The Marked and the Chosen

Ginen was not cruel.

It was specific.

Ayola stared at the empty space around her, trembling with shock and rising fear. She hadn't just lost the priestesses. She hadn't just lost Zion.

She had lost control of the gate—and something older had taken the reins.

Now, the truth echoed through the pulsing silence:

"Only the marked. Only the old enough. Only the willing—even if they do not yet know they chose."

Across the realm—within the winds, within the bones of the Crossroad—a truth rippled:

Everyone aged 15 and older.

Everyone bearing a sigil of a Lwa.

Every living being marked, knowingly or not.

Gone.

Taken.

Drawn into Ginen.

In mountain villages, teenage hunters vanished mid-step.

In coastal towns, young priestesses disappeared from behind altars.

In fortified camps, soldiers paused in mid-training—just before the light devoured them.

Even the reluctant ones.

Even those who had never understood the power that slept beneath their skin.

If they were 15 or older…

If a Lwa had touched them, even once…

Ginen pulled them in.

Not all were warriors.

But all were called.

Ayola fell to her knees again. The silence around her was unbearable. Her hands dug into the Crossroad stone.

"Why them? Why now?"

And the wind whispered back—not in words, but in pressure and presence:

In a thousand scattered points across Ginen, the taken awakened.

Some alone.

Some in small groups.

Some beside rivals.

Others before ruins or thrones.

But all bore the same mark:

A sigil—glowing softly, awakened by the Crossroad's command.

They were not lost.

They had been summoned.

And Ginen was no longer waiting.

It was preparing.