When the Drums Spoke of Peace

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Zantrayel breathed.

The skies above the city were clear—no smoke, no falling ash, no scent of blood—only warmth. The kind of warmth that crept through stone walls and old scars. The kind that promised rest, even if only for a moment.

The drums began to speak.

Not the war drums.

Not the funeral beats.

But the ones carved in laughter and braided in joy.

The Celebration Begins

Torches were lit from the Seven Spires, each flame kissed with the sigil of a different god. The Great Courtyard overflowed. Warriors poured in from every street, avenue, and bridge. Children ran between feet like lightning, their laughter a new kind of anthem.

The 99, dressed in ceremonial cloth and bearing the marks of their glory, stood like demigods reborn. The wounds they bore shimmered under oil and ash—not hidden, but honored.

The priestesses—Ayola, Ayomi, Sael, Thalia, and Elis—entered last.

They did not float.

They walked.

In silence at first, eyes wide as they beheld the people they had protected. And then, as the music reached them—flutes, horns, chants—they danced.

Each in her own way:

Ayola, priestess of Papa Legba, spun with trickster joy, painting glyphs with her feet on the cobblestones.

Ayomi, of Baron Samedi, danced like mourning made beauty, her every movement a hymn to the dead and the living.

Sael, of Erzulie, moved like the sea in moonlight—graceful, distant, fierce.

Thalia, of the Seven-Faced Ogou, stomped war into rhythm, fists high, head thrown back in laughter.

Elis, of Maman Brigitte, held fire in her steps, fire that did not burn but warmed the souls of all who watched.

Zion Among His People

Zion stood in the crowd.

Not above them. Not apart.

Among.

He clapped when the warriors performed mock duels. He drank when handed the gourd of sweet spiced bloodfruit wine. He threw his head back and laughed like a man who had finally remembered his humanity.

When the elders called for him to speak, he did not rise.

"Tonight, I am not your king," he said.

"I am your brother."

And they roared for him—not out of duty, but love.

The Gods Feast

The gods came, too.

Not in full divine form, but in subtle presence—enough to stir the wind, enough to bend shadow. They sat at the upper tables, eating food made by mortal hands.

Papa Legba laughed with Tijan Petro, both of them drunk long before the second song. Ogou Feray argued with Ogou again over who led more charges in the war. Maman Brigitte sat beside Papa Ginen, her head on his shoulder, sipping honeyed flame from a chalice made of a fallen Hive horn.

And Twaile—still angry, still proud—only smiled when no one was watching.

Zantrayel Shines

The gates of the city, where once Zafana had sat alone in silence, now became a stage. Music poured out like blessing water. Ribbons of every color danced in the wind, and somewhere deep below the city, old spirits hummed in time.

Even the wounded came to the square, carried on makeshift thrones or walking on trembling legs. They were not forgotten.

They were heroes.

For one night, the world did not end.

For one night, the gods were not gods, the warriors not weapons, and the priestesses not avatars.

They were all children again.

Eating.

Dancing.

Laughing.

Alive.