The next morning, the skies were overcast with silver clouds, and the wind had turned sharp.
Word had already spread: the exile did not survive the Rite of the Wounded Earth. His screams echoed only once through the trees before the land claimed him. No one spoke of him again—not out of fear, but because the soil of Nouvo Lakay does not mourn those who violate its laws.
At midday, Zion called the people together in the central gathering circle.
He stood not on the raised stone altar reserved for rituals, but directly on the ground—as a man among the people, not above them. His voice was calm, not loud, but it cut through the morning air with the weight of truth.
"We do not follow rules to control one another," Zion began.
"We follow them to protect what we have built. What the gods have given. What we have bled to keep."
The silence was complete. Even the wind seemed to pause to listen.
"The moment we treat our laws as suggestions… is the moment we fall back into chaos. And chaos—" he looked across the crowd, "—will not have this home."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"Let this be the last time we speak of the one who broke that trust. Instead, speak of the girl who survived. And the warrior who died with honor. And the gods who still walk among us."
There were no cheers, no cries. Just nods. Quiet, heavy ones. The kind of silence that said: We understand. We will not forget.
Preparing for Winter
The final leaves fell from the trees that week, blanketing the village paths in gold and brown. The scent of drying herbs, smoked meat, and newly tanned hides filled the air. Nouvo Lakay became a hive of activity.
Men fished in teams with woven traps. Women worked tirelessly to weave thicker garments from animal fur and plant fibers. Children helped gather roots and collect firewood under the guidance of elders.
Zion moved through it all like a steady current—checking granaries, inspecting fences, quietly strengthening the spiritual wards etched into the land itself. His hand always near the hilt of his blade, his mind always five steps ahead.
He knew the first snow would not come gently.
A Journey for Answers
Two days before the snow arrived, Zion and Thalia prepared to depart.
"Where are you going?" Ayola asked, already robed in black and violet, her skin faintly luminous beneath Baron Samedi's sigil.
"To the west," Zion said.
"There's a place I saw in a dream. A graveyard built atop a mountain. I think something waits for us there."
Thalia, now one of the most powerful warriors of Nouvo Lakay, stood beside him with her blade wrapped and strapped. She carried little, only what she needed, but her eyes said everything—she was ready for whatever they'd find.
"You trust your dreams more than the wind," Ayola said with a small smirk.
Zion smiled back.
"Dreams led us here, didn't they?"
Before he left, he gathered his inner circle one last time, reminding them of their responsibilities while he was gone.
"Watch the people. Care for them. Guide them. I don't need a throne—just a home worth returning to."
As he and Thalia crossed the village threshold, dozens gathered silently to see them off. Some held lanterns. Others simply bowed.
The snow hadn't started yet, but the chill was rising