They gathered at the old ritual ground just beyond the capital's edge.
A wide clearing where the Archive had once burned forbidden drums.
Now, in its center, stood a pyre—not of punishment, but of memory.
The ground had been swept clean.
The soil salted with kola and ash.
The people formed a circle.
And in the silence that followed, Iyagbẹ́kọ raised her staff.
"The river does not only whisper in water," she said.
"It remembers in fire."
The Ritual of Flame-Sight
They called it Iná-Irántí—the Fire of Remembering.
Rare.
Forbidden.
And now, necessary.
Three queens stood at the edge of the circle: Ẹ̀nítàn, Ẹ̀jìrẹ́, and the faint ember-presence of Ẹ̀lúru, newly named, still forming.
Rerẹ́ stepped between them, her hands raised.
"Tonight," she said, "we walk the river backward."
"We will not just remember their names.
We will remember why we forgot."
The wind stilled.
And the fire was lit.
Memory Breaks Open
The flames did not rise in chaos.
They folded.
Bent inward.
And inside them: a vision.
Clear as riverlight.
Real as breath.
Scene One: The Coronation Divided
Three sisters stood before the first council of the river people.
Their names already known.
Their rhythms distinct:
Ẹ̀nítàn: whose voice could stop storms.
Ẹ̀jìrẹ́: whose fire turned night into dawn.
Ẹ̀lúru: whose silence held entire histories.
The council bowed before the first two.
And whispered fear at the third.
"What is she hiding?" they murmured.
"Silence is a sign of secrets."
"We cannot crown one we cannot read."
Ẹ̀lúru said nothing.
Not because she could not speak.
But because she was listening.
Scene Two: The Betrayal
On the night before crowning, a secret decree was written.
A fourth elder, jealous of the Third's calm, stirred the council to fear.
He brought tales—false visions of destruction tied to her silence.
He placed his own daughter's song in the rhythm records, burying Ẹ̀lúru's.
The coronation proceeded—with only two.
Ẹ̀lúru stood at the edge of the platform, hands empty.
The river wept.
Fire flickered red.
And her rhythm was locked away.
Scene Three: The Curse Unleashed
They thought it would end there.
That time would swallow shame.
But curses do not forget.
They root.
In soil.
In name.
In bloodlines.
And so, the betrayal spread—generation by generation—like a vine wrapped around truth's throat.
Girls who heard rhythms no one taught were told they were cursed.
Children who dreamed of Ẹ̀lúru's silence were branded mad.
And silence became a tool.
Not of listening.
But of control.
The Fire Responds
The vision ended.
The flames pulsed crimson.
Rerẹ́ staggered, breath ragged.
Iyagbẹ́kọ caught her.
"Now you see," the elder whispered.
"Now you understand the depth of her wound."
The people stood stunned.
And for a long moment, no one spoke.
Until a small boy, no older than ten, stepped forward.
He raised his hand, pointing into the fire.
"She's still there," he said. "Ẹ̀lúru. She's waiting for someone to finish the song."
The flames bent toward him—as if listening.
Rerẹ́'s Response
Rerẹ́ turned to the queens.
"This fire doesn't want vengeance."
"It wants completion."
She looked toward the Gourd-Bearers.
"Prepare the final rite."
"We will not just remember."
"We will let her speak."
Final Lines
The flames dimmed.
The stars returned.
And across the clearing, a drumbeat began—soft, deliberate, unfamiliar.
A new rhythm.
Not from the past.
Not from the Archive.
But from Ẹ̀lúru herself.
The Third had not come to destroy balance.
She had come to complete it.
And the fire—no longer red with rage—now burned gold with remembering.