The air was humid, thick with the scent of moss and wet bark as Zion returned from the final scout of the surrounding lands. A low hill to the east, berry-rich groves to the north, and a stream winding into a hidden valley—this place had everything a tribe could need.
As he entered the clearing, the others looked up from their tasks. Kael met his gaze first.
"We've seen what's around. It's a good spot. But now the real question…"
Kael gestured to the group gathering around the central fire. "What makes us a tribe, Zion? What binds us together—what gives us more than just survival?"
Zion sat, the flickering firelight dancing across his tired face. He stared into the flames for a long moment, then finally spoke.
"In this world, every tribe follows a god. That's their strength. That's their identity."
He looked up, meeting every gaze. "If we want to be more than a group of survivors, we need more than food and shelter. We need belief. Purpose."
Someone scoffed softly. "So who's our god then? We don't have one."
Zion's voice grew stronger. "We do. We just haven't heard their names yet."
The wind stirred the trees around them, and Zion stood slowly, pacing the circle of gathered youths like a preacher beneath ancient stars.
"Back where I come from, my grandmother was a priestess. A keeper of old stories. She told me of gods older than empires, fiercer than storms. Gods who walked the thin line between the living and the dead, who answered only those brave enough to call them by name."
He turned to the fire and reached into it, scattering the embers slightly. "We will not follow the gods of others. Our tribe will have its own pantheon. One of balance and power. Of sacrifice and wisdom."
Zion raised his hand, voice low but charged with something deeper—half memory, half prophecy.
"Papa Legba, the gatekeeper. The one who stands at the crossroads. He opens the way. Without him, nothing begins."
"Ezili Dantor, the mother of warriors. Fierce and nurturing, protector of the oppressed."
"Ogou, the god of iron and fire—patron of warriors and generals. He gives strength not to conquer, but to protect."
"Baron Samedi, lord of the dead. He mocks death, yet honors life. He keeps the balance between both."
Some stared in awe. Others in uncertainty. But Zion continued, drawing each god's sigil into the dirt with a stick, his voice steady and strange even to himself.
"These gods are not just spirits in the sky. They live through our choices, our courage, our will. If we honor them, they will walk with us. If we build with faith and offer truth… they will protect us."
Kael furrowed his brow. "How do you know this?"
Zion's gaze held his.
"Because they heard our pain. And because when I was dying… it was they who gave me another chance. Not just to live—but to lead."
The fire crackled louder. Somewhere in the trees, a howl echoed, distant but real.
The circle was silent.
Then Thalia stood. "You said we need belief. Then teach us. If these gods are to be ours, let us learn their names by fire and by blood."
Zion looked to the sky, the stars shining above the canopy like watchful eyes.
"Then tonight," he whispered, "we are no longer tribeless."
And so it began—the rebirth of belief. A pantheon from Earth, resurrected in a world that had never heard of it. And with it, the birth of a tribe destined to challenge the very order of the world.