The moon hung low and red above the new land, its light spilling over the tribe's small settlement like the eye of a silent god. A circle had been cleared near the heart of their new home—stones marked its edge, and torches flickered along the perimeter, casting wavering shadows that danced like spirits waiting to be named.
Zion stood at the center of the circle. His expression was calm, but inside, his pulse beat with purpose. Tonight was not just a ritual—it was a declaration. The first official ceremony of the new tribe. A calling to the Lwa, gods he had once only known as myths whispered by his grandmother, Mama Odetta.
Now they were his truth.
Behind him stood the survivors, youth carved by loss and hardened by survival. Each held a sacrifice in their hands—crafted tools, foraged food, small carved figures, feathers, blood-soaked tokens of hunts. None of them truly knew how to pray. But they would learn, together.
Zion raised his voice, low but strong.
"We are the forgotten. The broken. But not the lost.
We offer these gifts to you, mighty Lwa—
Papa Legba, open our path.
Ogou, grant us strength.
Erzulie, keep our hearts whole.
Baron Samedi, guard our dead.
Damballa, give us breath and peace.
Ayida Wedo, make our futures bloom."
One by one, the survivors stepped into the circle.
Kael placed a handmade flint knife upon the stone and whispered, "For the battles I'll fight to protect us."
Thalia laid down the heart of a boar she'd hunted alone. "For the strength to strike before fear."
Others followed—each gift given with trembling hands or proud defiance. Tears and blood wet the ground.
Then, something shifted.
The torches rose higher, their flames turning gold-white. The earth trembled. A wind swept in from nowhere, carrying scents of salt, ash, and honey.
In the center of the circle, light coalesced—burning, twisting, transforming.
Papa Legba appeared first, not in full form but as a shadowy silhouette at the edge of the spirit gate, leaning gently on his cane, eyes full of mirth and wisdom. He nodded.
From the sky, a rainbow arced into the firelight—Ayida Wedo's presence washing over them like a soft rain. And entwined with it came Damballa, coils of silver mist slithering through the air, touching each youth with a calming chill.
Baron Samedi's laughter echoed from the shadows, followed by the scent of rum and grave roses. A skeletal hand lifted from the ground and flicked a coin into the fire before vanishing.
Erzulie's warmth followed—soft petals and whispers, comfort in the hearts of those who had only known grief.
And then came Ogou. The flame roared, towering into the sky as if a forge had opened in the heavens. A sword of light slammed into the center stone, burying itself with a clang that split the air.
The survivors dropped to their knees—not in fear, but in awe.
Their bodies felt different.
Heavier with purpose. Lighter with clarity.
They were blessed.
As the flame dimmed, and the winds died down, a single voice drifted into Zion's ear. Not heard, but felt in the marrow of his bones.
"She is safe, my child. Mama Odetta has seen your light. She walks with peace, and with us."
Zion's shoulders relaxed. A single tear carved its path down his cheek.
He looked to his people—no, his tribe—and saw not children, but the beginning of legends.
"We walk with gods," he said. "And we rise with them."
The fire burned low, but its warmth never left.
They had been seen.
They had been chosen.