The Royalty Drum

The red moon draped over the Listening Grove like a mourning shawl, its light dim and mournful. Every leaf seemed to hold a breath—paused between past and present. Beneath the boughs of the Elder Trees, Ìrètí moved as if underwater, Shawl of Silence clutched in her hands, footsteps hushed. The seed planted at dawn had begun to sprout, faint green shoots trembling beneath damp earth.

Zuberi knelt beside it, bare-kneed and still, hands pressed into softened soil.

A ripple pulsed—a silent thrum running beneath bark and root, rising into the grove's hush.

From that pulse came whispers: fragmented names, lost chants, ancestral memories long hidden.

Not heard. Remembered.

The Loom of Lost Threads

A tapestry, woven by unseen hands, hung between two ancient trees—a cloth woven not of fiber but of echoes. Threads shimmered in moonlight: faces etched in memory, rhythm scars, ancestral wounds stitched into a cloth of silence.

Ayanwale and Rotimi stepped into the grove, the Royalty Drum strapped across Ayanwale's back. The air shimmered with anticipation.

The tapestry swayed—

Knock, knock.

A pattern lifted—a rhythm embedded in the weave.

Zuberi stood, eyes glowing faintly.

The tapestry parted.

An unseen weaver's voice spoke from the cloth:

"You have restored what was struck from history. Now retrieve the final echo to complete the weaving."

A Test of Memory

Zuberi turned to Ìrètí—eyes pale as mist.

What echoed in their gaze was not fear, but recognition.

They took from their pocket the Name-Note—a sliver of ancestral hide etched with a forgotten name. They offered it to the tapestry.

As Zuberi held it aloft, the cloth quaked.

A swirl of memories erupted in threads: ancestral drummers, forbidden rhythms, tears of mothers, the thud of lost drums rattling in forgotten temples.

A soundless storm.

The tapestry unraveled slowly, drawing in the threads of memory.

And then—

A ripple of rhythm pulsed through the cloth.

BOOM—a beat unspoken but felt.

The cloth folded.

Within its fibers, a new piece began to form: the shadow of a drum.

Not a solid drum.

A memory drum.

But alive.

Conflict in Silences

At that moment, the ground rocked.

From beneath the tapestry a figure broke free—malevolent, obsidian-skinned, spirit-shaded.

A spirit-guardian born of broken rhythm.

It raised ancient bones in protest:

"You steal memory, child of silence. I guard what is lost."

Its voice echoed through the grove, louder than wind, heavier than truth.

Çaught between memory and void.

Ayanwale grasped the Royalty Drum.

But he knew weapon would break covenant.

So he placed his hand on its taut skin and closed his eyes—

Listening.

The Harmony of Breath

Zuberi descended backward, dragging the tapestry with them, threads grazing their skin. The spirit advanced, bone-sickle raised.

They gripped the tapestry's edge.

The seed planted earlier throbbed beneath their skin.

Not memory.

Not rhythm.

Presence.

they inhaled.

Exhaled.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

The cloth glowed faintly around Zuberi, pulsing in sync.

The ground quivered.

The spirit halted.

The Listening Trees rustled, their voices quivering.

A third pulse:

The memory drum hum became audible.

Soft—but unmistakable.

And then:

Boom—tap—pause—tap—

The Ninth.

The Eleventh.

The Twelfth.

All woven in a single breath.

The spirit recoiled:

Eyes clamped shut under the collective rhythm. Clawed wings folded in shame.

It let the tapestry fall.

And faded, unspoken.

Aftermath of Sound

Silence returned. Absolute and loaded.

The tapestry lay at Zuberi's feet—a newly formed cloth, shimmering with memory yet untouched by sound.

In its center, a new drum design appeared: a circle broken by a spiral, threads of silver and root weaving outward.

The cloth of ancestors, menders, and memory.

Lord of echoes.

Ayanwale knelt and placed his finger upon it.

A spark.

A connection.

Healing the Listen-Hearth

At the heart of the Grove, Ìrètí reclaimed the silence-hood and wrapped it around Zuberi.

The child's eyes shut.

Inside, the seed pulsed strong.

Zuberi inhaled, exhaled.

And then spoke:

A single word. Not rhythm, not beat.

"Remember."

Silence exploded into soundless chorus.

The leaves sang with rustling tones.

The Listening Trees hummed full-bodied.

A shimmer danced above the grove.

The tapestry lifted as if alive.

And particles of memory drifted upward—embers made of heritage.

Promise & Prophecy

Ayanwale turned to face the Council Trees surrounding the clearing.

The Elder Tree, Ọ̀kàǹgbá, exhaled: its bark loosened to reveal the faces of drummers past.

Rustling bark whispered like layered voices:

"The Weaver's Cloth is complete. But one name remains unspoken. One final rhythm awaits in the place where breath ends."

The Eldest bowed.

The wind carried the words into evening.

Reunion & Resolve

Back at dawn, traditions waited.

Spirits of ancestors circled the compound's courtyard.

Zuberi, seated on a root-altar beneath the Listening Tree, held the tapestry across their knees.

Ayanwale stood before them crowned by early light.

He drew from his pocket a folded slip of parchment—a hidden leaf-scroll listing the Name-Note petitioned earlier: the name of the weaver drummers, struck from records for truth too dangerous to speak.

He placed it in Zuberi's hand.

They nodded.

Together, they held the tapestry's end.

Each of Baba Aje, Rotimi, Ìrètí, and Ayanwale placed one palm on the cloth—forming a silent chorus.

Zuberi inhaled, exhaled—

Five palms pressed memory into breath.

Five souls merged timeless echo.

The tapestry surged.

Ribbons of light shot skyward.

Branches unfurled.

Birds sang in silent flight.

A new covenant was born.

Cliffhanger Hook

That night, as fireflies lit the dark like distant sparks, Ayanwale climbed the rooftop.

He placed a palm on the Listening Tree's trunk.

It vibrated beneath his fingers.

A single word murmured through its sap:

"Rise."

The Royalty Drum hummed in his bag.

Beneath the earth, the seed pulsed strong.

Above, the stars aligned in constellations he recognized.

One looked like his father.

Another—like Zuberi.

And the final star flickered with the shape of a child's face yet unseen.

He whispered: "Who are you?"

The wind answered: in rhythm.

But no voice.

Only presence.