The lantern flames in Papa Legba's house flickered, but did not dance. They stood still—alert, waiting—as if they, too, knew the gravity of what was unfolding. The sacred chamber was filled with the full might of the pantheon. Each Lwa, luminous in presence, cast no shadow, only weight.
Zion stood silent, humbled in the corner, still not used to standing in the presence of gods who walked and spoke as plainly as kin.
Papa Legba, leaning lightly on his twisted staff, turned from the smoke-ringed altar. His voice, when it came, was neither loud nor soft—it was final.
The Order of War
"The enemy approaches. The air stinks of old gods and forgotten cruelty. Their hearts are hollow, and their god is a thing made from chains and dust."
He raised his staff, and the ground beneath them pulsed.
"Baron Samedi," he called.
The Baron tilted his top hat, grinning from beneath the rim. "Been waitin'."
"You'll go first," Papa Legba said. "The Ashbon believe their dead rise again. Make sure they don't."
Baron Samedi gave a mocking bow and vanished into smoke.
Papa Legba continued, addressing the other Lwa without pause.
"Ogou Feray—shatter their weapons, break their formations. Cut through their generals, not their soldiers. Send fear ahead like thunder."
The iron-clad warrior gave a single nod, then disappeared in a blaze of sparks and steel.
"Erzulie Freda," Papa murmured next, "go to their camps. Let them see what they most desire—and take it from them. Break their will before they ever draw a blade."
She blew a kiss of rose-colored light and vanished in a breath of perfume and sorrow.
"Ayizan," he said, voice gaining weight, "unwrap their secrets. Silence their whispers. Their rites and symbols—strip them bare."
Ayizan bowed deeply, her veiled form gliding into the unseen.
"Maman Brigitte," Papa Legba said last, "cleanse what must die. Burn the rot before it spreads."
She said nothing, only smiled with her eyes before the earth swallowed her shadow.
Moloh-Tal
Then, Papa Legba turned toward the darkness behind the altar. The room grew cold, even with the lanterns burning.
"As for their god…" His words slowed.
"Moloh-Tal," he whispered, "I will deal with him myself."
Zion stiffened.
Papa Legba turned to him finally.
"You have your part, boy."
The Task of Mortals
"Anyone from the enemy tribe who is still within the foundation stage… we leave them."
"They are not worthy of divine wrath. They are yours."
"You and your warriors will face them—cut your teeth on their bones, grow stronger in the doing."
He stepped close to Zion, tapping his chest gently with his staff.
"This is no longer about surviving. It's about rising."
Zion nodded, though his heart beat like a war drum.
"Rest tonight," Papa Legba added with a crooked smile. "You'll need all your strength when morning remembers your name."
And with that, he vanished—leaving Zion alone with silence… and the promise of war written across the stars