The night had quieted, but it had not ended.
Beyond the circle of firelight, at the far edge of the settlement where wild grass bowed to the mountain's breath, the wind shifted. A hush fell upon the tribe—not from fear, but from the raw echo of awe. The gods had spoken, and now they claimed their place.
There, nestled beneath a naturally curved cliff, the earth pulsed with a strange warmth. Zion's footsteps slowed as he approached, followed by Kael, Thalia, and the others. The ground shimmered faintly, as if it remembered the gods' footsteps before any of them arrived.
Without a word, Zion bent to one knee and pressed his palm to the soil.
The ground responded.
A circle of flame, soft and blue, ignited in a ring around the space. Inside it, symbols began to form—six ancient sigils of the Lwa, drawn not with hand or tool, but etched by unseen fire.
Papa Legba's gate—a key and crossroads intertwined.
Ogou's blade—a flaming spear forged into a shield.
Erzulie's rose—sharp petals wrapped in tender vines.
Baron Samedi's mask—a skull crowned in tobacco leaves and laughter.
Damballa's coil—endless and flowing, like divine breath.
Ayida Wedo's arc—a rainbow curled into a crescent moon.
The survivors watched in stunned reverence as the fire swallowed their offerings and left only the markings—a divine altar, chosen not by man but by the gods themselves.
Then came the final sign.
Each survivor felt a sudden heat—not pain, but an overwhelming surge of purpose—as if their blood had been set alight by the gods' breath.
Zion gasped.
A symbol burned into the skin of his chest—the Gate of Papa Legba, its shape pulsing faintly in rhythm with his heart.
Kael clutched his shoulder where Ogou's mark took form—an angular spear coiled with flame.
Thalia's spine glowed with the swirling sigil of Erzulie, the ink-like design seeming to breathe with her.
Others cried out or fell silent as tattoos formed unbidden, each one glowing briefly before settling into dark ink or shimmering etchings. Every sigil was different, yet each came with the same feeling: a bond had been formed.
Not just power—but purpose.
Zion rose to his feet, still touching the ground, and spoke in a voice no longer only his own.
"This is the Covenant of the Divine.
We do not wield strength for vanity.
We rise to protect.
We build with purpose.
We carry power as a torch—not a weapon.
And we walk with the Lwa, not behind or before, but beside."
The air pulsed in agreement. A divine hush swept over the tribe.
From that night onward, the spot at the far edge of the settlement became The Hollow of the Divine—a sacred place where prayers were whispered, sacrifices made, and strength renewed.
Their journey was far from over.
But now they carried something greater than hope.
They carried the covenant.