The Cost of Intervention

The threads of fate shimmered like dew-drenched silk around Ayola.

She sat, still as a statue, yet within her raged the wild storm of a thousand souls choosing.

She had become the Crossroad.

And then—one thread glowed brighter than the rest.

A young soul. A chosen.

Not yet aware of who they were.

Not yet awakened to the path waiting to devour them.

But the pull was undeniable.

Their mind wavered on the edge of decision. Their body trembled at the edge of awakening. Their spirit was already burning through the veil.

Ayola leaned forward, just slightly.

One breath.

One whisper.

One flicker of guidance from her—and she could save them pain.

Guide them to the right road.

Her fingers tensed. The sigil on her chest lit like dawn breaking.

But before she could move—

A hand caught her wrist.

She gasped.

Turned.

Papa Legba stood behind her, his hat tilted back just enough for her to see the ancient weight in his eyes.

"You were gonna touch the thread," he said, quiet. Not angry. Just knowing.

Ayola hesitated. "They were about to awaken. I… I felt the danger coming for them. If I just—"

Legba shook his head slowly.

"You ain't here to fix."

He pointed to her sigil. "That mark means you witness. Not decide. You give space, not direction."

Ayola clenched her staff. "But if I can stop them from falling, from bleeding, from—"

"You'll stop them from becoming."

His words hit harder than thunder.

He knelt beside her, not as a god but as a weary gatekeeper.

"You see only now, Ayola. You don't see what they become after the fall. You don't see how that pain teaches them the truth they would've never heard from your voice."

He touched the glowing thread gently. The image of the chosen soul rippled—showing two futures.

In one: Ayola intervenes. The chosen survives. Lives safely. But never steps into power.

In the other: The chosen suffers. Stumbles. Nearly breaks.

But awakens—full and raw, carved by the fire they walked through. A force no god or Hive could predict.

Ayola's breath caught. Her heart hurt.

Legba looked at her with a sad smile. "We all want to shield those we care about from pain. But when you sit at the crossroad, you give up that right."

She lowered her hand.

The glowing thread dimmed, settled. The soul chose. Alone. Unaware of how closely divine hands had hovered.

Papa Legba stood.

"I wasn't supposed to come back," he muttered, stretching his shoulders. "Was halfway to sipping something sweet on a boat made of song."

Ayola glanced up, confused. "Then why did you?"

He grinned. "Because you're new. And good intentions? They're the most dangerous kind of magic."

He turned, walking into the mist where crossroads bled into dreams.

"Oh—and Ayola?" he called back, voice fading like the wind behind an old song.

"I'm really gone now. Don't call unless the Crossroad itself starts bleeding. Even then… send a pigeon first."

He vanished.

And Ayola sat again—changed. Not colder, but wiser.

The Crossroad whispered around her.

She listened.

But this time, she did not reach.