The Calling of the Chosen
The sky over Nouvo Lakay was heavy with silence. Not dread—but awe.
Three young women, now vessels for divine will, had begun their preparations. No one told them what to do. No drum summoned them. No elder gave instructions.
They simply knew.
Ayola and Ayomi left at dawn, cloaked in silence, blades strapped to their backs. Sael vanished before first light.
The people watched, hearts tight in their chests.
The gods had spoken.
Now the earth would answer.
The Hunt of Shadowhorns
Deep in the red hills beyond the forest edge roamed the Ka-Gwos, great sheep-like beasts with curling obsidian horns, dagger-thick hooves, and eyes that shimmered like moonstone.
No one hunted them. Their meat was said to turn bitter if the kill lacked honor.
But Ayola and Ayomi were not ordinary hunters. They moved like smoke across the terrain—Ayola with the eerie grace of someone who spoke to spirits, Ayomi with the calm certainty of someone who already knew the outcome.
They found a pair grazing beneath a bloodroot tree, massive and alert.
Ayomi signaled.
Ayola vanished into the brush.
The beasts sensed them and charged—together.
What followed was a blur of motion and precision. Ayomi slashed one horn, spinning to avoid a kick that cracked stone. Ayola leapt from a low tree branch, landing atop the second beast, her sigil glowing bright violet as her blade sank just below the skull.
Minutes later, two great Ka-Gwos lay still, their blood soaking the sacred ground.
"We'll need black males," Ayola whispered, brushing hair from her face.
"One for Legba," Ayomi answered, "and one for Samedi."
They began the haul back—not with fear or pride, but solemn purpose.
The River and the Heart
In the village, the sun had not fully risen when screams echoed near the riverbank.
Sael emerged from the churning depths of the Morne River, dragging a creature no one had ever dared catch: a Gwo Pwa, a massive scaled fish with rows of teeth and a body as long as three men.
She held it by the tail, one arm bleeding from where it had thrashed against her ribs.
Villagers stopped what they were doing. Mouths fell open.
One elderly fisherman dropped his basket—and then dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.
"Call the healer!" someone shouted.
"That girl just—she just came out the river!"
No one had ever dived into that river. It was said to be cursed—home to drowned souls and sleeping spirits.
But there stood Sael, soaked and glowing with a golden-pink shimmer, her eyes soft and unbothered.
She dropped the flailing fish beside the fire pit.
"This is for Erzulie Freda," she said, as if it were no different than drawing water. "She prefers her offerings fresh."
Witnesses to Power
The village was no longer the same.
Children whispered that Ayola walked with shadows following her.
Hunters swore they saw Ayomi speak to the wind, and the wind listened.
And Sael, with her quiet smile and iron grip, was now called "The River's Chosen."
The people began to prepare too—not because they were told, but because the air itself demanded reverence.
Altars were cleaned. Drums were tightened. Garments were dyed anew.
The gods were returning.
And Beyond…
Far away, Zion and Thalia looked toward the next horizon.
Neither knew what was unfolding back home in detail—but Zion's heart ached, not from worry… but anticipation.
The girls were rising.
And the gods were watching.