The cheers still echoed when the drums changed again—softer this time, a heartbeat rhythm, as though the land itself was pausing to listen. A warm breeze swept through the clearing, stirring braids, skirts, and feathers. The fire cracked in answer.
Then… she came.
From the mist rising off the fish basin walked a figure wrapped in pale silk, her skin the color of sweet almond, her hair a waterfall of black crowned with pink petals. Around her ankles, the grass bent gently without breaking.
Erzulie Freda, goddess of beauty, love, and the aching sweetness of dreams, stepped into the circle.
The people gasped. Even the boldest among them bowed their heads.
Only Zion stood straight, his voice quiet.
"Welcome, Lady of Grace."
Erzulie's eyes scanned the crowd. Not rushed. Not searching. Simply… knowing. She walked forward until she reached a young woman sitting among the healers—a gentle soul named Sael, known for her quiet laughter and the way she always found time to braid the hair of orphaned children.
Without a word, Erzulie cupped Sael's face and kissed her brow.
A shimmer of pink light passed from Lwa to woman, and a sigil bloomed across Sael's chest—a curved rose, cradling a tear-shaped jewel.
Erzulie turned, her job done. And then she was gone—dissolving into petals that drifted upward and vanished with the wind.
⸻
Then the ground trembled—not violently, but with the steady weight of arrival.
From the eastern gate, Ogou Feray came, bare-chested and glistening with the sweat of the forge. He wore red cloth at the waist, a leather apron scorched at the hem. A massive hammer rested over his shoulder. He said nothing.
Instead, he walked to a kneeling youth named Toma, a boy who once stood alone in the night to defend the grain stores with nothing but a sharpened stick. Ogou placed his hammer on the ground before him. Toma touched it, and a burning red sigil—a shield crossed with iron—flared to life across his back.
⸻
From the tree line came Ayizan, veiled and wrapped in green and white, leaves rustling in her wake though there was no wind.
She moved through the crowd like mist through the forest. To an older woman named Yalina, known for her silence and unmatched knowledge of herbs and roots, Ayizan offered a simple staff made of twisted vine. Yalina took it with shaking hands, and a sigil shaped like interwoven roots glowed across her wrist.
⸻
A sound like laughter rang out from the grave-circle near the edge of the village—the place where the tribe buried their dead in stone-marked cairns.
Maman Brigitte stepped forth.
She wore black skirts and white beads, her eyes rimmed in kohl, her hair a crown of twisted coils. The air around her smelled of rum, ash, and basil. With a grin sharp as a knife, she walked straight to Nissa, a girl who had buried three siblings and never once asked for pity.
Maman Brigitte blew ash into her face. Nissa didn't flinch.
A sigil of twin bones crossed beneath a burning eye marked her throat.
⸻
The fire dimmed. The air stilled.
Then came the last.
Baron Samedi rose from the shadows like a god born of night.
Top hat crooked, coat stitched in silver thread, cigar lit but never ashed. His grin stretched wide and bone-white. As he stepped forward, the flames brightened and every shadow seemed to dance.
He passed through the crowd, stopping before Milo, an older man with haunted eyes who once tended graves back in the old land.
Baron did not speak. He simply raised his hand, tapped Milo's chest with the butt of his cane—and a sigil of a skull crowned in stars shimmered to life.
Baron turned to Zion and gave a deep, theatrical bow.
Then he vanished, laughter trailing behind like smoke.
⸻
Zion stepped forward once more.
"Tonight," he said, "the gods have seen us. Not from distant clouds, not from hollow shrines, but here. In the flesh. In the fire."
The drums stopped.
And then—they all came at once.
All five Lwa—Ogou Feray, Erzulie Freda, Ayizan, Maman Brigitte, and Baron Samedi—stood in a great circle around the altar. No longer separate. No longer hidden. Their presence filled the air like thunder, like salt, like song. Some wept. Some fell to their knees.
The old ones remembered whispers of gods. The young ones had never dreamed of this.
Zion raised both hands.
"All who have been marked… be made new."
"All who have not… be chosen."
A great light poured out of the altar. Not fire, not lightning—but power made visible. It swept through the gathered people like a wave.
Children cried out as sigils bloomed on their arms and backs.
Elders glowed as their old marks deepened, twisted into new forms—sharper, brighter, fuller.
Even the land itself seemed to sigh.
When it was over, the Lwa were gone.
But the marks remained.
And the people of Nouvo Kay… were no longer ordinary.
They were a tribe of gods