Location: Arobi Beach – Zero Archipelago
The sacred beach of Arobi slumbered beneath a full moon—round and heavy like the unblinking eye of an ancient god.
The sand, white as living chalk, pulsed gently under the invisible footsteps of forgotten ages.
The sea held its breath, silent and still.
Tall, proud palms swayed their silver-tipped leaves like arms raised toward a sky that no longer listened.
The wind carried murmurs.
Secrets. Memories.
Everything here thrummed with magic too old to be told anymore.
A place forgotten by time—but never by spirits.
In the air drifted the songs of the Marrons—a raw blend of patois, creole, and long-dead tongues.
Incantations carved from throats like blades of memory.
It wasn't just sound. It was imprint.
A whispering promise to the heavens.
A warning etched in the ether.
Words sharp as sabers, made to cut into hearts.
That night, the Peoples of the Seven Hues—Lumens, Shadow born, and now Creolins—gathered.
Not for celebration. But for the Ritual.
The one that marked the rise of a new lunar cycle.
Children born under that moon weren't just blessed.
They were bound.
To the earth.
To their ancestors.
To the island itself.
Their Nexus stones shimmered already, vibrating before their first cries—as if summoned by something older than speech.
Around the sacred fire, bodies spun.
Dancers. Priests. Elders.
Their movements weren't mere gestures; they were forgotten scripts written into the air.
Séga erupted—driven by the ravanne, maravanne, triangle, and sitar.
Bodies trembled into trance.
Souls rose with flames.
Adorned in the four elemental colors—Red. Blue. Yellow. Green.
They twirled in the encroaching dark.
Their garments, embroidered with ancient sigils, sparkled like living runes under the sparks, as if the patterns themselves breathed.
The sand undulated beneath their feet.
The wind danced with them.
And at the center: a black circle traced into the untouched white sand.
Perfect. Unchanging.
Seven shards of spirit—Nexus stones—suspended between realms.
Each one tied to a primordial force: Earth. Water. Fire. Air. Shadow. Light. Space.
Each pulsed like a cosmic heart.
Each exuded essence.
Silence. Presence.
And there, where all forces crossed, lay the Ring of Creation.
Key of Survival. Key of Souls.
The priests encircled it, focused.
They breathed their prayers into ancient metal.
Each breath wove threads between the worlds.
And there—he stood.
Cello, Chief of the Marrons.
In his arms: William.
Not an ordinary child.
A baby with eyes far too deep.
Too ancient. Even the elders avoided his gaze as if they glimpsed something in it, they'd rather forget.
Beside him stood Marie France, once Princess of the Lumens.
Silent. Steady.
Her eyes drowned in love… and fear.
She knew. She'd seen the signs.
The shadow clinging to their son.
The future no one could escape.
And then—Suddenly—A silence heavier than night.
The sky growled without thunder.
The moon was smothered.
Not slowly. In a flash.
As if someone had thrown a crimson shroud over the heavens.
An eclipse. But not a natural one.
A red moon. Blood-soaked. Unnerving.
It didn't shine. It absorbed.
A dead moon. A closed eye… that still stared back.
The songs ceased. The séga went silent.
Even the sea recoiled, as if in dread.
All eyes lifted. And all understood.
This was no accident. No phenomenon.
It was a sign.
The elders froze. Children wept.
The wind twisted into a forgotten scream.
The ancestors' whispers became howls.
Warnings. Cries. Memories of war.
Cello held his son tighter.
He felt the boy's aura pulse—Fierce. Primal.
As though the eclipse had recognized him.
As if the Shadow was calling.
Marie France closed her eyes.
Not to pray—But to endure.
She knew their fate had just shattered.
Like a torn prophecy—In its place: a darker path.
Older than myth.
A cycle long forgotten was returning.
A battle that had never truly ended: Light versus Shadow.
And in between, this child with endless eyes.
This child named William—had just become its heart.