The forest was quiet again.
Not dead—just quiet in that strange way that follows a thunderclap, when the air still trembles but the noise has fled.
Shango lay on his back, breath slow and shallow, the damp earth cool against his skin. The sky above him was a wounded gray, streaked with silver veins of retreating light. The Grove had fallen still; the voices that once swirled like a thousand whispers now hid behind the leaves, watching.
For a long time, he didn't move. His heartbeat drummed faintly in his ears—steady, rhythmic, like the echo of distant thunder. When he finally sat up, his body felt… heavier. Not with exhaustion, but with something older, something vast. The air seemed to pull at him differently, as though the world itself had learned his name.
He touched his chest. His skin was warm.
Under his palm, something hummed—a faint vibration, deep and patient, like the growl of a sleeping storm.
A low voice came from behind him.
> "You've been asleep long enough."
Shango turned. Ejiro stood at the edge of the Grove, his staff buried in the mud, eyes sharp as flint. Rain still clung to his beard, and the faint smell of smoke followed him.
> "What happened?" Shango asked, his voice rough.
"You happened," Ejiro said simply. "The Grove has marked you. And the storm has answered."
The boy blinked. "Answered?"
Ejiro walked closer, studying him. "When the sky speaks, it is never for one ear. You may think this was a vision, but the Grove doesn't bless without purpose. It calls, and something must now awaken in return."
Shango tried to stand. His knees wobbled; the world swayed. Ejiro caught him with one arm, steady as a rooted tree.
> "Rest," the old man muttered. "The Grove takes its payment in strength."
But even as he leaned on Ejiro's shoulder, Shango felt a pulse of energy coil in his fingertips. Tiny sparks danced between them for a heartbeat before fading.
Ejiro's eyes narrowed. "So, it begins."
---
That night, the village slept uneasy.
The wind carried strange songs—half thunder, half drum. Goats bleated without reason. Children dreamed of red clouds and glowing eyes in the rain.
And when the elders gathered under the kola tree, one of them whispered,
> "The sky-child has awakened. The balance shifts again."
They spat on the ground for protection. But deep in their eyes, there was something else too—fear.
---
Shango could not sleep. His hut felt too small, his body too loud. Every breath seemed to carry heat. His mind flashed with scenes he couldn't understand—fire on water, shadows bowing to lightning, his own reflection shattering in a pool of light.
He stumbled outside, gasping for air. The sky above him was clear, yet his hair rose with static. Somewhere, the Grove's faint whisper returned:
> "Do not run from what you are."
He fell to his knees.
> "Then what am I?" he shouted.
Only silence answered.
But then, far away—so deep it might have been in his own chest—came the drumbeat.
Slow. Steady. Calling.
Dum… dum… dum…
The same rhythm from the Grove.
The same rhythm that had guided his steps through darkness.
Ejiro appeared at his doorway, eyes wide and knowing.
> "You hear it too, don't you?"
"It's calling me."
"Then listen," Ejiro said softly, "but not too closely. Some drums lead you home. Others lead you to war."
Lightning flickered far beyond the horizon.
And in that flash, for the briefest moment, Shango saw a figure standing in the distance—cloaked in stormlight, watching him with eyes like molten gold.
Then it was gone.
Only the wind remained, humming softly through the palm leaves, whispering:
> "The storm remembers its own."