Papa Legba Summons Ayola to the Crossroad of Ginen

The sky above Zantrayel rippled like silk caught in a breeze, shifting between twilight and dawn — a sign known by few, but unmistakable to the marked: Papa Legba was calling.

Ayola stood at the edge of the sacred fields, the sigil on her chest pulsing in sync with something vast and unseen. She felt it before she saw it — the bending of space, the taste of crossroads dust on her tongue.

Then came the voice, gentle but carrying the weight of doors:

"Come, child. Come sit where the roads tangle."

She stepped forward.

The world around her folded inward. Sand and wind. Drumbeats and silence. Suddenly she stood at the Crossroad of Ginen, a vast, ancient junction where roads of spirit, memory, and fate intertwined like veins through the body of the world.

And there he was.

Papa Legba.

Hat low, pipe lit, laughter in his bones.

"Ayola," he said, not smiling but amused. "You think just 'cause you carry a new sigil, you ready to walk every road?"

Ayola bowed her head. "I thought you summoned me for a task."

"I did," he said, tapping ash into the dirt. "But not the one you think."

He pointed at the ground in front of him, where four paths met.

"Sit."

She hesitated. "The Hive is moving. The Forgotten Wind has chosen. I thought—"

"You thought," Legba interrupted. "That's your first mistake."

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a murmur that stirred the dust.

"The wind whispers, Ayola. And you think it guides you forward. But the wind don't always mean go. Sometimes it means stay put. Sometimes it's full of lies, old fears, or memories not yours."

He tapped her chest, right over the pulsing sigil.

"That mark? It's power, yes. But you don't understand it yet. And power you don't understand is just another chain."

Ayola's hands tightened around her staff. "Then teach me."

Legba chuckled. "Not today."

He leaned back, exhaling a long trail of smoke that turned into flickering doors above their heads.

"I'm going on vacation."

Ayola blinked. "…Vacation?"

"Damn right," he said. "I've been holding this crossroad since the first prayer, since the first lie told with love. It's time I rest these old bones. Sip something sweet. Maybe dance."

He gestured toward the center. "You'll watch it now. Sit. Listen. Let the road speak to you before you try to walk it."

Her eyes widened. "You're leaving me in charge of the Crossroad of Ginen?"

"I'm entrusting you," he said, the humor fading from his face, replaced by a deeper gravity. "Many come to the crossroads looking for answers. Some bring blood. Others bring tears. You'll learn which is which. You'll learn what silence really costs."

He stood. The roads behind him trembled with power.

"One more thing," he said as he turned to go. "If you hear the wind begging you to move — ask it why. Not everything that calls is worth answering."

And then he was gone.

Ayola sat.

The wind stirred.

And the Crossroad whispered — not forward, not back — just being