The fires at the temple had burned through the night, never flickering, never dimming. The stone glowed faintly now, warm under bare feet and paws. The sacred hunt had ended, and the offerings—laid in circles of salted blood and sacred herbs—had vanished without trace, consumed by forces unseen.
Now came the moment of marking.
Zion stood before the gathered crowd. Behind him, the priestesses moved in formation—Sael, radiant in her sea-colored garments, the soft gold of Erzulie's grace shimmering from her skin; Ayomi, silent and watchful, bearing Papa Legba's wisdom in her eyes; and Ayola, tall and calm, her link to Baron Samedi vibrating in the bones of the earth beneath her feet.
Each of them raised their hands, and the temple responded.
A ripple spread out across the courtyard—energy, ancient and alive, brushing against each body like invisible wind. One by one, villagers stepped forward, offering a hand, a vow, a breath.
For some, the sigils they already bore flared with new power—deepening in complexity, forming layers of divine energy. Their muscles tensed, their hearts raced. These were renewals, blessings earned through sacrifice and loyalty.
For others—the young, the newly accepted Ashtborn, and a few humble elders—their skin burned with divine fire for the first time. Sigils etched themselves onto flesh, each unique, shaped by spirit and god, permanently fusing the soul to something higher.
Gasps echoed.
Cries rang out.
Children wept—not from pain, but from awe.
Zion's Third Sigil
When the blessings were nearly complete, the crowd parted.
Zion stepped forward. The silence was total.
He already bore two sigils—one on his right forearm from Papa Legba, and a second, fierce and storm-touched, across his back from Ogou. Two sigils were rare. Two were power. But now, something stirred again.
From the air above him, a spark of crimson light descended slowly—not from any one god, but from a gathering of them.
Unity. Recognition. Trust.
The spark embedded itself in his chest. His body arched, his feet lifting off the stone floor. The temple groaned, the stones humming like a chorus. Flames burst upward in a ring around him—pure, white-hot, and silent.
When Zion landed again, bare-chested and smoking from the energy that kissed him, a third sigil pulsed over his heart.
A spiral of three symbols—one each for gate, sword, and soul.
Whispers became chants.
The gods had spoken.
Closing Rites
As the sun returned, Zion raised his hands once more. This time, he said nothing. His body, his sigils, and the temple behind him said all that needed saying.
From the crowd stepped the newly marked. Young warriors. Soft-hearted fishers. A few of the Ashtborn, trembling but smiling. Each was now a part of something far greater.
And yet, beyond the edges of joy, in the silence between drums, a distant thunder rolled.
War still loomed.
But Nouvo Lakay no longer stood unprepared.