Ash and Smoke – Baron Samedi
The night stretched like a corpse's breath as Baron Samedi emerged on the edges of the Ashbon camp.
They had buried their dead in long trenches, believing the god Moloh-Tal would raise them as flame-bound wraiths. Skulls crowned with black wax, ribcages tied with bone cords—rituals of power built on rot.
The Baron laughed.
He didn't walk into the camp.
He rose from the grave under it.
The Ashbon sentries didn't scream. Their mouths filled with dirt before they could. Graves split open, not with resurrection—but with reclamation.
The Baron danced through the enemy dead, cane in one hand, a rusted lantern in the other. As each corpse twitched in its false awakening, he plucked its soul like a ripe fruit and dropped it into the light.
"I'll take these," he grinned, "before your master stains 'em further."
In minutes, the trench became a crater. No more dead. No more promise.
Only silence—and the grinning Lwa humming to himself, dragging a trail of soul-lanterns behind him like a necklace of light.
Steel and Fire – Ogou Feray
Farther along the Ashbon lines, Ogou Feray struck without warning.
He fell like a meteor, sword first—splitting the war table of their generals in two.
The commanders screamed orders, but their blades bent, their spears broke, and their tactics unraveled.
Ogou moved like a storm given purpose. He disarmed, dismembered, and disappeared into their shadows—only to reappear in the next command tent, shattering another chain of control.
By dawn, the Ashbon's strategic leadership had vanished. Their maps burned. Their plans forgotten.
Only their fear remained.
Veils and Mirrors – Erzulie Freda
In the barracks and sleeping tents, she appeared not with fire, but fragrance.
Soft songs drifted on the wind. Voices of lost mothers. Forgotten lovers. Wounded brothers.
Each soldier was shown their deepest longing—and for a breath, they thought it had been returned.
Then she touched them.
And the illusion turned to salt.
Their morale did not break.
It wept.
When they turned on each other, it was not with rage, but shame.
Whispers Torn – Ayizan
Ayizan moved through their sacred ground, where symbols of binding and knowledge were carved into bone and blood.
She reached out, and the runes twisted.
What had once summoned power now devoured its keepers.
What had once protected, now imprisoned.
The Ashbon's knowledge turned on itself. Rituals backfired. Priests burned from the inside. Secrets, once locked, now screamed aloud to the wind.
And Ayizan listened to every scream like a teacher disappointed in her students.
Flame and Justice – Maman Brigitte
At the heart of a corrupted village razed by the Ashbon to make room for war, Maman Brigitte stood beneath a sacred tree they had tried to defile.
She whispered in Creole, the language of justice.
The rot caught fire.
It wasn't divine flame—it was righteous flame. Cleansing. Absolute.
As the ashes rose, so did the spirits of the wronged.
The village didn't return—but the pain that fed Moloh-Tal was erased.
She burned the roots he fed on.
Meanwhile – Nouvo Kay
Zion stood over a large hide-map stretched across a table. His inner circle surrounded him—Kael, Thalia, Mikah, the new priestesses Ayomi and Sael by his side.
He stared at the distant mark labeled Moloh-Tal's Heartland.
"We can't wait," he said. "I'm going there myself."
Kael frowned. "Alone?"
"No," Zion replied. "With a few who can move unseen. I need to see what lies in the god's shadow… and I need to see what we're truly facing."
Around them, the tribe stirred with a new energy. Warriors trained with urgency. The chosen began testing their strengthened sigils. Children no longer whispered the names of the gods in fear—they sang them.
The storm hadn't come yet.
But it had already begun to change them.