It began with the wind.
A sudden gust in the middle of stillness.
Not violent.
But certain.
It swept across the flame circle, lifting ash and memory like dust caught in sunbeams.
It carried the rhythm.
Not a melody.
A drumbeats-in-the-bones rhythm.
And those who heard it… felt it.
Far Beyond Obade
In a village to the north, nestled in the cradle of a dried-out lake, an old man stirred from sleep.
He clutched his chest.
"Ọlọ́run… the beat…"
In the east, among the red clay mounds where no song had been sung in decades, a girl heard knocking against the side of her hut.
But when she opened the door—
No one was there.
Only wind.
And echoing in its breath: ta-ta… tohm… ta-ta.
In the deep forest, where forbidden shrines had been buried by colonial priests, the vines curled backward.
Revealing stone.
Revealing drums.
Not broken. Just waiting.
The Call and the Response
In Obade, the drums sounded all night.
Not from hands.
From the very ground.
Rhythm vibrated through roots and stones.
The Archive pulsed.
Even Ẹ̀nítàn's chamber—beneath the Mirror Pool—shimmered with song.
Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped into the square with her staff glowing faintly.
"It has begun."
Echo frowned. "What has?"
"The return."
Elsewhere, Resistance
But not every village welcomed the wind.
In a stronghold once loyal to the silence, elders met in secret.
Their walls still bore the marks of erased stories.
Their Archive had never been burned—only locked.
Now the wind scratched at their windows.
Their drums began to hum.
And the elders were afraid.
"We buried those truths for a reason."
"What if they rise?"
"What if she rises?"
One of them, a man with a jagged scar down his face, stood slowly.
"Then we bury the river again."
The Messenger
At dawn, a young boy arrived in Obade.
Barefoot. Dust-covered. Eyes wide.
He had run all night.
He collapsed in the square, clutching a bundle of cloth.
Ola rushed to catch him.
The boy gasped:
"My village… the river came back.
But they tried to stop it.
They burned the drums."
He opened the cloth.
Inside—a charred drumstick.
Still warm.
Still humming.
Echo stepped back.
"They're fighting the rhythm."
Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded grimly.
"And the river… doesn't like to be refused twice."
The Flame Archive Reacts
That night, the Flame Archive burst into color.
Not fire—light.
Crimson, gold, silver, indigo.
Each flame danced a different memory.
Ola stood within its glow.
His voice steady:
"We must go to them."
Echo hesitated.
"Some of them won't listen."
Ayọ̀bùkúnmí stepped forward, holding her drum to her chest.
"Then we sing louder."
Final Lines
The wind does not ask for permission.
It carries drums wherever silence once ruled.
Some will remember.
Some will resist.
But the rhythm is coming.
And the world—
Ready or not—
Will listen.