The village didn't sleep after that night.
Whispers of the spirit creature filled the air. Some feared Ayanwale. Others praised him. A few called him cursed.
But Ayanwale didn't care. The Royalty Drum had spoken again—its hunger growing.
The next morning, while sweeping the ashes from the market square, Rotimi asked, "What do we do now?"
"We follow the rhythm," Ayanwale said, eyes steady. "The next one won't come here. I need to go where the drum was born."
Rotimi squinted. "Where's that?"
"My mother used to tell me stories," Ayanwale said slowly. "Of a place called Igbo Omi. The Forest of Waters. She said the bloodline on her side began there. Before drumming. Before memory."
Rotimi whistled. "You're going into that forest? Alone?"
"I'm not just a son of drummers. I'm a son of rivers, too."
At dusk, Ayanwale wrapped the Royalty Drum in white cloth and slung it over his back. He left behind the noise of the town, the eyes that followed him, the fear of what he was becoming.
The path to Igbo Omi was not on any map. It was in the songs his mother sang when she washed his hair as a child. It was in the lullabies hummed during harmattan nights. It was in the rhythm his heart beat when he stood near water.
As he entered the forest, the temperature dropped. The trees seemed to lean closer. The ground pulsed beneath his feet.
By moonrise, he found it: a clearing ringed by ancient iroko trees, and at the center—a circular pool, black as oil, yet glowing from within. Water that remembered.
He placed the drum before it.
Then, he began to play.
The third rhythm rose like breath from the earth.
It was different from the first two—smoother, slower, like a lullaby sung by the earth itself. His hands moved without thought. The drum's surface shimmered.
The moment the rhythm settled into place, the water in the pool stirred.
And from it… she rose.
A woman. Made of water and moonlight. Her hair floated like seaweed, and her skin glistened with tiny fish scales. Her eyes held centuries.
"Ayanwale," she said, her voice like rainfall on palm leaves.
He dropped to his knees, stunned.
"I am Morounkeji, keeper of the river line. Your mother's people called me Iya Inu Omi—Mother Within the Water."
"I… I've seen you before," Ayanwale whispered. "In my dreams. You were watching me."
"I was waiting. For you to remember what your mother could not complete."
The spirit floated toward him, placing a finger on his forehead.
"You carry not just rhythm… but balance. Water to soothe fire. Wisdom to temper rage. You must learn to listen, even when there is no sound."
She held out her hand.
"Drink."
From the pool, water gathered itself and rose to her palm. Ayanwale hesitated. Then drank.
The effect was instant.
His senses exploded.
He could feel everything—the way the trees breathed, the way the sky pressed gently down on the world, the sadness of the soil where blood had once been spilled long ago.
And then—he saw his mother.
Not as he remembered, but younger. Strong. Standing with a drum of her own. She was arguing with a man—his father. About the curse. About hiding the drum.
She had wanted to claim it. But his father feared what it would awaken.
"The river remembers," Morounkeji whispered. "You were born to unite both legacies. The drum of your father. The waters of your mother. Together, you are more than rhythm. You are restoration."
The pool began to churn. Morounkeji was fading.
"The Ajalu know you now. They will not wait for you to finish the rhythms. They will come for you—before you are ready."
"But remember this: when sound fails, water speaks."
She disappeared.
The pool stilled.
Ayanwale looked down. The drum now bore a third symbol—a teardrop nested inside a spiral.
He touched his heart.
He could now sense energy—emotional and spiritual—a gift from the river. The balance to his ability to hear unspoken truths.
He was becoming the unifier.
As he walked out of the forest, he felt something new.
Not just power. Not just purpose.
Pressure.
Something was watching him now. Following him. Shadowing every step. The Ajalu would no longer wait in dreams. They were coming.
And so were others. Some with questions. Some with weapons.
Ayanwale looked to the stars.
Three rhythms complete.
Four remain.
The real war had only just begun.