The morning air was thick with mist and the scent of farewells.
The Tribe of Ondine had made their final trade offerings—bundles of dried fish, woven mats, and strong grain spirits—placed with reverence at the center of Nouvo Lakay's open circle. Their scouts had returned from the surrounding lands, satisfied that their route home was clear. Now, with quiet gratitude and cautious respect, they prepared to depart.
Chief Wayan approached Zion one last time, offering a carved shell pendant in the shape of a coiled serpent—a symbol of safe returns and silent strength in Ondine tradition.
"Your people are… beyond what we imagined," Wayan said, voice low.
"There is discipline in your silence. Order in your mystery."
Zion accepted the gift, his second sigil glowing softly beneath his tunic. "There is more to come," he replied. "For both our tribes, I think."
As the visitors began their departure, the tribe of Nouvo Lakay shifted back into daily rhythm. Yet, not all was at peace.
Preparations for the Priestess
High on a secluded ridge overlooking the southern stream, construction began for the new sanctum that would house Ayola, the chosen of Baron Samedi. The other priestesses helped bless the grounds, weaving charms into the wood and stone. It was a quiet place—where the wind whispered between trees, and birds nested undisturbed. A place where a soul between worlds might find balance.
Ayola remained focused but distant. She hadn't spoken much since receiving the mark. There was power in her silence—something still forming within her.
Zion visited once, only briefly, offering her dried herbs and a simple iron ring.
"When the veil feels too thin, wear this," he said.
"You are not alone, even among the dead."
She nodded but said nothing.
The Breaking of a Rule
The peace of Nouvo Lakay had been hard-earned, and the laws—though simple—were sacred: respect the gods, respect the land, and respect one another.
But that evening, a tremor ran through the tribe.
A woman, eyes rimmed with tears and fists clenched with shame and fury, was led to the central circle by the eldest midwife. Behind her, three warriors stood in silence, one gripping the arm of a man who refused to look up.
He had broken the law.
In the shadows of a storage hut, he had forced himself on her. A crime of violence, cowardice, and cruelty—a violation not only of her body but of the spirit of the entire tribe.
Gasps rippled as the news reached every ear.
Zion's face turned stone. Slowly, he stepped forward. The woman—her name was Sila—stood firm, her voice steady despite her shaking form.
"I will not carry his shame," she said.
"This land is sacred. He does not belong here."
The Lwa did not appear. They didn't need to.
This was not their battle. This was Zion's.
He looked to his inner circle. Then to the people. Then back to the man who now fell to his knees, tears running down his face—not from guilt, but from fear.
"You broke the foundation of this home," Zion said.
"You knew the law, and you spat on it."
He motioned to the guards.
"Take him to the outer ring. He will face the Rite of the Wounded Earth."
The crowd parted like water. The Rite was a punishment and exile, harsh and ancient. If the land rejected him, he would not survive the night.
Sila was given a cloak, food, and herbs to rest. Ayola, despite her transition, requested to sit with her—death's chosen comforting one who had survived a different kind of death.
That night, no music was played in the village. The fire burned low. Even the beasts were silent.
Nouvo Lakay was a sanctuary—but only for those who honored