The Royalty Drum

The night air was oppressive, like a drum skin stretched too tight. Ayanwale stood on the hill above the Grove of Listening, cradling the Royalty Drum close. Its carved surface vibrated faintly—pulsing not from touch, but from memory.

He hadn't struck the Ninth Rhythm in full—not yet—but the silent echo of its power throbbed in his chest as though it were part of his heartbeat. Baba Oro lay buried beneath centuries of dust and regret. That was the promise. But tonight, beneath the glimmering moon, Ayanwale realized the Ninth didn't sleep—it lived.

He wasn't alone.

Rotimi stood a few paces behind him, unusually still. His constant chatter died beneath the weight of what they'd touched.

"You feel it too, right?" Rotimi's voice was low, careful.

Ayanwale exhaled. "I don't just feel it—I wear it. It lives under my skin."

Rotimi swallowed. "That's… not good. The Eleventh—she stirs. And this time it's not sleeping gently."

Shock crawled beneath Ayanwale's ribs. The Eleventh, dormant for generations, could awake fully—and change everything.

He turned to look at his friend. "You've felt her too?"

Rotimi closed his eyes with a slow nod. "Dreams reversed—images sewn before birth. Screams… before death. I hear children call for their mothers… before they exist. That's her work."

A rush of wind grazed the drum's surface. The carvings glowed faintly—responding.

Not to Ayanwale.

To something approaching.

From beyond the tree line glided a shape. Mist pooled around it like water, softly parting. Every blade of grass leaned toward it. Even the Listening Trees bowed.

"It's her," Ayanwale whispered.

"No. I thought the Eleventh still slept beneath the Cave of Unmade Names…" Rotimi's voice trembled.

"She doesn't anymore," Ayanwale said, his grip tightening on the drum's rim.

The figure stopped. She lowered her hood.

A woman taller than Ayanwale remembered, her skin shimmering faintly in moonlight. Her eyes were limitless, broken stars. She spoke—but her lips didn't move. Her voice rolled inside their minds.

"Son of Kolawolé. Drummer of the Blood Line. Bearer of the Ninth Echo," she said. No greeting. No courtesy. Just statement.

Her words carried weight.

She continued without moving her mouth:

"I am the Eleventh. I have come... to ask for your rhythm."

A Drumbeat in the Silence

Ayanwale's heart seized. The world tilted. Rotimi staggered backward as if the gravity of her name pulled at his bones.

Neither answered.

The Eleventh drifted closer. Dust rose in luminescent motes.

When she spoke again, her voice felt like prophecy:

"If you give it willingly, memory and silence will walk with you. If forced—it shatters everything named."

A shudder rippled through the forest.

Ayanwale lifted the drum, reverently. "Why come now?"

Her eyes glowed. "Because the Endings and Beginnings converge. The Ninth is unbound. The Twelfth tested. But I was never birthed until now."

He pressed his palm into the taut skin. It pulsed once, deep.

The Eleventh paused.

Her voice softened in their minds:

"You hold the threshold. I am gate with no key until the Ninth is named."

Rotimi looked at Ayanwale, fear and awe mirrored in his expression. "You have a choice."

Ayanwale swallowed. "I don't."

Recall of Bones

The moon slipped through branches. The forest seemed to inhale.

Every listening spirit leaned in. Ayanwale closed his eyes, carving memory into stillness.

In his mind, the Eleventh's voice whispered ancient glyphs—names never spoken aloud. Each one resonated in his soul.

Drums once buried rattled.

Spirits stirred.

The carved runes on the Royalty Drum glowed bright gold. Translucent lines wove like river tributaries, connecting the symbols of the Nine, the Twelfth, the seed-mark of Zuberi—and a new sigil, unseen since the Ancestor-Drummers vanished.

The drum hummed.

He felt tears sting.

The Eleventh inclined her diaphanous head.

"I hear your rhythm. I do not claim your drum."

Ayanwale opened his eyes slowly.

A wisp of spirit—neither male nor female—emerged from behind her. Transparent, ripple-skinned, carrying a staff carved with ancestral faces. The Whisper Keeper who first revealed the Twelfth.

He inhaled.

The figure placed a glowing seed in Ayanwale's palm—a living rhythm seed. It pulsed faintly.

"You must give now," the Keeper whispered.

Ayanwale nodded.

Echoes in Moonlit Grove

He struck the drum once.

BOOM

The sound echoed across the grove—but not outward. It moved inward. Into their bones.

The Eleventh responded inside his mind:

Name the melody of memory.

A second beat.

BOOM—tap

He closed his eyes.

Invisible drums responded.

Rhythms pulsed through the roots.

Ancestral solos, silent chords, the distant cry of orphaned rhythms.

A third beat.

Boom—tap—pause—tap

He named each rhythm silently:

The Ninth—gift of creation and ruin.

The Twelfth—unbecoming.

And now the Eleventh—becoming again.

The rhythm seed glowed.

The Eleventh bowed. Her voice entered their ears for the first time through lips:

"Bringer of echoes, you have sung me into being. Now wear my name."

The Price of Birth

Darkness stretched beneath the trees.

Then the canopy parted.

A child voice—far beneath the forest—called out a name.

"Ayanwale."

Not his name.

A new name.

One that felt ancient.

Ramified with ancestry.

He staggered.

Rotimi steadied him.

The Whisper Keeper placed a finger over his mouth.

"Silence now," she intoned.

The forest obeyed.

The Listening Trees leaned inward, closing their leaves like ears.

The seed in his palm pulsed once, warmed to life.

Ayanwale exhaled. His voice soft:

"I remember."

Aftermath in Stillness

The Eleventh vanished like mist.

The Whisper Keeper faded into the trees.

Rotimi watched Ayanwale hold the drum.

His face drawn.

"We've done it," he whispered. "You named her."

Ayanwale rubbed his eyes. Sweat cooled on his temples. He looked up to where the Eleventh had stood—nothing but pale moonlight and shifting leaves.

He touched the seed in his hand again.

A whimper from underfoot.

Zuberi, the silent child, half-hidden behind a Listening Tree. Their eyes glowed faintly.

He voiced their memory without speech:

The Weaver's Child is now born.

Moonlight played across the drum's carvings. They flickered, then stabilized.

Above them, the stars realigned.

One cluster formed the Eleventh's sigil. Another formed his father's face.

Between them—a flicker of another pattern.

A shape unfamiliar.

A new name.

A pulse that whispered:

"She comes."

The Eleventh's echo lingered in bones.

And in the silence, Ayanwale knew: nothing would ever sleep again.