By midday, the silence had spread beyond the great square.
It crept into the streets of Nambara, settling in doorways and clinging to the walls like dust after a storm. Markets that once rang with laughter and trade stood half-empty. Traders spoke in low voices. Children were pulled indoors. Even the wind seemed careful as it moved between the houses of clay and stone.
Ayo walked toward the palace with measured steps, his spear held upright at his side. He had been summoned—an honor, they said. A necessity, others whispered. He did not know which frightened him more.
The palace gates stood open now, guarded by warriors whose eyes betrayed sleepless nights. Inside, the courtyard bore signs of haste: overturned water bowls, discarded bandages, dark stains hurriedly washed but not erased. War had entered the kingdom before the enemy ever reached the walls.
Ayo passed beneath the carved archway and into the Hall of Ancestors.
The air inside was cool and heavy with incense. Tall pillars rose like silent giants, each etched with the names of kings and queens who had ruled Nambara since its founding. Between them hung shields, cracked drums, and faded banners—relics of victories won and prices paid.
At the far end of the hall lay the king.
King Mavero rested upon a low bed of carved wood, his body wrapped in white cloth. His chest rose and fell unevenly. A healer knelt beside him, whispering prayers to steady his spirit and bind his wounds.
Around the king stood the council.
Elders, generals, priests, and nobles formed a tense circle, their robes and ornaments marking rank but doing little to hide fear. Voices hushed as Elder Jul Reath entered the hall, leaning heavily on his staff.
He did not bow to the council.
Instead, he bowed to the king.
"The drums remain silent," Jul Reath said at last.
"They will sound again," replied General Torak, though his tone lacked conviction. His armor bore fresh dents, and his hands had not stopped trembling since the morning.
"Or they will not," said Lady Sefira, her gold rings catching the torchlight. "Either way, Kor-Lesh will not wait for our rituals to find their voice."
A murmur of agreement rippled through part of the council.
"They crossed the northern hills before dawn," Torak said. "The watchfires burned, but no reinforcements reached them. By now, the forts are ash."
"And our people?" asked a priest.
"Taken. Scattered. Dead."
The words fell like stones.
Lady Sefira stepped forward. "Then we must speak plainly. Our enemy has iron weapons, fire powder, and numbers we cannot match. If we resist, Nambara burns. If we surrender, we may yet preserve our bloodline."
Ayo felt his grip tighten on the spear.
Elder Jul Reath struck the floor once with his staff.
"Blood without spirit," he said quietly, "is not a kingdom. It is a memory waiting to fade."
Lady Sefira met his gaze. "And ashes remember nothing at all."
The council fell silent.
Ayo stepped forward before fear could stop him.
"Forgive me," he said, bowing low. "But both paths lead to ruin if walked blindly."
Every eye turned toward him.
"You are young," Lady Sefira said. "What could you possibly see that we do not?"
Ayo raised his head. "I see that Kor-Lesh has changed. And that we have not."
A sharp intake of breath passed through the hall.
"The drums were our strength," Ayo continued, his voice steady now. "But they were never our only one. If the old world is ending, then clinging to it will not save us. We must carry what matters forward—and let go of what no longer answers."
Elder Jul Reath studied him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, the elder smiled—not with joy, but with recognition.
"The ancestors are not silent," Jul Reath said. "They are waiting to hear whether we still have the courage to answer."
Outside the palace walls, thunder rolled low across the distant hills.
And for the first time since the drums fell silent, the future stirred.