The ground trembled in rhythm with Bosou's iron hooves, sparks flying with every heavy step beside Papa Legba's tapping cane. Together, they descended toward the threshold of Ginen, the sacred veil shimmering like woven moonlight. Their laughter echoed low and deep, more ancient than drums, more knowing than prophecy.
All around Zantrayel, the chosen of the pantheons watched in silence. The Xianzhou emissaries gripped their ritual spears. The Egyptian-trained mortals whispered prayers to Osiris and Isis. The young warriors of the Adityas and Rudras of India bowed their heads in confusion. The Persian scions stood still as statues. Even the proudest among them said nothing.
Something primal, something older than their gods, was moving now.
Before vanishing fully into Ginen's threshold, Papa Legba turned. His smile was the calm before a cosmic storm.
"Zion," he called out, voice rich with mischief and gravity.
"Make more fire in a bottle. The Lwa'll be needing more rum for the feast."
Zion didn't hesitate. He nodded once, already reaching into his satchel where ancient knowledge met modern science. He would distill the strongest rum he could. Because this wasn't just celebration—this was preparation.
Behind him, the gods stirred.
One by one, the pantheons began to understand. Not one of the Lwa had taken a defensive stance. Not one called for protection or rallying. Twaile, terrifying and regal, had already returned to Ginen after dragging Tijan Petro by the ear like a naughty child. Bosou had arrived not in fury but with a shopping list: dry peanuts and rum.
And now Papa Legba, the gateway, the trickster, the first and the last, was asking for more rum—not for courage. Not for sacrifice.
For seasoning.
The hive was coming. The ancient Devoured, unsated and pure, older than stars, hungering for all that lived. An apocalypse to most… but to the Lwa?
A banquet.
Whispers spread like wildfire among the divine.
"They intend to eat it…"
"They're not afraid—they're hungry…"
"They've done this before…"
The oldest of the gods—those who'd seen the void before time—shivered quietly.
Up above, the skies over Zantrayel boiled with strange light. The hive crept forward. The stars blinked, one by one.
And deep beneath the world, where even echoes dared not dwell, a feast was being prepared. The pots were ancient, the rums sacred. Dry peanuts were roasted over the fires of Ginen. The laughter of the Lwa rolled through the bones of the world.
And Papa Legba grinned wide.
"Let the hive come," he whispered.
"It's been too long since we tasted real meat.