Chapter Seven
The mask lay in shattered pieces, each shard reflecting a different memory. The priestess stood trembling, blood seeping from her torn lips, but her eyes burned with clarity.
"Aruwé," she said again, firmer this time. "My daughter."
The Bone-Faced Ones remained kneeling, their heads bowed—not in submission, but in awakening. Around them, the air thickened with ancestral energy. The land itself seemed to breathe.
Aruwé stepped forward, her flames soft now, curling around her like a memory of warmth rather than a weapon. She placed a hand on the priestess's face.
"You didn't forget me," she whispered. "You were made to."
The priestess fell to her knees, clutching Aruwé's waist. "Forgive me. I let them steal your fire. I let them silence my love."
"You didn't fail," Aruwé replied. "You buried the truth so deep it grew roots. And now… I remember who I am."
Behind them, Amira wept quietly. Elias placed a hand on her shoulder. "We're watching something sacred."
Amira nodded. "This is more than history. It's healing."
The Bone-Faced Ones rose.
One by one, they removed their masks.
Beneath each was a human face—tired, aged, weathered by time. Some were marked with glyphs of grief, others with lines of wisdom. None were monstrous.
They had become what the world needed them to be: sentinels of silence.
Now, they were reclaiming their names.
Asheron stepped forward. "The seals are breaking across the spirit lands. The covenants are unraveling. What happens now?"
Aruwé turned toward him, her hair glowing with flame-light. "We must light the path forward. Not with fire… but with remembrance."
That night, the villagers held a gathering.
Not a celebration—a reckoning.
Torches lined the paths, not to keep the darkness out, but to invite old truths in. Elders shared stories once forbidden. Children sat wide-eyed as spirits danced in the corners of firelight. Names long buried were spoken aloud, and with each name, the earth pulsed stronger beneath their feet.
The priestess—Aruwé's mother—sat silently beside Nnenna and the elders. Her voice was weak, but her eyes spoke volumes.
She held a small clay bowl in her hands. In it burned the final embers of the broken mask.
"This flame," she whispered, "is no longer a prison. It is a lantern."
As dawn rose, the Lantern Tree wept gold once more—not blood, but light.
The sap flowed freely, tracing new patterns across the land. They formed maps, glyphs, stories. Aruwé stepped into the glowing runes and was lifted—her body hovering above the roots.
She looked at Amira, her voice ringing clear.
"The balance is returning. But the work is not done. There are others. Other children like me. Buried. Forgotten. Watching."
Elias stepped forward. "We'll find them."
Amira nodded. "We'll remember them."
Aruwé smiled. "Then I leave this light with you."
The runes flared, and in a burst of warmth and flame, Aruwé vanished.
Not burned.
Ascended.
And in her place, a seed fell to the earth—small, glowing, wrapped in firelight.
A new beginning.