The fires still smoldered.
Nouvo Lakay's warriors were busy rebuilding their temporary camp on the enemy's soil—clearing ruins, stacking supplies, carving wards into stone and earth. But even in the victory, unease lingered in the air.
The Ashbon survivors—silent, hollow, eyes wide with the memory of gods bleeding and skies breaking—remained under watch, corralled to the far edge of the encampment like living ghosts of a fallen age.
Zion stood before his people atop the broken platform where the god Moloh-Tal once spoke.
He looked not at his warriors, but at the prisoners.
The Speech of Judgment
"You are not our slaves," he said, his voice steady but sharp.
"But you are not our people… not yet."
Murmurs rippled across the camp—both Ashbon and Nouvo Lakay.
"Your god is dead. His voice silenced. What you were no longer matters. But what you become—"
"—will be decided by time, by truth, and by how you walk forward from this moment."
He let silence fall for a breath.
"You will not be trusted. Not quickly. Not fully. You will work, eat, live—but under watch, under scrutiny. We will not be deceived by soft words or false tears."
Zion looked toward his inner circle. The war priestesses stood flanking him, still bearing the mark of divine fire. The warriors behind them held firm.
"But those among you who truly wish for a new life, who show loyalty in action—not just words—you will have the chance… to rise. To earn a place in something greater."
A Plan of Integration
The plan was clear:
Ashbon survivors would live in a separate quarter, guarded but unharmed.
They would work for the tribe, rebuilding, farming, and learning the customs of Nouvo Lakay.
Spiritual cleansing rituals would be conducted by the priestesses to sever old oaths and attachments to Moloh-Tal's corrupted energy.
They would be watched for betrayal, for poison in heart or hand.
After seasons of testing, those who proved themselves would be allowed to petition for full membership into the tribe—but only after unanimous approval from Zion's inner circle.
Zion's final words settled over the crowd like a decree from a mountain peak:
"We are not gods, but we walk beside them now. And as we rise, we will not repeat the errors of the fallen. Power without mercy is tyranny. But mercy without caution is death."
The People's Response
The warriors of Nouvo Lakay didn't cheer. But they nodded. They understood.
Some among them, especially the younger ones who had seen Ashbon's horrors firsthand, hated the idea of leniency.
But they trusted Zion.
And the Ashbon people… many of them cried. Not from joy. From confusion. From grief. From fear that they might now have to hope again.
Closing Image
That night, Zion sat quietly near the great fire, watching the flames reflect in the jar of divine blood Papa Legba had given him.
Ayomi sat beside him, silent.
"You think they can change?" she asked.
"I don't know," Zion said honestly. "But I know what happens if we don't give them the chance."
Above them, the sky was clear—no storms, no omens. Just stars, bright and unblinking