Efe stole a canoe at dusk and paddled upriver, the water black as ink beneath the rising moon. Mangroves clawed at the sky, their roots dripping with the tears of drowned spirits. He beached the canoe where the old grove began, a place even hunters avoided since the great sickness twenty rains ago.
The air grew thick with the smell of rot and resin. Masks hung from every branch—some ancient, their paint flaked to bone; others fresh, still bleeding sap. Efe's skin prickled as though a thousand eyes watched from the wood. He clutched the ivory fragment and stepped into the circle of trees.
A figure waited in the center, hooded in bark cloth, carving by the light of a single candle stub. The knife moved with impossible speed, shaving curls of wood that fell like snow. Efe's breath caught; the carver's hands were scarred with the same pattern as Odion's, but younger, stronger.
"Who taught you?" Efe asked, voice steady despite his fear. The figure did not pause. "The same man who taught your master," came the answer, muffled by cloth. "Before he forgot the old ways." The knife flashed, and a new mask took shape—its mouth a scream, its eyes empty.
Efe held up the ivory fragment. "This is yours." The carver finally looked up. Beneath the hood gleamed eyes the color of river clay. "And this," the figure said, gesturing to the grove, "is what becomes of apprentices who ask too many questions." Masks rustled in the breeze though no wind blew.
The carver rose, tall as a palm tree. "Odion was weak. He carved for kings, not for gods. I carve for what comes after kings." A smile split the shadowed face. "The mask you burned was only the first. There are more." Efe backed away, but roots snaked around his ankles, holding him fast.
The candle guttered. In its dying light Efe saw the carver's true face—scarred, yes, but familiar. A name rose in his throat like bile: Osaro, Odion's first apprentice, banished for stealing guild secrets. The roots tightened. "You will help me finish the set," Osaro said, voice soft as rot. "Or join the grove."
Efe tore free, leaving strips of skin on the thorns, and ran. Masks laughed behind him, their wooden mouths clacking. He reached the canoe as the moon vanished behind clouds, paddling until his arms bled. When he looked back, the grove was gone, swallowed by mist, but the laughter followed him downriver.
Dawn painted the city red. Another warrior had fallen, this time clawing at the palace gates until his fingers broke. The Oba summoned Efe to the throne room, where Odion knelt in chains, and the drums beat the rhythm of a kingdom coming undone.