The journey to the Springs of First Memory was unlike any they had undertaken before. No longer just a path through land or time, it was a pilgrimage into the very heart of forgetting and becoming.
The Road That Recedes
Dawn crept over the hills as Ayanwale, Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn, Zuberi, and Rotimi set out once more from the River of Echoes. The valley behind them faded into mist, the black waters slipping away like a dream unwilling to be grasped.
Each step forward felt as if the path itself stretched and retracted beneath their feet, testing their resolve. Where once they had moved with certainty, now the earth beneath threatened to vanish into shadowed holes of unremembered names and erased promises.
Rotimi's hands clenched tight around the hilt of a small blade carved from bone. "The land feels wrong here," he muttered. "Like we're walking on the backs of things forgotten."
Zuberi's eyes darted to the east. "The Springs lie beyond the Crescent Ridge. But between here and there lies the Hollow Passage—a corridor where memory dissolves into silence."
Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn, usually stoic, hesitated. "Few have returned from the Passage with their names intact. Even fewer who crossed with purpose."
Ayanwale looked at them all. "We don't have a choice. If the Springs are lost, the whole world will unravel."
Crossing the Hollow Passage
The Hollow Passage was a narrow gorge carved by ancient waters long vanished. Jagged stones loomed overhead, blocking the sun, while thick fog slithered around their ankles like living breath.
The air was heavy with absence.
It whispered at the edges of hearing, pulling at the threads of memory tied to their names.
Zuberi began chanting softly, weaving protective rhythms into the air, but their voice trembled with uncertainty.
As they advanced, Ayanwale felt the first tug.
A momentary flicker — the memory of his mother's face, soft and warm, began to fade.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn gripped his arm. "Hold your rhythm. Remember who you are. The Codex wants to unmake us piece by piece."
Rotimi stumbled, eyes glazed, caught in a looping vision of childhood illusions—kingdoms and crowns that never were.
Zuberi's staff flared briefly. "Fight the silence! Drum the song that keeps you alive!"
Ayanwale lifted the Royalty Drum and struck it with all his strength.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The pulse pushed back the creeping fog.
Yet the Passage fought harder, its silence twisting into the shape of long-lost faces reaching for them.
Rotimi gasped, collapsing to his knees.
"Remember!" Ayanwale cried. "Remember your truth!"
Rotimi's eyes cleared. "You... you are right," he gasped. "I am Rotimi."
The Shrine of Origins
Emerging from the Passage, they found themselves in a valley bathed in golden light.
At the center stood the Shrine of Origins—a vast stone circle etched with ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly with life.
Water bubbled from the ground, clear and cool, streaming into a pool of shimmering silver—the Springs of First Memory.
The air here was thick with power. Every breath felt like inhaling the collective past of all who had ever been named.
Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn approached the pool reverently. "This is the source," she said. "The wellspring of all names. If it is poisoned, all memory will drown."
Suddenly, the water rippled unnaturally, and shadows pooled beneath the surface.
From the depths rose a figure—cloaked in water and light, her eyes dark voids.
"I am the Keeper of Names," she intoned. "And I have waited for you."
The Test of Names
The Keeper's voice echoed in their minds. "To protect the Springs, you must face the Truth of Naming."
Each of them was pulled into a vision, their deepest memories and fears laid bare.
Ayanwale saw his mother's death, relived the moment Baba Oro had fallen, and stood before the Codex itself, its void demanding surrender.
Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn confronted the betrayal she had once hidden, the sacrifice that had fractured her spirit.
Zuberi faced the haunting shadow of the Thirteenth Sequence and the mysterious figure who had whispered forgotten names.
Rotimi grappled with his temptation toward the Splinter Order and the lure of erasing his own past.
Through struggle and song, each emerged stronger, their names reforged in the fires of memory.
The Poison Within
But the Springs were not yet safe.
The Keeper revealed the threat—an unseen toxin in the waters, a poison that twisted truth into lies and memory into oblivion.
Ayanwale understood.
The Codex was not just a book.
It was a living wound in time.
If left unchecked, it would bleed the world dry.
Binding the Springs
Together, they raised their drums.
Ayanwale led the rhythm, a steady beat that pulled the river's currents back into harmony.
Zuberi wove a seal of light and shadow with their staff.
Yẹ̀yẹ̀ Adùn sang the ancient song of the Weaving.
Rotimi, newly resolute, called upon the strength of remembered names.
The air shimmered.
The Springs glowed.
And for a moment, time seemed to hold its breath.