The winds across Bassòon twisted strangely.
Not from the east.
Not from the gods.
But from beyond—from a corner of the cosmos where time forgot how to move.
Above, the stars flickered.
Below, the Colosseum cracked gently beneath the weight of invisible footsteps.
Twaile stood alone at the center, her silver hair flicking like threads of smoke, her fish still in hand, flapping weakly.
She turned her head upward.
"They're getting closer, Legba."
From the mist stepped Papa Legba, his cane clicking softly as he came beside her.
He too looked up, his eyes narrow beneath the shadow of his wide hat.
"I feel them," he said. "Not the young ones. Not the soft, corrupted things that moan and flail."
Twaile grinned wide, almost feral.
"No… these are the pure ones."
"The old flesh. The Devoured from before the stars had names."
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, like a chef savoring the aroma before a meal.
"Mmm. Not tasted something like that in… aeons."
Papa Legba's smile turned slow and wide.
"When the rivers still ran backward," he said.
"When we still danced naked through the smoke of dying stars.
That was meat. That was music."
Twaile chuckled.
"Remember the one we cooked beneath the Bone Tree of Ayizan?"
"Dripped in ash oil. Stuffed with thunder stones," Legba said, voice thick with nostalgia.
"Mmmm," Twaile smacked her lips. "Crunchy soul."
And still the Hive approached.
Not fast. But steady. Like hunger given form.
The gods in the Colosseum watched from the shadows—silent, listening, not daring to interrupt.
Zion shivered, standing among the chosen.
What are they talking about?
The Hive… as food?
Twaile's eyes flickered toward him.
"That one," she whispered to Legba, "remembers in pieces. He tasted ancient fear once. That's why he trembles."
Papa Legba nodded.
"Still young. But clever.
Knows the names of the old pantheons.
Knows what waits in the dark, even if he don't know he knows."
Twaile tilted her head again toward the sky.
The Hive was near now—no longer just a shadow. You could feel it in the bone.
"The others in Ginen… they stir."
She said this quietly, her voice low and sharp.
"They feel the Hive's approach. They dream of flame and marrow.
They remember the feasts we used to have—before corruption touched creation."
Papa Legba exhaled.
"They'll wake soon."
"And when they do," Twaile grinned again, "there won't be enough Hive to go around."
"You gon' share your portion?" she asked slyly.
Papa Legba clicked his cane three times.
"If you ask again, I'll lock you so deep in Ginen, you'll forget how to laugh."
Twaile snorted, eyes gleaming with joy.
"Then eat fast, gatekeeper. Or I will take your share."
They stood together, two ancient gods with teeth older than flame, waiting for the return of a flavor they thought forever lost.
Above, the sky bled black.
The Hive drew closer.
And in the deep silence of the Colosseum, across all pantheons and chosen warriors, a truth settled:
The old ones weren't afraid. They were hungry