Zalira learned that night that death did not always arrive screaming.
Sometimes, it arrived softly.
Like breath against the back of your neck.
Like the moment just before a drumbeat lands.
She was kneeling by the river when it happened, her knees sinking into wet earth, her hands plunged into the water as if she could scrub the night off her skin. The river flowed on, unbothered, carrying away streaks of dark red that thinned and vanished the farther they drifted.
It wasn't her blood.
That made it worse.
Her fingers trembled as she rubbed them together beneath the surface, nails scraping skin until it stung. She couldn't stop. Each time she thought the blood was gone, she saw another smear, another shadow clinging to her palms.
"Alive," she whispered, barely forming the word. "You're alive."
She said it again, louder this time, as if the river might argue.
Nothing answered.
Behind her, the forest pressed close. Ijora Valley had always felt ancient to her, older than names, older than memory. The trees rose thick and tall, their roots knotted like clenched fists beneath the soil. Leaves rustled without wind. Insects hummed in uneven patterns, some stopping abruptly, others droning on as if unaware the world had shifted.
Far away, drums rolled from Ilé-Oba.
They were wrong.
Zalira knew those rhythms the way she knew her own pulse. They were played for naming ceremonies, harvests, coronations. For beginnings. Tonight, they stumbled, speeding and slowing as if the drummers themselves were uncertain where the beat was meant to land.
Her stomach tightened.
She pushed herself upright, muscles aching, and wiped her hands on her wrapper. The fabric was torn, damp, heavy against her legs. When she straightened fully, a chill slid over her skin.
She paused.
That was strange.
The night air should have been warm, pressing close, smelling of earth and smoke. Instead, the cold felt deliberate, focused.
Like attention.
Zalira turned slowly.
The forest had gone still.
No insects, no rustling leaves,even the river seemed quieter, its flow muted, as though the world were holding its breath.
Then something pale drifted down in front of her eyes.
She blinked.
Ash.
Fine, light, unmistakable.
Her heart slammed hard enough to steal her breath. Ash did not fall from clear skies. Ash belonged to fire, to destruction, to stories elders told in lowered voices.
"No," she said, stepping back. "No"
The ash thickened.
It gathered at her feet, swirling, lifting, moving with purpose. It touched her ankles first, cold as bone. When it reached her wrists, her breath hitched sharply.
The pain came without warning.
Not a sharp pain. Not something she could scream through and survive. It was deeper than that, sliding under her skin, threading itself into her veins like it had always been there.
Zalira cried out and dropped to her knees.
Her vision fractured.
She saw a throne cracked down the center, its gold blackened by fire. A crown floated above it dark, heavy, alive descending toward a kneeling figure whose face she could not see. Blood soaked into white stone. Moonlight burned red, swollen and watching, as if it were alive and judging.
Her chest heaved as the ash wrapped around her head, her throat, her heart.
Voices brushed her mind,not words, not quite,more like the echo of oaths made and broken long before she was born. She felt grief that was not hers,rage that did not belong to her body. A weight pressing down, settling into her bones as if claiming them.
This is not for me, she thought wildly.
I didn't ask for this.
The pain peaked, then ebbed, leaving her shaking, gasping, collapsed forward with her palms pressed into the soil.
When she dared to lift her head, the ash was gone.
The forest exhaled.
Sound rushed back all at once crickets, the river, her own ragged breathing. She stared at her hands.
Faint markings traced her skin, curling along her wrists and forearms in delicate lines, glowing silver for the briefest moment before sinking beneath her flesh like they had never existed.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't need stories to tell her what this meant.
The Ash Crown had awakened.
And it had chosen her.
By morning, Ilé-Oba felt wrong.
The city moved, but cautiously, like an animal that had heard something in the dark and was not convinced the danger had passed. Market women spoke in hushed tones,children were kept close,guards stood where no guards had stood in years.
Kadeem Adeyemi watched it all from the council terrace, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders stiff with restraint. The bronze insignia at his chest felt heavier than usual, as if it had absorbed the tension thickening the air.
"You felt it," Elder Sola said from behind him.
He didn't turn. "Everyone did."
"The ash stirred," she replied.
That made him face her.
Sola's face was carved with age and memory. She had seen the Ash Crown choose before, and she carried that knowledge like a scar that never faded.
"It hasn't moved in decades," Kadeem said carefully.
"Yes. And every time it does, the kingdom pays for it."
Below them, a man staggered suddenly, dropping his basket as he clutched his head. People recoiled instinctively, fear spreading faster than explanation.
Kadeem's jaw tightened.
The records were clear, no matter how often the council pretended otherwise. The Ash Crown never chose the ambitious. It chose the overlooked. The wounded. Those already shaped by loss.
"Find her," Sola said. "Before others do."
Kadeem nodded once.
"Quietly," she added.
His chest tightened, not with excitement or pride but with certainty.
Zalira did not return home.
The thought alone made her stomach twist. Whatever had marked her by the river felt unfinished, dangerous, like a hand still hovering just above her shoulder. She moved through narrow alleys instead, keeping her head down, her senses stretched thin.
The city watched her now. She could feel it.
At the edge of the market square, she turned sharplyand collided with someone solid.
She stumbled, and strong hands steadied her.
"Careful," a man said.
She looked up.
His face was unfamiliar, but his presence felt… deliberate. Calm in a way that unsettled her. His eyes were dark, focused, missing nothing.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, stepping back.
His gaze dipped to her wrists.
Her heart lurched. She folded her arms without thinking.
Something passed between them then. Not recognition, not suspicion,understanding.
"You should leave this area," he said quietly. "Now."
"Yes," she replied, already backing away. "I was just.."
She stopped herself. Turned. Melted into the crowd without looking back.
Kadeem watched her disappear, the weight settling fully into his chest.
The Ash Crown had chosen.
And the kingdom would not be gentle about claiming what it believed was its own.