Morning broke with golden light, but something in the air had changed.
It wasn't the sun that woke them, nor the rustle of wind through the trees. It was the energy coursing through their bodies—a new rhythm, like a second heartbeat. The sigils etched into their skin pulsed faintly, responding to unseen forces in the world around them.
Zion stood alone near the Hollow of the Divine, his bare chest rising slowly with every breath. Papa Legba's mark hummed on his skin, each pulse echoing the pull of unseen knowledge. He was beginning to understand: the gods had not simply gifted them with power. They had unlocked a door—one only discipline, focus, and service could keep open.
Behind him, the others stirred.
Kael had been up since before dawn, testing his body. Where once he struggled to lift stone and timber, now he did so with ease. His mark—Ogou's flame-spear—seemed to ignite his muscles from within, pushing him to move faster, strike harder, protect deeper.
Thalia crouched on the edge of the woods, hand brushing a blade of grass. She no longer felt fear in the wild. Every movement around her—birdflight, breath, footstep—rang out like whispers on the wind. Erzulie's sigil, though delicate in design, had brought forth a predator's grace beneath her calm exterior.
Together, they began to train.
Sparring became a daily ritual. Not to fight one another, but to feel their limits, to understand their bodies as new vessels of divine breath. Zion guided them—not as a commander, but as a brother, a voice of reason, always reminding them:
"This power was earned, not given. You must make it mean something."
They began to build more—storage pits, defensive walls, even a watchtower. With each passing day, their village took shape, their community took root.
But the world would not wait for them to finish.
It began with smoke.
From the high ground of their lookout post, Thalia spotted it—a column of black spiraling toward the sky. Not a fire born from lightning or cooking. No—a burning born of violence.
Through the spyglass they'd crafted from old glass shards and vines, Kael narrowed his eyes. Below, across the wide valley and bordering a dense forest, another tribe—a smaller one, possibly less developed—was on the run.
Children carried bundles. Women bled as they ran. Men tried desperately to hold the line with crude weapons. Behind them came the pursuers—a war-hardened group, faster, better equipped, and merciless.
Zion said nothing at first. He watched.
These weren't strangers. This was a truth of the world he had stepped into: the strong hunted the weak, and the gods rarely interfered unless called.
Kael's fist clenched.
"We can't just watch."
Thalia's voice was even.
"We're not ready for war, Kael. We barely understand our strength."
Zion turned to them, his face unreadable, voice low.
"We're not going to war. But we're not turning our backs either. We observe. We decide… together."
There was silence. Tension hung in the air like an unstruck drum.
But already, in the hearts of those gathered, a seed had been planted—a test of the Covenant's meaning.
For now, they would watch. But the gods had not marked them to be bystanders.
And the fire in their blood whispered:
A storm is coming.