The air in Nouvo Kay had changed.
It wasn't the breeze or the sky—it was a weight in the bones. The kind of silence that comes before a storm, not loud, but listening. The kind that made birds go quiet and dogs look east with their ears pinned back.
Zion felt it first.
He stood atop the high ridge overlooking the village, arms folded tight. Below, the people still worked—tending to saplings, weaving reed baskets, and training with spears in the courtyard—but even their laughter felt cautious now, like children playing near an edge they hadn't noticed before.
Kael joined him, brow furrowed.
"You feel it too?"
Zion didn't answer right away.
"Yes. Something's moving," he said finally. "And we're not ready."
The Council of Roots
That night, Zion gathered his inner circle inside the large roundhouse they'd built from fire-hardened wood and riverstone. Mikah, Thalia, Ayomi, Sael, and the others sat around the flickering flame at the center.
"No wall will stop what's coming," Zion said. "Not when we don't know its face."
"They'll come for the land," Thalia murmured. "Or the Lwa."
"They'll come because they were sent," Sael said, gaze firm. "And they won't stop unless we break them."
Zion looked around the fire. "We need more than faith. We need preparation. Strategy. Unity."
"But first," he said quietly, "we need answers."
In the House of Legba
Beneath the ancient tree that marked the sacred center of Nouvo Kay stood a hut without walls—woven branches shaped in a perfect spiral, open to the stars above. It was Papa Legba's house.
The wind here whispered differently, like it knew stories the land had yet to live.
Zion approached the threshold and knelt.
"I ask entrance."
The lanterns flared without flame.
The grass at the edge curled like it had heard.
Then the doors of the spirit opened.
He stepped inside.
The Meeting of the Lwa
Papa Legba was already waiting—leaning on his cane carved with riddles, pipe curling sweet smoke into the sky.
"You bring troubled wind, boy," he said. "Time to call the family."
He tapped his cane twice.
The world held its breath.
From the mist outside the hut came a soft chime—like anklets on bare feet. The smell of roses and ocean salt drifted in. The branches rustled, then parted.
Erzulie Freda entered in a gown of silk that shimmered like moonlight on water, every step a ripple. She smiled sadly at Zion, but her eyes gleamed with steel.
A low thrum began—like distant drums in iron halls.
Then Ogou Feray strode in, his bare chest glistening with oil and soot, sword slung across his back. Sparks danced at his heels, and with each step the ground seemed to pulse.
Wind howled. Leaves rose and spiraled.
A gust tore through the hut, and Ayizan appeared, face veiled in woven leaves and symbols that rearranged themselves with every blink. She said nothing, but Zion felt his soul sifted just by her glance.
The fire dimmed.
From the shadows came laughter—playful, yet terrible.
Maman Brigitte strolled in next, dressed in mourning black, her red scarf bleeding color into the air. Her eyes glowed with knowing mischief, and her necklace of bone beads clicked with every step.
Last came Baron Samedi.
The earth shivered.
He did not walk—he appeared, rising from a curl of smoke in the shape of a grin. Top hat crooked, glasses flashing, his voice like velvet over a grave.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Looks like death's coming early this season."
All six Lwa now stood in a circle around Zion.
Their presence was not fire—it was pressure. Not sight—it was revelation.
Papa Legba turned toward the center of the hut and stamped his cane.
"We have a storm coming," he said, "and it does not knock—it devours. This is our moment."
Each Lwa nodded in turn.
"Let us speak."