The smell of burned grain clung to the village like a second dawn.
By sunrise, the fire was ash and steam, but its shadow remained in every face. The Adeyẹmí courtyard was a blackened wound — beams sagging like broken ribs, the air still warm enough to sting the skin. Soot marked the walls in streaks that looked like claw‑scratches.
The Olórí stood in the center of the ruin, bare‑armed, his headcloth discarded, eyes narrow as knives. His voice was soft enough to be more dangerous than shouting.
"This was no accident."
Villagers gathered at a careful distance. Some murmured in sympathy. Others looked away. In Obade, no one needed to be told twice when it was safer not to meet a man's eyes.
But the council had been called. Silence would not save anyone today.
In the open square, the elders sat beneath the iroko tree, fanning themselves with palm fronds. Iyagbẹ́kọ took her seat without bowing to anyone — even the Olórí. Echo stood behind her, lantern hanging from one hand though the sun was already high.
Ola came last. His stride was steady, but the Names inside him shifted restlessly. He felt them sharpening against his ribs.
The Olórí wasted no time. "Someone set my storehouse alight. Someone wanted to cripple my family before planting season. And it happened two nights after this boy came to my door with the river's poison on his tongue."
Every gaze turned toward Ola.
Iyagbẹ́kọ's cane tapped once against the ground. "You accuse without proof?"
"I state what the river itself tells me," the man said coldly. "The cloth he brought was bait. The fire was the trap closing."
Ola spoke before she could answer. "The river told me her name. Aramide. Do you deny you knew her?"
A ripple passed through the crowd.
The Olórí's jaw flexed. "I knew many women. That does not make me a murderer."
"It makes you a liar if you hide the one you drowned," Ola said.
Gasps. Someone hissed a prayer under their breath.
The man's hand shot out like a striking snake, gripping Ola's tunic at the chest. "Careful, boy. Or the river will carry your tongue next."
Ola didn't flinch. "It already carries my name. And it still lets me speak."
The grip tightened, then released. The Olórí stepped back, scanning the faces around them. Some looked at him with unease now. Not fear. Unease.
The council called for the rite of Inquiry. It would not decide guilt — not yet. But it would decide whether the accusation could be pursued without blood‑feud tearing Obade apart.
At sunset, they gathered at the Remembering Ring. The stones glowed faintly in the dusk, the air thick with the smell of burning palm oil. Elders took their places, leaving a wide space between the accused and the accuser.
Iyagbẹ́kọ led the rite. "We call the Names to witness. We ask them to guide truth to the surface."
Ola stepped forward. The Adeyẹmí followed. They stood facing each other across the center stone.
"The Names will speak," Iyagbẹ́kọ said. "And we will listen."
When Ola touched the stone, the world tilted. The night folded in on itself. He felt the ring opening under his feet like a deep mouth.
The Names surged up, teeth and nails, dragging images with them — moonlight on rippling water, a woman's struggling arms, the sudden slackness of surrender. The cloth, heavy and wet. The hands that held it there.
They pressed these visions against the Olórí.
His face went still.
The air between them throbbed with something too close to recognition.
But the Names wanted more.
They didn't just want him exposed. They wanted him broken.
Ola gritted his teeth. The hunger in them was thick, sticky — intoxicating.
Say it, they hissed. Say he is hers to claim. Say he belongs to the water now.
Ola's mouth opened — but Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice cut through.
"Enough."
The visions receded like a wave pulled back into the dark. The Olórí staggered a half‑step, sweat beading on his forehead.
The elders had seen enough. The Inquiry would continue.
That night, Ola sat by the river's edge, knees drawn to his chest. Echo came without speaking, lowering herself beside him.
"You're letting them get inside you," she said.
"They're already inside me," he murmured.
"You know what I mean. You've been letting their teeth guide your tongue."
He looked at her. "Isn't that what you wanted? For me to listen to them?"
"Yes. But not to become them."
The wind stirred the reeds. The water lapped softly against the bank. Ola wanted to tell her that it was already too late, that the Names didn't just speak through him anymore — they moved him. Bent him.
And a part of him liked it.
In the Adeyẹmí courtyard, the Olórí sat in the dark, the burned storehouse still steaming behind him. His sister crouched nearby, grinding herbs into paste.
"You can't let them do this to you," she whispered. "If they take you before the council again, they'll tie you to the river."
He didn't answer.
"You have to answer it before it answers you," she pressed.
Finally, he looked at her. "Then bring me the reed‑field boy. Alive."
Ola dreamed of the marsh that night. Not the drowned city — the mouth of it, the perfect ring of reeds bowing without wind. The water there breathed in time with his own lungs.
A voice bubbled up from below. Not the Names. Not Aramide. Something older.
If you speak enough death, boy, you'll have to learn to drink it.
He woke with the taste of brine in his mouth.
By morning, whispers had already spread — the Olórí had sent men into the reed fields before dawn. Looking for someone. No one said who.
Echo found Ola before the market drums began. "We have to leave the village. Now."
"I'm not running."
"This isn't running," she said. "It's choosing where the fight happens."
Iyagbẹ́kọ appeared behind her, leaning on her cane. "She's right. The fire was a warning. The next thing they burn will be flesh."
Ola looked between them. The Names stirred, restless. Hungry.
He didn't want to leave. He wanted to finish it. But the thought of being bound and taken in the night… the river would never get his bones back.
By the time the sun climbed over the palms, they were already moving north, toward the old salt‑road. The air smelled of heat and coming rain. Every step away from Obade felt like peeling skin from muscle.
At the first bend, Ola turned back. From here, the village looked small, the river a silver thread through green. Somewhere down there, the Names circled like crocodiles, waiting for him to wade back in.
He would.
But on his own terms.