The forest was breathing again.
Shango could feel it in the air — a pulse beneath the soil, steady as the rhythm of a drum too old to remember its first song. Mist coiled between the trees, glowing faintly where moonlight touched it.
He followed Ejiro through the grove's narrow paths, their feet making no sound. Even the crickets had gone silent.
> "Why tonight?" Shango asked quietly.
"Because the Grove called for you," Ejiro replied. "And the Grove doesn't call twice."
They entered a clearing ringed by towering iroko trees, their trunks carved with ancient marks that shimmered faintly — not painted, but alive.
At the center stood a stone basin filled with clear water, perfectly still. Around it, roots coiled like serpents guarding something sacred.
Ejiro struck his staff once. The ground answered with a faint hum.
> "Kneel, son of thunder," he said softly.
Shango obeyed. His mark glowed faintly beneath his skin, silver veins pulsing to the earth's rhythm.
Ejiro began to chant — not in words Shango knew, but in a language older than the wind itself.
The iroko leaves trembled, and the basin began to ripple as if moved by invisible hands.
Then the water lifted — not poured, not thrown — lifted into the air in the shape of a coiling spiral. Lightning flashed within it like captured breath.
Ejiro's voice deepened.
> "Long before men built shrines, the Grove chose its own altar."
"Before thunder bore a name, it had a keeper."
"You are that echo reborn."
The water swirled faster. Shango's eyes widened — in its reflection, he no longer saw himself.
He saw figures standing behind him — dozens, hundreds — men and women of light and storm, eyes glowing gold. Ancestors. Spirits. Gods.
He tried to breathe, but the air thickened with power.
> "Ejiro… what is this?"
The old man smiled faintly.
> "The Oath of the Grove."
He raised his staff, and the floating water burst into mist that wrapped around Shango.
Each droplet stung like tiny sparks, sinking into his skin, feeding the mark.
The thunder inside him stirred.
> "Do you swear," Ejiro's voice boomed, "to hold the storm, not to wield it?"
"To protect balance, not to rule it?"
"To remember that gods were once men — and men, echoes of gods?"
Shango's chest heaved. Lightning crawled up his arm. The mark blazed bright as the moon.
> "I swear."
The Grove exhaled.
Wind burst outward, scattering leaves like fragments of stars. The trees bowed, whispering in voices that weren't wind at all — thousands of murmurs weaving one name:
> "Shango."
The mark shifted — once a scar, now a symbol. It wrapped around his arm in full form: three interlocking rings, glowing silver-blue.
He looked up — and saw the spirit woman again. The one from his dream. Her eyes were calm, her hair drifting like smoke.
> "You've taken the first oath," she said, her voice like the rustle of rain through branches.
"The storm is no longer sleeping."
> "Who are you?"
> "The Grove's voice," she replied. "And now, your witness."
Her hand touched his chest — lightning flared through his veins, not painful but awakening.
> "Remember this, child of thunder: power that forgets silence becomes fire. Power that listens becomes god."
She began to fade, her image scattering into mist.
Ejiro lowered his staff. The light dimmed. The night felt heavy again — but cleaner, as though washed.
> "You've taken the first step," Ejiro said softly. "Now the Grove will watch how you walk it."
Shango rose slowly, every breath alive with the storm's hum. He looked at his arm — the mark pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Somewhere above, thunder rolled once — not loud, not threatening.
Just answering.