The Clay-Mouth Speaks

The First Voice

Dawn came slowly, spilling pale light across the village of Obade.

The air was heavy with an unsettled quiet.

No birds sang.

No wind rustled through the leaves.

It was as if the very breath of the world held back, waiting.

Then, from the threshold of the midwife's hut, the first voice came.

Not from flesh.

Not from wind.

But from the clay.

A mask, hanging limply from a twisted nail, cracked down the middle with a slow, deliberate fracture.

The line split like a scar, a wound reopened.

And then the mask spoke.

Its voice was dry—like earth cracking in drought, like sand remembering the shape of an ancient riverbed.

"You have opened the rhythm."

The villagers froze.

"But you left the wound beneath it untended."

The Awakening of the Masks

That single voice was not isolated.

Across Obade, masks began to stir.

In shrines long abandoned, dust thick upon their stones, the clay faces shifted.

In trees carved with the names of ancestors, the bark cracked in places where no hand had carved.

In forgotten graveyards, where no song had been sung for generations, masks hung from branches and sat atop broken stones.

Their mouths did not move.

But their voices filled the air, layered and low—a chorus rising from the depths of the past.

"You remember queens," they whispered.

"You remember keepers."

"But who remembers the fallen silence?"

Ọmọlẹ́yìn's Gathering

At the heart of the village, beneath the ever-watchful Spiral Tree, Ọmọlẹ́yìn stood.

Her staff was planted deep into the earth, a symbol of rooted strength amid rising unease.

Ola, Echo, Iyagbẹ́kọ, and the Flameborn children gathered around her.

They formed a circle, an unbroken rhythm in the midst of the chaos.

"They are not threats," Iyagbẹ́kọ said slowly, her voice weighted with history.

"They are remnants."

"Echoes of those erased before the Archive ever existed."

Echo's brow furrowed.

"Are they alive?" she asked.

Iyagbẹ́kọ's eyes darkened.

"They are what remains when remembering is denied for too long."

The Bone Oracle's Warning

A mask unlike the others was discovered at the mouth of the forgotten well—the same well that had overflowed with whispered names weeks before.

This mask was larger, heavier.

Its surface was cracked and worn.

But it bore an intensity none could ignore.

It did not whisper.

It sang.

But not a melody.

A dirge.

The sound stretched and pulled at the soul like mud beneath a bare foot, slow and dragging.

"He comes," it intoned.

"The Hollow One."

"The first king who made silence into law."

"Who burned rhythm from flesh."

"Who swallowed the names of rivers."

The villagers stared, frozen in place.

"You remember queens," the mask sang.

"But you have forgotten the king whose silence broke them."

The Hollow Throne

Far beyond the village, beyond the salt line where no rhythm dared to echo, a cave shifted.

It was a place sealed long ago, locked by old magic and forgotten oaths.

But now, cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient stone.

At the center sat a throne—not carved or built, but shaped by weight and absence.

It was hollow.

Unfinished.

The shape of a king who was less than human, more shadow than flesh.

Crowned with dust.

Its ribcage empty.

Its seat drumless.

The figure opened its mouth.

No sound came.

But far away, a child in Obade collapsed mid-dream, crying out—no breath, no voice.

Ọmọlẹ́yìn's Decision

Back beneath the Spiral Tree, the Keeper faced the speaking masks.

Her voice was steady.

But low, as if every word weighed more than the last.

"We did not forget you in malice."

"We forgot you…"

"Because no one taught us how to grieve you."

The clay masks fell silent.

Even the large one at the well stopped its song.

A long, heavy breath seemed to pass through the village.

Then, in unison, the masks spoke.

"Grieve us now."

"Or the Hollow One will rise."

"And all rhythm will rot."

The Mourning Drum

Iyagbẹ́kọ stepped forward.

Her hands trembling slightly, she brought forth an old drum.

It had not been touched since the death of her mother, the last Keeper of that generation.

The drum was cracked.

Its leather frayed.

Its voice broken.

It was a relic.

A memory.

A wound.

She placed the drum reverently in the earth before the Spiral Tree.

Ọmọlẹ́yìn knelt beside it.

She did not strike the drum.

She did not summon a song.

She simply wept.

Her tears fell like rain upon the broken hide.

And then—

A sound.

Soft.

Wounded.

True.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The cracked drum sang.

The Masks' Reverence

One by one, the clay faces bowed.

Not with movement.

But in spirit.

The air itself seemed to bend, carrying a deep hum of acknowledgment.

The Archive itself breathed.

The river's edge shimmered.

The fire's glow softened.

Even the stars above flickered in quiet response.

The Hidden Story of Silence

Iyagbẹ́kọ's voice broke the stillness.

"Not all silence is erasure."

"Some silence is waiting."

"Some silence is mourning."

She looked at the gathered Flameborn children.

"Some silence is a throne waiting to be shattered."

The Clay Remembers

The clay remembers.

The dust remembers.

The forgotten remembers.

And now…

The clay has begun to speak.

The Rising Weight of Memory

In the days that followed, the villagers gathered daily beneath the Spiral Tree.

Each carried an offering—not of gold, or grain, or flame—but of stories.

Stories long buried.

Of lost queens.

Of silenced songs.

Of tears shed in secret.

The Archive expanded.

Not just a place, but a people.

A rhythm alive in the weaving of memory and mourning.

Echo's Revelation

One evening, as twilight folded over the village, Echo sat beside the cracked drum.

She traced the fractured leather, feeling its scars beneath her fingertips.

"This drum," she murmured, "holds not just sound."

"It holds grief."

"And that grief is what we must carry—so it does not become silence."

Ola's Vigil

Ola stood watch near the well each night.

He listened for the return of the voices.

He watched for the flicker of clay faces in the shadows.

And sometimes, when the wind was just right, he thought he heard the faintest beat of a forgotten drum.

The Flameborn's Song

The children—the Flameborn—gathered in secret groves.

They sang low songs.

Not of queens.

Not of keepers.

But of the silence that came before them.

Songs of waiting.

Songs of mourning.

Songs of the clay.

The Growing Shadow

But the Hollow One did not remain quiet.

From his throne of dust and bone, his influence spread like a slow poison.

Silence deepened.

Shadows lengthened.

A darkness that was not night—but the absence of all sound and memory.

The Final Warning

One night, the clay masks gathered again.

Their voices rose, layered and urgent.

"Remember us," they pleaded.

"Grieve what was lost."

"Or the Hollow One will rise."

"And the Archive will break."

The Keeper's Promise

Ọmọlẹ́yìn stood beneath the Spiral Flame, eyes steady.

"We will not forget."

"We will carry grief as well as joy."

"We will honor silence as much as song."

"And we will prepare."

Final Lines

Not all silence is erasure.

Some is waiting.

Some is mourning.

And some…

Some is a throne waiting to be shattered.

But the clay remembers.

And it has begun to speak.