In the weeks that followed, Efe became master of the guild, though he was barely sixteen. He burned every mask that carried even a whisper of madness, keeping only those that healed. Odion retired to a village upriver, carving toys for children.
The Oba decreed a festival of unmasking—citizens wore plain faces for seven days, speaking truth without adornment. Lies withered in the open air. Queen Idia planted a new grove of iroko trees where the old one burned, vowing each would bear a mask of peace.
Efe visited Osaro's grave, a simple mound marked with a white cowrie. "You taught me the cost of ambition," he said. The wind answered with the scent of rain.
One night Mama Izu came to the workshop with a warning. "The spirits are restless. A new carver rises in the north, learning from our mistakes." She gave Efe a seed from the burned grove. "Plant this when you are ready to teach."
Efe planted it in the guild courtyard. Years later, when he was old and his hands shook like Odion's once had, an apprentice asked why the tree bore no masks. Efe smiled. "Because the greatest mask is the face we choose to show the world."
The boy nodded, and Efe saw in him the same fire that had burned in Osaro—and in himself. He placed the sacred knife in the apprentice's hand. "Carve carefully," he said. "Legacy is a blade that cuts both ways."
The city prospered, its art renowned across the coast. Travelers spoke of Benin's masks that calmed the mad and healed the broken. Efe walked the market unpainted, his face lined but unafraid. Children followed him, begging stories of the cursed masks. He told them only of the plain one that saved a kingdom.
On the anniversary of the unmasking, the Oba—now gray—, died peacefully in his sleep, the plain mask on his face. Efe closed the king's eyes and felt the weight of legacy settle on his shoulders like a cloak woven of both light and shadow.
The drums beat on, steady as a heart that had learned to trust its own rhythm.