They gathered at dawn.
Not in the capital's squares.
Not in temples of stone or Archive halls.
But at the banks—where soil met water, and story met breath.
There were nine circles.
Scattered across the land.
Each formed by people who had once been told not to speak.
Each holding a shard of Ẹ̀lúru's silence.
Today, they would return it.
Not with rage.
But with ritual.
The Circles Form
Obade's circle formed at the source of the river, where Ẹ̀nítàn had first cried.
Ibẹ̀ta's at the Delta Mouth, where the drums had been drowned.
Even the capital formed one, reluctantly at first—then wholly, as elders stepped down from their towers and knelt before the rhythm.
Each circle contained:
A child
An elder
A midwife
A truth-teller
A drummer
Five roles.
Five voices.
Five keys.
Rerẹ́'s Voice
She stood not in a circle, but between them.
In the river.
Ankle-deep.
Holding a staff carved from driftwood and charcoal—gifts from both Ẹ̀jìrẹ́ and Ẹ̀nítàn.
She raised her hand.
And the wind paused.
"We do not name to control," she said.
"We name to remember."
"We do not name to bind."
"We name to belong."
The Naming Begins
Each circle began in rhythm.
First: the drum.
Then: the child.
A single word—soft, unsure, rising like a reed from still water.
Then the elder repeated it, not louder, but wiser.
Then the midwife added breath between syllables.
Then the truth-teller poured memory into the cadence.
And finally, the drummer anchored the name in rhythm.
Together, they spoke:
"Ẹ̀-lú-ru."
Not as one.
But as many.
Not to summon.
But to restore.
The Queen Responds
Far beneath the river, in the Chamber of Names, she stirred.
No longer ash.
No longer echo.
Her form coalesced.
Silver where her sisters glowed gold and crimson.
Eyes the color of silt and starlight.
Her voice—when it came—unwound the silence.
Not into words.
But into release.
"You called me not as queen," she said.
"But as kin."
"So I come—not to rule—
But to rejoin."
The Myth Completes
The old myth scrolls—once held in glass, coded and trimmed—rewrote themselves.
Lines bent.
Inks danced.
And the final stanza emerged:
"Three threads formed the world:
The Voice, the Flame, the Silence.
All were broken.
Now they braid again."
In every school, the new myth was taught—not as law.
But as offering.
The Sealing Dance
In Obade, Rerẹ́ led the final dance—not in performance, but in practice.
She stepped back.
Let a child lead.
Let an elder hum.
Let silence speak.
And when the final step was made, and the river pulsed with a new tide—
The people wept.
Not from sorrow.
But from recognition.
They had named a silence that once hunted them.
And found home.
Final Lines
As night fell, the sky shimmered with no moon.
Only stars.
Each one pulsing in time with the new rhythm.
And deep in the riverbed, where no Archive reached, the three queens sat.
Not on thrones.
But on ground.
Together.
Complete.
And above them, the world—at last—began to sing in threefold harmony.