Efe was given a room in the palace, guarded day and night. He studied the Oba's crown whenever the king held court, searching for the ebony seam. The coral beads hid it well, but on the third day he saw it—a hairline crack where wood met gold.
He waited until the new moon, when the palace slept. With Mama Izu's potion on his eyelids, he saw the crown pulse like a heart. Slipping past guards drugged with sleep-root, he climbed the dais and lifted the crown. Beneath the central bead lay the seventh mask, small as a child's fist, its surface crawling with carved eyes.
The Oba woke with a roar. Guards flooded the throne room. Efe held the mask high. "This is the last!" The king's face twisted—not with rage, but recognition. "My father wore it in battle," he whispered. "It showed him victories... and betrayals."
The Oba took the mask, his hands trembling. "Osaro was my half-brother," he confessed. "Banished for ambition, not theft. I thought the masks legend." He crushed the ebony in his fist, black dust spilling like blood. "Burn it with the others."
But as the pyre was lit, Osaro stepped from the crowd, face painted white, the melted slag of the golden mask fused to his own. "Too late," he sang. "The set is complete in spirit, if not in wood." He raised his arms, and warriors throughout the city began to scream, clawing at their faces though no masks touched them.
The madness was in the air now, carried by the grove's dying breath. Efe realized the true curse was not the masks but the fear they fed. He ran to Odion, who carved frantically in the workshop—a final mask, plain wood, its surface smooth as forgiveness.
They carried it to the palace square where the city gathered, mad and sane alike. Odion placed the mask on the Oba's face. For a moment nothing happened. Then the king spoke, voice calm as still water: "See yourselves as you are." The madness broke like a wave on rock. Warriors dropped their weapons, weeping. Osaro fell to his knees, the slag mask cracking from his face.
Efe caught his former guild-brother as he collapsed. Osaro's eyes were clear for the first time. "I wanted to be remembered," he whispered. "Instead I will be forgotten." He died as the sun rose, the city quiet at last.
The drums beat a new rhythm—healing