The First Clash

A mist rolled in thick and fast, swallowing the outer edges of Obade like a tide of cold ink. It seeped beneath doorframes, drifted through cracks in the mud walls, and lay across the fields in thick coils. The moon's pale glow was reduced to a pale flicker behind this living fog silent, insistent, unmoving.

And beneath it all, the air throbbed with the sound of drums.

Not drums from hands beating tar or cloth, but something deeper: the earth itself resonated, pulsing. The river answered in kind, each wave against the bank like the steady heartbeat of a great sleeping beast stirred to life. The rhythm was low, ancient, warning a challenge to what was coming.

Ola stood at the village gate, the ancient bone drum hanging at his hip. He was silent in the hush, booted feet planted, eyes wide but determined. Èkóyé crouched beside him, chalking protective sigils onto the ground with crushed river stones and cold ash. Each symbol was placed precisely spirals, waves, eyes reflecting memory. Embroidered lines that braided together earth, spirit, and the river's pulse.

"They're close," Èkóyé whispered as her finger finished the final mark. Her voice didn't crack with fear. Not tonight.

Ola nodded, fingers brushing brass rings at his side. "I can feel them in my bones."

Before either could say more, the mist rippled and stepping through it came the first Nightborn. Tall, silent, cloaked in midnight, its form nearly swallowed by the fog. A veil of living shadow hung from its face where eyes ought to be, flickering red under the mist's pallor. It didn't speak. It didn't need to.

It moved fast a blur and advanced toward the gate.

Before it reached the sigils, the chalked lines flared up, glowing faint gold then brightening to a sharp silver, pushing back the mist like a shield.

Ola lifted the drum and struck once.

BOOM.

The echo shook the earth, rattling shutters on the village homes, drumming in every heart.

The Nightborn staggered. The red flicker in its eyes dimmed. It hissed an unnatural sound between breath and wind then recoiled and vanished back into the mist.

And then they came.

From all directions dozens of Nightborn marched forward, their forms rising like thorns grown from earth and shadow. Some moved on all fours, others with an inhuman grace; limbs sharpened like jagged sticks. Their hostile beauty was terrifying but their advance was slowed by the fleeing mist, peeled back by the power of the sigils and the ancient drum.

The villagers emerged from the shadows behind Ola and Èkóyé. They did not flee. They stepped into the clearing, drums and clay horns raised, children at their sides. This was no army they were siblings bound by memory, armed with ancestral rhythm.

Each drum struck out in unison. The sound was not war it was truth. Each beat unlocked ancient courage. Spears and cutlasses raised, but their confidence came from the song they carried the river's song.

Ola struck the bone drum seven times, each beat echoing like a dropped stone in an empty well. With every strike, the villagers' heartbeats matched theirs: thump, thump faster, louder, actual.

The Nightborn faltered. Their forms seemed to flicker like dying flame. They hissed and roared but they didn't advance.

As the drums continued, the mist shook and spurted back, drawn to the pattern of memory in the rhythm.

Ola shouted: "Not as warriors. As keepers. Let the river's voice speak!"

Èkóyé began chanting by the lines of sigils. She numbered each word in the silent local dialect but the world heard them. Each syllable gave shape, gave definition. They were reawakening remembrance. Bone. Clay. Water.

From the front, a Nightborn separated itself from the group. It stood at the center of the sigil-circle, as if being summoned.

Ola approached with slow steps, drumstick raised.

The Nightborn did not flee. It stood utterly still, besides the faint tremor from the beating mist.

Ola stayed opposite, breathing steady, the drumstick hovering between them like a stave of destiny.

His voice gathered strength: "Who are you... who attacks memory?"

The Nightborn rose its head. A rustle like dry grass accompanied a rasping whisper only Ola heard: We were forgotten. We were forced down. We were silenced.

Ola nodded slowly, eyes locked with whatever lay beneath that shadow. "Then this is your chorus. Our song."

He struck the drum again. Once. Then twice. Then a pattern: thump-thump, pause, thump echo echo echo.

The Nightborn stepped forward on the second beat. Close. So close that Ola's breath mingled with mist and fear. But still the sigils burned bright.

And then, the Nightborn held its hand out.

Ola hesitated just a moment before placing his bare palm over the shadowy appendage. The drum went still. The night quieted inside the clearing.

A breath later, the Nightborn's form dissolved. Its cloak shredded into drifting grey threads. It crumbled to nothing. And as it disappeared, memory unfurled in that pause: the silence broken, the sorrow seen, the pact undone.

Behind them, the villagers dared to sing.

It was low at first: a single voice. Then another, and another. Their language half-forgotten but held in their bones. She remembers us, they sang. We remember her.

The drums resumed. Thump-thump-thump. Faster now. Echo bleeding into echo. Oceanic swells of sound that shook the mist back to sea.

Dark shapes other Nightborn halted. They looked at each other. Moved toward the circle. One by one, they paused upon the threshold. Some came forward and knelt. Others turned and disappeared deeper into the forest.

The village stood only wide-eyed and fervent. They had never seen such victory.

Èkóyé whispered to Ola: "It's happening. Their silence is reclaimed."

The mist thinned. The river, still luminescent, resumed its pulsing under moonlight. A new rhythm soft, tender, resolute.

Ola retreated back toward the village, drums still beating in his chest. Behind him, he saw Nightborn beginning to return to wood and leaf, then to earth.

They were finding themselves again.

The village pulsed behind him. Every step was confident. Faces glowed with moonlight and wet eyes.

Children came forward to offer him rose petals and sprigs of river herb. Women laid fresh garlands of riverweed at Èkóyé's feet. Men and elders rested on branches, gripping sticks or prayer beads, all of them guardians now.

Kareem met Ola on the steps of the old community hall.

"You held them back," Kareem said, pride in his tone. "You still their cries."

Ola looked back toward the river. "We still their souls." He breathed deeply, exhaling relief. "This is only the first clash. But we have won tonight."

Kareem nodded. "Let's let them rest for now."

They stood together in that moment, bathed in torchlight, emboldened by rhythm. And above them, the moon rose higher.

For Obade had thrown off its ancient shroud.

The river sang now.

Not of rage.

Not of silence.

But of remembrance and resistance.