless hunger."
The Hive's meat—dangerous, sacred, a resource rarer than gold among gods—was laid out in sacred preparation. Dried. Cured. Sealed in black salt and red leaves of Ginen. Those who ate it might dream of the stars. Might touch realms they were never meant to see. It was food. It was power. It was reward.
A Celebration to Shake the Heavens
Banners were unfurled from the temple walls.
Drums sounded from the ten bridges of the city, beating like the hearts of those who bled for Zantrayel.
A grand celebration was declared.
For one day, and one night, no one would mourn.
Not yet.
There would be time for tears after the fires burned out.
Tonight—there would be drink, and music, and dancing across rooftops.
Tijan Petro's Arrival
He came walking—not riding.
As always, barefoot, a crooked grin split his dark face like a blade through smoke. Tijan Petro, unpredictable and ancient, the Chosen of Fire and Wrath, strolled into the city gates without fanfare but with purpose.
He went straight to the central storehouse and clapped his hands once.
"I came for the rums," he said.
The keepers looked confused.
"Which rums, Honored One?"
Tijan licked his teeth.
"All of them. The good ones. The ones aged under curse and bone.
I have preparations to make. In Ginen, we will drink until the world forgets its pain.
And then drink again to remember it."
No one stopped him. No one dared.
He gathered the barrels by hand, whistling as he worked, each cask of potent spirit rolling behind him as if enchanted.
The city watched.
Even celebration knew silence in the presence of fire.
Zion, from above, saw him pass—rum trailing behind him like smoke after lightning.
And Zion only nodded.
For in the heart of Ginen, something stirred.
And even joy must be armed