The night after the confrontation felt too quiet.
Not the natural kind of quiet—no, this one had edges, like it was holding its breath and waiting to see who would speak first.
The wind still moved through the high grass outside, the sea still rolled against the distant cliff face, and somewhere beyond the stone corridor a lantern still flickered. But the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with all the things no one wanted to admit.
Ola sat on the floor, her back to the wall, legs drawn in, fingers worrying the edge of the cloth wrapped around her wrists. She could still feel it—her pulse there, reminding her of the way every word tonight had carried weight like stone. She wasn't sure if she was shaking because she was cold or because her body still hadn't caught up to what had happened.
Across from her, Èkóyé stood by the window, looking out into the moonlit courtyard. Her posture was all stillness, but her eyes… her eyes were searching, restless.
"You heard them," Èkóyé said finally, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the room. "They knew. They knew all along. And they chose not to speak."
Ola lifted her head. "Maybe they were afraid."
"Afraid?" Èkóyé's laugh was quick, bitter. "Afraid is a reason for staying alive, not for letting others die." She turned away from the window and stepped closer, her shadow falling over Ola. "When they stayed silent, it wasn't just cowardice—it was consent."
Ola didn't answer, because part of her agreed. But another part—one that still remembered the way fear could hollow you out—wasn't ready to condemn so quickly.
From the far side of the room, Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice came like a slow tide. "There are silences that are forced, and silences that are chosen. Both can wound, but the ones we choose… those are the ones that rot from the inside."
Iyagbẹ́kọ had been quiet until now, her presence more like a watchful shadow than a participant in the conversation. She sat cross-legged by the low table, a single clay cup before her, untouched. The lamplight made her features look carved, deep lines etched into a face that had watched too many cycles of truth being buried and dug up again.
"They stayed silent because they believed the river's curse was worse than the truth," she continued. "And perhaps, once, they were right. But time changes curses. They did not see that."
Èkóyé moved to speak again, but Iyagbẹ́kọ lifted a hand. "If you want to judge them, child, do so knowing you are not free of the same danger. There will be a day when you will see a truth, and your first thought will be—how will this endanger me?"
Ola let the words sink in. The air in the room felt denser now, heavy with that uncomfortable truth.
Then the knock came.
Three slow beats against the door.
No one moved at first.
When it came again, Iyagbẹ́kọ rose and went to open it.
A boy stood there, no older than thirteen. His bare feet were dusty, and his breathing was fast, like he had run the whole way. In his hand, clutched so tightly his knuckles were white, was a folded scrap of paper.
"For you," he said, holding it out to Iyagbẹ́kọ, eyes flicking nervously toward Ola and Èkóyé.
Iyagbẹ́kọ took the paper, but instead of opening it, she studied the boy. "Who gave this to you?"
The boy hesitated. "A man. He didn't give his name. Just said—'give it to the one who still listens.'"
The words made Ola's skin prickle.
Iyagbẹ́kọ nodded slowly. "Go home. And do not speak of this to anyone."
When the boy had gone, she unfolded the note. The handwriting inside was uneven, hurried. She read it once, then a second time, before passing it to Ola.
The message was short:
They will gather before dawn. They will decide who to bury next. If you want the truth, follow the bells.
Èkóyé leaned over Ola's shoulder to read it, then met her gaze. "It's a trap."
"Or a chance," Ola said.
Iyagbẹ́kọ's expression didn't change, but her tone was grave. "Both can be true."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Ola pushed herself to her feet. "If we do nothing, we'll be no better than the ones who stayed silent."
Èkóyé's jaw tightened, but she nodded.
The bells, they both knew, rang only in one place at that hour—at the old meeting hall by the river's edge. A place where elders had once settled disputes, before fear and superstition turned it into a place where verdicts were passed without question.
By the time they reached the hall, the sky was the deep blue of the hour before dawn. The air smelled faintly of smoke, and somewhere in the darkness ahead, a bell tolled once… twice… three times.
The sound carried over the water, slow and deliberate, as if marking the steps toward something inevitable.
They moved along the side wall of the hall, keeping low. Through the open slats of the window, they could see figures gathered inside.
Seven elders sat in a half-circle. Their faces were drawn tight, their hands folded in their laps. The lamplight cast their shadows large against the wall, distorting them into something monstrous.
In the center of the floor, kneeling, was a woman Ola didn't recognize. Her head was bowed, her wrists bound.
An elder in a dark robe rose. "You have carried words meant to stay buried. You have given them to ears that should not hear. This is not a sin we can leave unpunished."
The woman's voice shook as she spoke. "I told the truth because the river asked me to. I will not take it back."
The hall fell silent. Ola's heartbeat was loud in her ears.
Iyagbẹ́kọ leaned in close, her breath warm against Ola's ear. "If we act now, there's no going back. They will mark you as they marked her."
Ola's gaze didn't leave the woman inside. "Then let them."
She stepped forward before anyone could stop her, pushing the door wide enough for the lamplight to spill into the darkness outside. Every head in the hall turned.
The choice to stay silent had ended.