Epilogue
Rain fell softly over Arodan, washing the blood and dust from its stone roads. Where the palace once stood, only sacred earth remained—uncut, unclaimed, and ringed with stones bearing no names. Because the names had been stolen, erased, denied.
But not forgotten.
Adamma stood barefoot in the center of the sacred ground, her cloak wet with rain and memory. Around her, the Daughters stood in a wide circle, chanting. Each held a piece of carved wood in their palms. They burned herbs passed from the oldest village mothers, mixed with ash from the broken throne.
Oluchi stepped forward, planting a staff into the earth.
"The old rule is ended," he said. "The bloodline broken. But the truth remains."
Adamma nodded. "We are not here to rebuild thrones. We are here to remember what was taken. And to teach those still to come."
From the ashes, they raised no palace. Instead, they built a house of memory—walls made of clay, thatched roofs open to the wind. Inside, the stories were carved into the walls in the many languages of their ancestors. Names etched with care. Names like Nkiru. Like Halima. Names no longer whispered in shame.
Adamma became the Keeper of Stories.
Oluchi, the Guardian of Truth.
And the daughters, scattered across villages and cities, carried with them relics of the old world: symbols of power, not for domination, but protection.
They told children the truth of what happened under the crown.
They sang songs that once were forbidden.
They lit fires for the daughters buried deep.
**
Many years later, a little girl stood before the house of memory. She touched a carving of a woman with ash-paint under her eyes.
"Who is she?" she asked.
Her grandmother smiled.
"That, child," she whispered, "is the First. The one who rose. So you could never be forgotten again."
The girl touched her chest. "I won't forget."
And just like that—another daughter was born.
*THE END*