The night after the naming burned itself into memory.
Even long after the fires dimmed and the drums fell silent, no one truly slept. Children clung to their parents, wide-eyed and whispering. Elders sat with their hands folded in reverence, watching the stars. And in the center of it all, two women knelt side by side beneath the great tree, marked by something greater than fire or fate.
Ayomi, now priestess of Papa, kept her gaze on the white ash still smoldering at the altar's base. The sigil on her shoulder—sun-shaped, pulsing with heat—throbbed with each breath, not in pain, but as if reminding her it was alive.
Beside her, Sael, chosen by Erzulie Freda, sat motionless, a single tear still drying on her cheek. Her sigil, blooming like a rose at her heart, shimmered faintly with every heartbeat.
Neither spoke. But both felt it.
They were not alone anymore.
⸻
Zion approached at dawn, his shadow long across the soil. He knelt before them, not as a chief or god-touched leader, but as a brother who understood what sacred burdens felt like.
"You've been chosen not just to carry," he said, "but to speak. When we are lost, you will guide. When we are blind, you will see."
Ayomi's voice was low, almost cracked. "Why me?"
Zion looked at her, then up toward the horizon. "Because you still ask that question."
Sael touched her chest where the rose-mark burned. "She speaks to me already. Not in words—but in feelings. Gentle things. Wounds I didn't know I still carried feel… quieter."
Zion nodded. "She will speak in love. Papa will speak in fire. But both will answer when you call."
⸻
As word spread through Nouvo Kay, the tribe gathered once more—not to watch, but to offer.
Some brought woven charms. Others, bowls of herbs, or fish laid neatly on banana leaves. Children came forward holding shells or bone carvings. All gifts. All signs of gratitude.
Then, unexpectedly, the people knelt.
Not before Zion. Not before the priestesses. But before the altar where the gods had walked.
One elder, his voice weathered but firm, spoke what everyone felt:
"We have seen our gods. Not carved in stone. Not trapped in books. We have seen them walk… and still breathe. We have no excuse to give less than everything."
⸻
The day became one of sacred planning.
Zion gathered the inner circle, the builders, the scouts, and now—the two priestesses. No decision would be made without their insight. For they were not just leaders—they were voices of the divine.
Ayomi suggested sanctifying the birthing house, transforming it into a place of spiritual cleansing and safe arrival.
Sael proposed creating a sanctuary garden, where those with aching hearts or wounded minds could sit, pray, and mend—guided by songs and silence.
Both suggestions were accepted without hesitation.
⸻
That evening, Ayomi stood alone in the garden, where she once buried her little sister beneath a simple stone.
"I wish you could see this," she whispered. "I wish you could hear the gods with me."
The wind stirred. And though no one else could hear it, she felt warmth in her chest—and in her mind, Papa answered in flame and steel:
"She does. Through