The heat was rising again.
Not the dry, relentless heat of sunbaked earth or the harsh midday glare that turned the bones of forgotten villages to ash. No—this was something older. Something far more urgent. It seeped into the air like a slow burn, a pressure that thickened every breath and made the skin tingle beneath its weight. The kind of heat that stirs when silence has lasted too long, when a name has gone unspoken for too many generations. It was a heat that lived beneath the tongue, wrapped itself around the heart, and whispered a warning through the dust.
Ola stood before the cracked stones of the old river shrine. Her palm pressed flat against the warm earth, where once—long ago—Ẹ̀nítàn's voice had echoed through the waters, rippling outward like the touch of a song carried on the river current. The shrine was little more than a ruin now: broken pillars clawing toward a sky bleached white by too much sun, stones half-swallowed by creeping roots and grass. The river itself had shifted course over the decades, but the sacred site still held its power, whispering faintly in the spaces between stone and soil.
Ola didn't speak. Not yet.
Beside her, Iyagbẹ́kọ sat cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed in quiet meditation. Her hands rested lightly on her knees, and from her throat came a low, wordless hum—a steady vibration that pulsed in time with the distant beat of the river's flow. It was a song without melody, a rhythm older than language itself. The kind of chant that could hold the world together or tear it apart.
Behind them both, Echo stood with arms folded tightly across her chest. Her gaze was fixed far beyond the ruined shrine, lost somewhere between the horizon and the clouds, as if she waited for a shadow yet to arrive—or perhaps for something already passed that refused to leave.
Ola closed her eyes briefly, the weight of her dream pressing down on her again. She had dreamed of this place—not as it was now, cracked and overgrown, cloaked in silence and decay—but as it once had been. In those dreams, the shrine was alive with dancers in white cloth, their feet beating rhythms on the riverbank. Palm fronds rustled in a soft breeze. Songs drifted like smoke over clear, flowing water.
And above it all, unmistakable, was Ẹ̀nítàn's voice—commanding and grieving, wild and beautiful. A voice that held the power to bind memory to flesh and blood.
But in the waking world, Ola had heard that voice only once.
That one time had nearly undone her.
"It's waiting," Iyagbẹ́kọ said suddenly, her voice low and clear, cutting through the silence like a blade. "But not for a prayer."
Ola's eyes flicked open. "Then what is it waiting for?"
The elder opened her eyes, slow and deliberate, revealing irises like molten gold flickering with quiet fire. There was something new behind those eyes—tired, but fierce. "For a truth."
The air shifted around them. A subtle vibration beneath their feet, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
Echo moved closer, voice steady. "The Hollowed are drawing near. One of them crossed the lower border this morning. They're not hiding anymore."
Ola swallowed hard. "I know."
They had always known this moment would come—the fragile peace around Obade cracking like thin ice over a dark river. The Hollowed, those whose names had been severed from the earth, were no longer just whispers or distant ghosts. They were flesh and bone, and now they were moving closer.
Iyagbẹ́kọ rose slowly, leaning on her staff. Her every movement was measured, as if she were drawing strength from the earth itself. "What you heard in the dark, child… beneath the waters, beneath the silence. You must speak it."
Ola swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "I'm not sure I understand it," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
"Then begin where you stopped," Echo said, stepping forward, her eyes steady and unyielding. "Truths unravel with words. Speak, and you will hear."
Ola glanced at the broken shrine before her, then lifted her hand, hovering it just above the ancient groove where the river had once run free. Her fingers trembled as a faint hum began to pulse beneath her palm—a distant note, like the heartbeat of a buried song vibrating against the bones of her chest.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the weight of centuries.
And then she spoke.
"She was never drowned."
The words slipped from her lips like a key turned in a lock.
Iyagbẹ́kọ inhaled sharply, the sound sharp in the quiet grove. Echo remained still, her eyes fixed on Ola as if daring her to say more.
"She descended," Ola continued, voice growing firmer. "Not to die, but to wait. They didn't silence her—they buried her voice in our blood. We've been carrying it. All of us."
Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded slowly, eyes closing for a moment. "And now?"
"She's waking," Ola said. "But not alone."
The air thrummed, charged with a sudden intensity that made the hairs on Ola's arms stand straight.
Somewhere, across the river, a lone bird let out a cry that sounded too much like a warning.
Behind them, the earth gave a low, rolling rumble.
Echo's head snapped toward the sound. "They're here."
From the shadowed treeline, three figures emerged.
Cloaked in black, their faces obscured behind cracked masks fashioned from ashwood and bone. Each mask was a scar, a hollowed memory made visible. The tallest among them carried a staff etched with names—names burned out, hollowed, lost to time but not forgotten.
They did not speak.
But Ola heard their words, carried on a current only she could sense.
You do not belong to her.
A surge of defiance welled up in her chest.
Echo moved swiftly to stand between Ola and the figures, protective and fierce.
But Iyagbẹ́kọ raised a hand, calm and commanding.
"No," she said softly. "Let her answer."
Ola held the gaze of the masked figures, voice steady and unyielding.
"I was born of her silence," she said. "I carry what was buried. And I choose to remember."
The tallest figure tilted its head, the staff glowing faintly red, a slow, malevolent pulse like a heartbeat of blood and fire.
You will be undone.
"No," Ola replied, voice rising with the strength of unshakable resolve. "I will be reborn."
A sudden wind tore through the grove, scattering leaves and dust like whispers of the past. The Hollowed figures dissolved, vanishing like smoke caught in a rising storm.
The cracked stone of the shrine shifted beneath Ola's feet—just a faint, almost imperceptible crack.
From its fractured center, a single drop of clear water welled up, gleaming like a tear caught in sunlight.
Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward, voice quiet but certain.
"It has begun."
Ola nodded, eyes fierce with determination.
"The voice beneath the earth is rising. And this time, it won't be silenced."
Echo reached out, placing a steadying hand on Ola's shoulder.
"Then we prepare for war," Echo said, voice heavy with promise. "But first, we listen."
The wind whispered once more through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of a song long buried.
Far beneath the cracked shrine, in the dark places where the river once sang, a voice stirred.
Old.
Wounded.
Ready to be heard.
The Weight of SilenceNight was coming, but the heat lingered, thick and suffocating like a shroud wrapped around their lungs. Ola stayed where she was, hand still resting on the stone, the memory of the drop of water shimmering in her mind. It was a promise and a warning, an awakening long overdue.
Iyagbẹ́kọ sat down again, eyes half-lidded as the humming tune resumed—low and steady, calling forth something unseen.
"Her silence was never empty," Iyagbẹ́kọ murmured. "It was a vessel. A womb. The place where all the voices the world tried to bury waited."
Echo's gaze softened as she looked at Ola. "That voice—the Song Returned—will not be silent again. Not while we breathe."
Ola swallowed hard. "But what if the Hollowed come for us? What if their silence is stronger than our voice?"
Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes gleamed in the dying light. "Silence is a cage. But the voice—our voice—is the key."
Echo stepped forward. "We don't have to wait for the Hollowed to find us. We take the fight to them. We reclaim the names stolen from us. One by one."
Ola's heart hammered in her chest. The heat in the air was no longer just a warning—it was a battle cry.
And beneath it all, the river sang.