Unwired by Ginen

There were no screams.

Not because there was no pain—

—but because there were no mouths to scream with anymore.

Everyone taken—Zion, the priestesses, the warriors, the acolytes, the forgotten marked—

were cast into the deepest reaches of the Lwa's domains.

But this was not the domain of the Lwa as they knew it.

This was the depth beneath their thrones.

The bedrock of Ginen itself.

Each was thrown into the territory of their chosen Lwa, but deeper than any initiation, trial, or ceremony had ever gone.

Those marked by Erzulie Freda sank beneath veils of love and heartbreak until their own desires unraveled.

Those sworn to Ogou Feray were cast into battlefields that had never ended—wars older than the stars.

Ayizan's chosen were submerged into libraries of flesh and memory, where forgotten knowledge devoured the unworthy.

Those of Baron Samedi faced the grave with no name and were asked, "What will you do with your death?"

Each soul was unwired.

Stripped.

Remade.

Not by the Lwa…

But by Ginen itself.

Even the gods stepped back, watching in silence.

"This is not our doing," whispered Ogou.

"This is… older."

At the Crossroad, Ayola's body shivered.

The Chair of Papa Legba pulsed beneath her.

Not a throne. A gate.

She sat without meaning to—

or perhaps she had always been seated, waiting for this very moment.

The chair pulsed.

Her staff cracked.

Her soul—like a thread pulled from the seams of time—began to unravel.

"No," she breathed, "I am the guardian—"

But the Crossroad responded.

"You are the key now."

The sigils on her body vanished.

In their place: a lattice of ever-shifting symbols—not Lwa-given, but Ginen-born.

And Ayola, like the others, was cast into her own unraveling.

Her screams never reached the surface.

Only her transformation did.

The Lwa stood at the edges of their domains, watching, unable to interfere.

What was happening now had only occurred once before:

At the beginning of the first world.

And even then—Ginen had chosen differently