They gathered without banners.
No horns sounded. No drums. The space had been cleared, swept, marked only by what lay upon the ground: slates of stone, each one etched with a name and a brief description carved in steady, careful hands.
Gaia.
Vishnu.
Devi.
Allah.
Stoneward Land Guardian.
River Mother.
Ember Lord.
Windfather.
Others—older, quieter names drawn from fragments of Beastworld lore and human inference alike. Some had been suggested by researchers, others by elders who still carried Earth's myths in their bones. A few were tentative, carved shallow, as if the stone itself wasn't convinced they belonged.
No colours. No symbols beyond the names themselves.
Talia stood with the sentinels at the edge of the clearing, deliberately apart. The council did not take positions among the people. They did not stand behind any slate. Their presence was witness only.
Junia spoke once, clearly, without embellishment.
"You have thirty minutes to select a deity to believe in. Once selected stand behind the slate. The deity who reaches 75% Clan belief will be chosen as the Clan's main deity."
No speeches, persuasion or arguments from authority followed.
People moved slowly. Some didn't move at all at first.
Children stayed close to parents and Elders sat and watched. Couples spoke in murmurs, heads bent together. A few individuals walked the circle more than once, stopping at each slate, reading and rereading as if the words might change under their gaze.
Gaia's slate drew the largest cluster early—but not the only one.
Some paused there, fingers brushing the edge of the stone, then moved on. Others lingered and didn't step away at all.
At Vishnu's slate, a heated whisper broke out—arguments about balance, preservation, cycles of destruction and rebirth. Someone muttered that gods who tolerated destruction were still gods who allowed it.
At Devi's, voices softened. Strength and protection. Motherhood and fury. But questions followed quickly—too many faces, too many aspects. "How do we know which one answers?" someone asked quietly.
Allah's slate stood apart. Those who approached it did so carefully, respectfully—but rarely stayed. Old Earth wounds surfaced there, not from the faith itself but from how it had been wielded. More than one person stepped away with a tight jaw, whispering apologies that no one demanded.
Stoneward gathered those who wanted certainty. Those who trusted endurance more than growth. Builders. Guards. People who believed survival came from walls that didn't bend.
River Mother held families who spoke quietly of water, cycles, flow. Ember Lord drew a handful who believed survival required fire and will. Windfather, fewer still—restless souls, scouts, wanderers who recoiled from roots and permanence.
Half an hour passed without drama. Without coercion.
When Junia called time, there was no rush. Just a breath. A collective settling.
"Choose," she said gently. "Stand behind the name you believe in."
Movement rippled outward.
Lines formed.
Not perfectly. Not evenly.
Gaia's line stretched longest, but it wasn't overwhelming. Stoneward held firm. River Mother remained steady. Ember Lord thinned as people hesitated. Windfather lost half its supporters almost immediately.
The first tally was taken openly, voices clear, numbers spoken aloud. No marks hidden. No slates moved.
Gaia led.
But not by enough.
Discussion followed—not shouted, not heated, but raw. People stepped out of lines to talk, returned, stepped away again. Arguments weren't about doctrine. They were about survival philosophy.
"We need something that grows," someone said.
"We need something that holds," another countered.
"What happens when growth outpaces stability?"
"What happens when stability becomes stagnation?"
Minor deities with only a few followers were gently set aside, their supporters asked—not ordered—to choose again. Windfather was the first to fall. Ember Lord followed an hour later, its remaining supporters splitting almost evenly between Gaia and Stoneward.
River Mother lasted longer—but fractured when the question of winter arose. "Water freezes," someone said softly. No one argued that point.
By the third recount, only three remained.
Gaia.
Stoneward.
Devi.
The clearing felt heavier now—not with conflict, but with the weight of commitment pressing closer. People looked tired. Not from standing—but from choosing.
Stoneward's supporters argued fiercely for resilience. "Walls don't abandon you," one said. "Land doesn't care if you fail."
Devi's line spoke of protection through strength, of survival through ferocity when needed. "This world isn't gentle," someone said. "Why choose a god who asks us to be?"
And Gaia—
Gaia's supporters didn't argue much at all.
They spoke of continuity. Of listening. Of learning the land instead of forcing it. Of roots and seasons and patience that didn't feel like surrender.
"She doesn't promise safety," an older man said. "She promises belonging."
Three hours passed this way. The sun shifted and shadows stretched.
On the final recount, Gaia's line held.
Eighty-five percent. Not unanimity but enough.
Junia nodded once.
The vote was complete. No cheers or cries of triumph followed. Instead, a strange quiet settled—thick, deliberate.
Those not standing behind Gaia did not scatter. They did not leave. They stayed where they were, faces unreadable, shoulders tense.
Talia stepped forward then. Not onto a platform but on the bare earth.
Her voice carried without effort.
"I see those who did not choose Gaia." No accusation or warning followed.
"You are not wrong," she continued. "And you are not punished. You don't need to stop believing in who you were, you just need to decide who listens here."
Some shoulders eased. Barely.
"This world recognises major and minor deities," she said. "We will too, but not just yet."
She let that settle before continuing.
"We will not introduce minor deities until the clan has awakened together under a single anchor. Faith fragments easily and power fragments faster."
A murmur—uncertain, but listening.
"When more than seventy-five percent of this clan can believe in a minor deity alongside Gaia, I will approve a secondary pillar. Not before."
She looked directly at the dissenters then.
"You are not excluded or silenced but the Deepway Clan must move under one symbol."
Her voice steadied, firm as stone.
"Gaia will be that symbol."
She turned slightly, addressing everyone now.
"Deepway Clan has formally chosen Deity Gaia as our Main Deity."
No thunder answered, no warmth surged through the ground and no divine voice filled the air.
Nothing happened.
"Tomorrow," Talia continued, "we gather again to design rituals. Together."
She paused, eyes scanning faces—fear, resolve, doubt, something like hope.
"The day after, we will place our first Divine Pillar and formally accept Gaia's presence into the Deepway Clan."
The council broke up and the people dispersed slowly, conversations hushed, thoughts heavier than when they had arrived. There was no one who looked upward, or waited for signs.
They had made a choice.
And now they would have to live with it.