Zion's Judgment
By the River of Still Eyes, Zion summoned Jomu, one of his trusted seven.
The air was thick with unspoken tension. On one side stood Meka, his first bond. On the other, Nara, whose quiet strength had taken root in Jomu's heart during Zion's long travels. The tribe gathered nearby, hushed beneath the trees, sensing this was more than a matter of the heart—it was a test of character and order.
Zion stepped between them.
"Jomu," he began, voice low but commanding, "you carry two souls in your hands. If you choose one, honor her fully. If you choose both, then walk the harder path—equally."
He turned to the gathered tribe.
"Let none say we honor spirits and yet fear love. But love must come with duty."
Jomu dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead into the soil.
"I accept the weight, and I will not falter."
A silence passed. Then, Meka moved first—placing her hand gently on Nara's shoulder. There were no smiles, no declarations. But in that moment, a fragile balance was struck.
The Devouring
Far to the south, in a coastal region once rich with ritual, a tribe vanished.
Their protector—the Spirit of Shells and Wind—had been their pride, their shield against drought and sea-tempests. But one night, the people woke to silence.
No wind.
No prayer answered.
Only a dark smear across their sacred altar, where the god's presence had once pulsed strong.
He had not fled.
He had not been defeated.
He had been devoured.
Consumed by something that should not be.
The elders cried salt instead of tears. The sigils carved into the sacred stones cracked, blackened, and turned to dust. And in this silence, a decision was made.
"We must leave this cursed place," said their last surviving warrior-leader, Ebeno. "We must find the place where the sacred still breathe. There is a village. Stone-built. Guided by a man who walks with gods."
And so they began their exodus. Old and young alike carried stories and remnants of what they had lost. They spoke in whispers of a sanctuary far inland.
"Nouvo Lakay," said one elder. "That is where we go."
The Signs Near the Gate
Ayomi, the chosen of the Gatekeeper, stood watch near the sacred Gate.
The air buzzed unnaturally. Something in the veil between worlds was frayed—something wrong.
Sael, who served the radiant one of beauty and desire, arrived silently.
"I saw flickering light in the southern trees," she said, holding a jar filled with glowing riverlight. "A sigil I've never seen before… it pulsed red, like it was bleeding."
Ayomi didn't answer at first. Her eyes never left the horizon.
"One of them has fallen," she whispered at last. "One of the old ones… consumed."
They stood in silence, as the weight of that truth settled between them.
Epilogue Moments
Jomu moved into a new longhouse, crafted with care by Milo, the stoneworker. It had two doors, and three sacred altars—one for each woman, and one for their shared life. A bold choice—but balance was never easy.
The migrating tribe drew closer to Nouvo Lakay, bringing strange symbols, broken hopes, and sacred items now dull with abandonment.
In his dreams, Zion walked the paths between realms. There, the old Gatekeeper stood—his staff cracked, the road behind him twisted.
"Something moves through the thresholds uninvited," the old one said. "And it feeds on faith… devours what we once were