I. Those Who Remained
Back in Nouvo Lakay, life did not stand still.
While Zion led the vanguard to confront the unknown and the Lwa marched to war, the elders, craftsmen, children, and uninitiated remained behind—tending the sacred grounds and praying through the silence.
Rumors had reached them like the wind—fragments of glory, fear, and awe.
Some spoke of entire villages vanishing overnight. Others of gods walking the earth in fire and death. But no messenger brought terror. Only reverence.
"Our gods… they do not whisper anymore. They roar," said one old man, as he lit incense before a carved stone bearing Baron Samedi's grin.
The high hill overlooking Nouvo Lakay—the place where Zion once made his first pact—now held a thin, quiet tension. The people felt something changing, even if they couldn't name it.
Children born during the days of silence looked to the sky with eyes already glowing faintly.
II. The Return and the Jar
When Zion returned, the people didn't rush forward. They watched in awe.
Behind him came the warriors, the war priestesses, and the marked prisoners from Ashbon—silent and stunned. Zion held the jar of divine blood, sealed and pulsing faintly with ancestral fire.
The elders bowed.
"How will you share this?" one asked, cautiously.
Zion answered with solemn clarity:
"Not all will touch this power. It is a flame—meant for those who have proven ready to carry it."
III. New Sanctuaries for the Divine-Bound
The war priestesses—marked by Lwa themselves—would no longer live among the people like before.
"They carry the will of gods now," Zion explained. "They must have space to burn brighter."
Three new sacred houses were commissioned:
Each located at a distance from the central village, yet connected through ritual paths.
One for each war priestess, and another for the upcoming spiritual guardians expected to rise.
These houses were made from stone, bone, and bloodroot bark, designed to amplify spiritual training and communion with the Lwa.
"They must grow in isolation… but not in loneliness," said one elder.
They would be visited by acolytes, tended to by chosen servants, and guarded against spiritual intrusion.
IV. The Feast of the Gods
That night, Papa Legba summoned the gods to his house.
But the house was no longer a crooked hut on the edge of spiritual reality—it had shifted, now resembling a great hall of glowing wood, endless shadow, and light that moved like laughter.
The gods entered as they pleased:
Erzulie Freda, floating on scented winds, her dress shimmering with stars.
Ogou Feray, his sword laid across his lap, flames dancing on his skin.
Maman Brigitte, seated beside a fire, sipping black rum.
Baron Samedi, already mid-dance, dragging spirits along with him for entertainment.
Ayizan, appearing only once the feast began—quietly, at the head of the long table.
And Papa Legba, already seated in his throne of twisted cane and gold-eyed snakes, tapping his staff with amusement.
"They've seen us now," Legba said, voice like thunder wrapped in sugar. "No going back to secrets."
They feasted. Not on food—but on spirit, on memory, on the scent of fear and the taste of belief.
They passed around the names of mortals who would rise, of enemies yet unseen, of blood yet to be spilled.
They laughed, they argued, they even sang.
But most of all—they planned.
V. Closing Image
In the real world, the people of Nouvo Lakay danced that night.
They built fires in a wide circle, offered sacrifices of fruit and bone, and sang songs older than memory.
Over them, unseen, the gods feasted.
Among them, the chosen began to glow faintly.
And deep in the earth beneath the village, the roots of divine blood began to spread.