A queen falls.
Papa Legba here.
Blue light along the walls. Incense heavy in the air.
Two guards in full armor step forward and salute.
But the one on the left — il a bougé les yeux.
The throne room guards never shift their gaze.
Jamais.
I shove the Loa sideways — blades come down where we had stood.
Steel on steel, the sparks fly — her mage's black light ripping through the hood.
They fall. I tear the helmet off. Mon Dieu — beneath the iron face:
Pale skin. Blond hair. Not Vodunese. Not human. Not from this place.
More from the shadows. More behind the door.
We fight. We hold. The mage bleeds onto the floor.
Then a spear — clean through a démon's chest — the body lifts and flies.
Armoured figure. An X carved on his head. Familiar eyes.
Beside him — shorter, bald — a wooden thing that fires like a bow.
THe man pulls the trigger. Spear-tips singing. Four more démons hit the stone below.
The helmet drops. Clang on the floor.
He is Baron kriminel. He tells us he no longer serves Ghede Ghadou Loa.
His army rots in prison — parce que c'est lui. Because of him.
My blade is yours." he says
I kneel beside a dying démon. A drop of blood — I press it to my eye.
Hélas — the blood does not lie.
Thirty assassins. Maybe more. Already inside the walls.
Their target: the chamber that holds our defences. If it falls — tout est perdu.
"Ma Loa — we must move. Maintenant."
"Mon Mysters ne tombera pas!" — she screams it through the steel.
The queen was born for battle — born for this, c'est réel.
I watch her fight. Mon Dieu, I swell with pride.
The woman who will never kneel is the woman I must keep alive.
The chamber. A cathedral of war.
Winged démons — dozens — curved blades flashing on the floor.
The guards are falling back. The démons have the numbers and the rage.
Then the Loa crashes into their flank — and rewrites every page.
She screams "My Mysters will not fall again! Pas une deuxième fois!"
She whirls through the ranks like smoke — they cannot touch La Loa.
Her sword takes a head. Her blue light carves a chest.
She dives and spins and strikes and the démons cannot rest.
Magnifique. Terrifiant. She is everything I feared.
Every démon that she cuts down — another one appeared.
I charge behind her. Twin blades. Sparks on every side.
"Protect your Loa!" I scream to the guards. They hear me. And they ride.
We are winning. The tide is turning. Bodies on the stone.
Her rage has lit a fire in every guard — we fight as one, not alone.
"Mon Mysters ne tombera pas!" — she screams it through the steel.
The queen was born for battle — born for this, c'est réel.
I watch her fight. Mon Dieu, I swell with pride.
The woman who will never kneel is the woman I must keep alive.
But she pushes further. Deeper than anyone should go.
Too far from the guards. Too far from me. I call her name — too slow.
A blade. Through her side. She drops to her knees.
A second blade — the shoulder. Mon Dieu — à genoux, she bleeds.
I cut both démons down — their heads still spinning as I catch her fall.
"Ma Loa!" — but she is no longer standing tall.
"Mon Mysters ne tombera pas..." — she whispered through the blood.
The queen was born for battle — born for this, c'est réel.
I watch her fall. Mon Dieu, I choke on pride.
The woman who will never kneel is the woman I cannot keep alive.
Comment est-ce possible? She was supposed to outlive us all.
She was supposed to lead the armies through the final wall.
She was supposed to see the dawn. She was supposed to reign.
I look around for something — someone — anything to take the pain.
But the démons are all dead. The corridor is still.
The only enemy remaining is the silence and the chill.
The last time I felt this void — the last time I lost the ground —
was when they told me about ma sœur. The same depth. The same sound.
She is... she is almost gone.
Fout Tonné — à peine.
The sword is still inside her.
I cannot put her down.
I cannot put her down.