The sky hadn't changed.
And yet everything felt different.
Twaile stood in the center of the Colosseum, her blind eyes turned skyward, her lips curved in a smile too calm for what was coming.
The gods were quiet. The chosen stood still, uncertain whether they were warriors or sacrifices in the presence of something primordial.
Then from the edge of the divine circle, Kalonji, the ancient turtle god—revered across oceans, whispered of in pre-cosmic waters—glided silently through the veil. His shell shimmered with patterns older than starfire, his every movement a ripple in time.
He approached Zion, stepping through the woven threads of reality without sound.
Zion did not bow. He simply watched.
Kalonji's voice was deep and thick like the ocean's abyss.
"Child of flesh and thunder… can you keep her in check?"
Zion frowned, uncertain what Kalonji meant.
Kalonji's golden eyes did not blink.
"More than the Hive… more than the stars that fall screaming… it is she who awakens my bloodline's terror. Since the moment she appeared, every drop of me remembers the old fear. The fear that came before death had meaning."
Before Zion could answer, a faint laugh echoed across the stone arches.
Twaile, standing with her fish still swaying by the tail, turned her face toward Kalonji.
"Aww," she said sweetly, "look at the baby turtle."
Her grin widened—though her eyes remained shut.
"Only a hundred millennia old and already trembling? You haven't even molted properly."
She tilted her head.
"You're not even worth eating."
The world stopped moving.
Even the birds that circled overhead froze midair.
And from the shadows behind Twaile, Papa Legba tapped his cane.
"She ain't lying," he said without a hint of malice. "That why I ain't never entertained the idea of making turtles when I first walked this world. Too slow. Too tender. Too… mild."
Kalonji's shell rippled—not in rage, but in humility.
He bowed his head slightly, his massive limbs folding inward. He knew better than to answer.
The other gods—those of fire, wind, desert, mountain, and sky—exchanged glances.
And for the first time since they crossed into this world, they trembled.
Not because of Twaile's power.
Not because of her madness.
But because of the way Papa Legba, Gatekeeper of Realms, spoke so casually beside her.
Because it meant one thing:
She was not the most dangerous.
She was just the one awake.
Zion stood silently between them, feeling the tension coiling like thunder beneath the earth.
But he did not back away. Not now. Not with the Hive coming. Not with Ginen stirring.
He looked up at Kalonji and nodded once.
"If I can't keep her in check," he said, "then we're already too late."
Twaile laughed again—soft, amused.
And for the briefest moment, Zion thought she smiled at him like a proud grandmother.
Then she turned her face back to the sky.
"Mmm," she whispered. "The Hive is ripening."