The Seed Beneath Stone

There was no sky.

There was no floor.

There was only the deep.

Zion lay suspended beneath the Crossroad, wrapped in living roots, breathing shadows, and a silence so heavy it shook.

Then the pain began.

One by one, the sigils across his back ignited.

Papa Legba's key burned first, turning crimson-gold.

Then came Erzulie's heart—glowing rose, shedding tears of silk and storm.

Ogou's flame roared next, burning black and blue, etched in fury and duty.

Ayizan. Maman Brigitte. Baron Samedi…

Each sigil awakened, no longer content to sleep in his skin. They moved.

They shifted.

And then—they began to merge.

Zion arched back, a scream stuck in his throat.

The sigils twisted into each other like rivers crashing together, forming new patterns, new truths, new laws of being.

Each fusion tore into his flesh.

He bled.

Not red.

Silver.

And as the blood fell—it didn't disappear.

It sank into the ground.

And from the stone, life bloomed: vines, feathers, bone flowers, memories, entire dialects of dead tongues whispered through the air.

Then… his skin began to peel.

Layer by layer, it tore away—not from decay, but from transformation.

Every inch that burned off grew back stronger, glossier, marked by deeper, glowing veins of sigil-light.

The process repeated. Again. And again.

He would bleed.

He would heal.

He would grow.

Each sigil released its unique energy:

One moaned in sorrow.

One laughed like thunder.

One hummed lullabies of war.

One whispered prayers written before light was born.

They were not at odds.

They were not chaos.

They were seeking harmony.

But harmony, Zion realized, demands pain.

"You are not the bearer anymore," a voice whispered from beneath the stone.

"You are the bond. You are the root. You are the seed where gods will grow again."

And Zion, bound, burning, breaking—and slowly becoming—understood:

This was not punishment.

This was birth