Morning came cold and gray. The rain had passed, but the smell of thunder still lingered in the air like smoke after battle.
Shango sat by the riverbank, sleeves rolled up, staring at the mark that now wrapped around his forearm — thin lines like veins of silver lightning, pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
He tried washing it off. Scrubbed till his arm reddened. But the more he rubbed, the brighter it glowed — as though it was part of him now.
Behind him, the forest rustled.
Ejiro emerged from the trees, his staff dragging faint grooves into the damp earth.
> "You think you can wash off the Grove?" the old man said.
Shango looked up, defiant.
> "Then tell me what it means."
Ejiro sighed, kneeling beside him.
> "Long ago, before men built their first huts, before words were born, the Grove served as the bridge between sky and earth. Only those chosen by its rhythm could cross that bridge and return."
> "Chosen for what?" Shango asked quietly.
Ejiro's eyes flicked toward the horizon, where clouds were already thickening again.
> "To remind men that thunder does not beg permission before it strikes."
---
By midday, word had spread through the village.
The children whispered first — "He bears a mark," they said. "The forest carved it."
Then the elders began to murmur.
The priest of Okechi even visited Ejiro's hut, his voice low and cold.
> "Keep that boy away from the shrine," he warned. "The gods do not share their vessels."
Shango could feel their eyes on him everywhere he went — suspicion, awe, and fear, all mixed into one.
Even his friends avoided him. The girls who once laughed when he passed now crossed themselves with quick gestures.
And still, the mark pulsed — like a heartbeat not his own.
At night, he dreamed again.
He stood in the Grove.
Lightning danced across the trees like living things.
And there — among the shadows — he saw a figure standing barefoot in the storm, eyes burning like molten gold.
> "You hear them now, don't you?" the figure said.
Shango tried to speak but found his voice gone.
> "The drums. The whisper between thunderclaps. They are not calling for you — they are warning through you."
The figure reached out, touching his arm. The mark blazed.
> "The storm that birthed you was never meant to rest."
He woke up gasping, sweat running down his chest. Outside, thunder rolled once, low and distant — as though echoing the dream.
---
The next morning, he found Ejiro sitting beneath a palm, eyes closed in deep thought.
> "It's changing, isn't it?" Shango asked.
The old man nodded.
> "The mark?"
> "No. The sky."
Ejiro opened his eyes and looked upward. The clouds were darker than they should've been, though no rain fell. Birds flew low, uneasy.
> "Then the Grove is moving again," Ejiro whispered.
> "Moving?"
> "Everything that's alive must move, boy — even the forest, even the gods. The Grove shifts when the balance breaks."
Shango swallowed.
> "And who breaks it?"
Ejiro turned to him, expression grim.
> "Men. Always men."
---
That night, the drums started again — not from the forest this time, but from the edge of the village.
Slow. Hollow. Relentless.
Ejiro's eyes widened as he listened.
> "Those aren't the Grove's drums."
> "Then whose are they?" Shango asked.
The old man's grip tightened around his staff.
> "The ones who call themselves the Veiled Flame."