CHAPTER 6 : ASHES DON'T LIE

The sanctuary woke to stillness—a deceptive peace after the storm of the previous night. The tapestry had fallen from the tower like a silent rebellion, and now, the ashes of that act hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Zaria stood in the center courtyard, her fingers brushing over the burned remains of their woven stories. Even as dawn lit the bruised sky, the question remained: what would the cost be?

Camille entered the courtyard, her face tense. "There’s a call for a press conference this afternoon. They want answers."

"Do they want the truth or just a spectacle?" Zaria asked, her voice flat.

Kayode, reading from his tablet, added, "The city’s leadership is divided. Some want to shut us down. Others see us as a symbol they can’t afford to destroy publicly."

"And the people?" Amaka demanded, stepping into the circle.

"They’re divided too," Camille replied. "Some are inspired. Some are afraid."

Zaria exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of their fractured world press against her ribs. "Then we go. We tell our story. No matter who listens."

Hours later, they stood beneath glaring lights in a government auditorium. Rows of journalists poised their pens and microphones, ready to dissect every word.

Zaria stepped forward first. "We are not here to defend rebellion. We are here to defend peace."

Her voice carried over the murmurs.

"You’ve been accused of inciting unrest," the lead moderator said coldly.

"And we’ve also inspired hope," Zaria answered. "Perhaps that’s what truly unsettles you."

Laughter rippled through some sections of the audience. Disbelief through others.

Kayode spoke next. "Our sanctuary has fed the hungry, taught the forgotten, and built beauty where others saw waste. If these are crimes, then we stand guilty."

Amaka took the mic, her fire unmistakable. "But we will not be silenced by fear. We’ve woven too much of ourselves into this city."

As the questions flew, Camille monitored social feeds. The press conference was trending globally. Hashtags like #ThreadsofTruth and #QuietRebellion filled the screens.

But so did darker messages: threats, calls for retaliation, and rumors of government crackdowns.

Back at the sanctuary, apprentices gathered around screens, watching their leaders fight not with fists, but with words and presence.

Among them, Dayo whispered, "They’re changing the world out there."

"Or lighting it on fire," another muttered.

That night, when they returned to the sanctuary, they found it vandalized again. Ashes scattered across the courtyard. A message burned into the outer wall:

"NO PEACE WITHOUT OBEDIENCE."

The apprentices stared at the ruin, fear and fury clashing in their eyes.

"They’re trying to scare us into silence," Kayode said, examining the damage.

"But ashes don’t lie," Zaria murmured, kneeling to brush them aside, revealing a mosaic beneath—an old sanctuary symbol, hidden for decades.

"What is it?" Amaka asked.

"Hope," Zaria said simply. "Buried, but not gone."

In the following days, Quiet Thread worked tirelessly. They restored their courtyard, rebuilt their looms, and resumed their teachings. Their resilience became a quiet defiance against those who sought to erase them.

But tensions outside their walls worsened.

City leaders debated whether to declare the sanctuary a public hazard. Protesters clashed in the streets—some in defense of Quiet Thread, others demanding its removal.

Camille brought disturbing news. "There’s a plan circulating among extremists to storm the sanctuary during the next demonstration."

"When?" Kayode asked, his jaw tight.

"Tomorrow," she whispered.

They had one night to decide.

"We could cancel," Amaka suggested reluctantly.

Zaria shook her head. "Then they win."

"We could fight back," another voice offered.

"No," Kayode said firmly. "Violence isn’t our thread."

Zaria stepped into the circle. "We meet them with what they fear most: our silence and our unity."

The next morning, the sanctuary opened its gates. The plaza filled with weavers, apprentices, and supporters. Silent, steady, they worked their looms while crowds gathered at the edges, waiting.

Then, the extremists came.

Masked and shouting, they stormed the plaza. Bottles shattered. Smoke filled the air. But Quiet Thread did not run. They did not fight. They wove.

And something remarkable happened.

Bystanders stepped forward. Strangers linked arms around the weavers. Ordinary citizens formed a barrier, shielding them from harm.

The extremists faltered, faced not by opposition, but by a city tired of fear.

Police finally intervened, dispersing the attackers. Cameras captured the moment: the sanctuary standing, threads flying, guarded by the people.

That night, Zaria addressed the sanctuary.

"Ashes mark where fire has been, but they also enrich the soil. From what they tried to burn, something new will grow."

Her words wrapped around them like a protective thread.

Naya, watching from the shadows, smiled faintly. "You’ve learned what most leaders never do: peace isn’t passive. It’s the fiercest form of defiance."

Zaria looked out at her people—scarred but standing—and knew the story was far from over.

But tonight, they had won.

For now.