The Gate Closes Behind Him
Zion stood silently before the old stone where Papa Legba waited, the god's cane resting lightly on the threshold. Behind him, the towering form of Papa Loko and the serpentine shimmer of Damballah prepared to return to their hidden realms.
"This path is not guarded," Legba warned. "And once the gate shuts, you are alone among things that don't forget."
Zion gave a quiet nod.
As he stepped into the devoured lands, the air shifted—heavy, thick, humming with the memory of something lost. The door closed with a breath and thunder, and Zion vanished into a world where gods had already fallen.
The Heart of the Flame
That night, in Nouvo Lakay, the five priestesses sat together at the temple's sacred fire. It was rare for all of them to be alone like this—without ceremony, without titles, without Zion.
Ayomi, the priestess of Papa Legba, held a bundle of dried herbs in her hands, rolling them without thought.
"Have you ever wondered who we'll be… after this war?" she asked quietly.
Sael, Erzulie's radiant and calculating priestess, responded first, "The world is shifting. Even our gods are moving. Maybe we get to choose who we become."
Ayola, Baron Samedi's unflinching voice, stirred the coals with a flat stick. "Choice is a luxury," she muttered. "But if I had it… I'd want someone to walk beside me, who knows death and life. Who doesn't fear either."
Elis, newest of them all, priestess of Maman Brigitte, lowered her gaze. "I dream of silence. Peace. And someone who sees me—not just the power."
Thalia, Ogou's chosen, scarred from battles seen and unseen, leaned back and finally said, "He would have to accept war and tenderness in equal measure. A man who leads, but doesn't try to command me."
The fire cracked, embers sparking upward like scattered thoughts.
They all sat in stillness.
Each had seen Zion—in different ways. In their god-marked visions. In quiet strength. In shared glances.
None said his name.
But in that space, among flame and fate, they all knew.
In the Devoured Lands
Zion walked a broken trail. The ground whispered beneath his boots—like voices trying to speak through stone.
He passed ruins marked by twisted sigils, symbols warped beyond recognition. Trees stood like skeletal witnesses. Whatever had consumed this land had not simply devoured bodies or gods—it had eaten memory.
And then—
He stopped.
The air had changed.
A presence loomed, invisible but undeniable.
Something watched.
Not with eyes. But with hunger.
Zion didn't speak. He simply placed his palm to his second sigil, and moved forward into the shadowed world where even gods go silent