The next few days passed like a fever.
Ayanwale was not the same.
He spoke little. Ate less. His ears rang constantly with distant drums, even when the village around him was quiet. Rotimi watched him closely but didn't ask questions—he could sense the change too.
At night, the Royalty Drum called to him.
It no longer felt like an object, but a companion. A witness.
On the seventh night since the first rhythm, Ayanwale lit seven candles, one for each ancestor. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, the Royalty Drum before him.
Then he played again.
This rhythm was nothing like the first. It came fast, almost frantic—taps and slaps that danced across the skin like feet on hot earth. It was sharp. Trickster-like. Alive.
As the rhythm reached its peak, the world shifted once more.
He stood in a grove he had never seen before. Trees towered high above, but their leaves shimmered like silver. The wind hummed with music. And in the center of the grove stood a single ancient iroko tree, taller and older than the rest, its bark etched with thousands of symbols.
From the tree, a voice emerged—not a human voice, not even fully language, but sound that bent itself into meaning.
"You who bear the legacy… step forward."
Ayanwale did. His feet felt light, his body no longer his own.
"The blood in your veins remembers. Your family once spoke the language of drums. You do not play to be heard. You play to be understood."
Suddenly, branches of the iroko tree moved, twisting downward. They formed a seat, and Ayanwale sat as though commanded.
The bark of the tree cracked open—and inside was a glowing figure: not man, not woman, but spirit. Eyes like molten copper, hands made of roots.
"You carry more than blood. You carry echoes. Sound is your weapon. Your prayer. Your path."
The spirit stepped closer.
"This is your second gift."
It placed its root-fingers on Ayanwale's chest.
There was a rush of sound. Not from outside—but from within. Ayanwale could hear the wind breathing. He could hear the earth murmuring beneath his feet. He could feel emotions in the air like vibrations.
"From now on," the spirit whispered, "you will understand what others hide—even when they do not speak."
The spirit stepped back. Its face darkened.
"But beware: what you hear, you must not always answer. Some truths are poison."
The grove began to shake.
The tree's leaves turned black. Fireflies exploded into ash. A dark wind swept through, and from its shadows, a figure emerged.
Oluwafemi.
No longer a man. Now just a face—floating in the dark, mouth twisted with envy.
"So… you've been chosen," the specter hissed. "We'll see how long you survive the truth."
He reached out.
And Ayanwale fell—
He woke with a shout, the candles all snuffed out, the room ice cold.
Rotimi burst in with a machete in hand. "I heard voices! Are you under attack?"
Ayanwale blinked, heart pounding. He looked down at the Royalty Drum, which now had a new symbol carved into it—one he hadn't put there.
A spiral with three eyes.
"No attack," Ayanwale murmured. "A gift."
He stood, suddenly able to hear something outside.
Two people arguing down the road—but only one had spoken. The other hadn't said a word, yet Ayanwale knew their thoughts.
"I can hear what's hidden," he whispered.
Rotimi raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a blessing."
Ayanwale looked toward the door. "Or a curse."
Now, with the second rhythm complete, Ayanwale has gained his first supernatural gift: the ability to sense unspoken truths and emotions through sound.
But in the spirit world, Oluwafemi's presence grows stronger, and the Ajalu spirits he once served have begun to stir again.