CHAPTER 7: NAMES ON FIRE
Dawn broke over a city that was no longer silent. Across social media, across alleyways and boardrooms, the names of Quiet Thread’s members were whispered, shouted, and scrawled on walls. What was once a sanctuary of anonymity now found its protectors and apprentices publicly named, their lives exposed like threads unraveling in the wind.
Camille stormed into the sanctuary’s main hall, her face pale beneath the morning sun. "They’ve leaked the registry," she said, slamming her tablet onto the workbench. "Our apprentices. Our supporters. Every name they could find."
The room went cold.
Zaria stood, her spine straight but her hands trembling. "All of them?"
"Every last one," Camille whispered.
Kayode clenched his jaw. "It’s not enough to break our silence. Now they want to break our lives."
Amaka paced, her anger sharp. "This is a declaration of war."
Zaria shook her head slowly. "No. This is fear trying to burn us from within."
News outlets covered the leak with voracious hunger. Names flashed across screens: "Zaria Anozie, the Silent Rebel," "Kayode Adekoya, The Voice Behind the Loom," "Camille Opara, Strategist of the Weave," "Amaka Okafor, Firebrand of the Thread."
Personal addresses, family connections, and financial records followed.
Supporters began receiving threats. Apprentices hid in fear. Some parents pulled their children from the sanctuary. Others stood firm, their loyalty forged in fire.
At the sanctuary gates, protesters gathered, chanting names like curses.
Zaria called a meeting in the weaving room. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting broken rainbows across solemn faces.
"This is the price of truth," she said quietly. "But we will not pay it alone."
Kayode nodded. "Then what’s our next move?"
"We take back our names," Zaria said, "and we wear them like armor."
That evening, Quiet Thread launched "The Name Project," a public campaign where each member stood before the world, declaring their identity and their purpose. No aliases. No shame.
"I am Zaria Anozie," she began in the first video, "and I weave peace, not rebellion."
Kayode followed. "I am Kayode Adekoya, and I stand for unity through art."
Amaka’s voice rang clear. "I am Amaka Okafor, and I will not burn quietly."
Camille’s words cut sharp and true. "I am Camille Opara, and I refuse to be silenced."
The videos spread like wildfire.
In response, some supporters came forward with their own declarations. Students. Artists. Merchants. Even government workers. A movement formed—not bound by the sanctuary’s walls, but carried in the hearts of the people.
But not all reactions were kind.
Threats intensified. Shops owned by supporters were vandalized. Anonymous messages promised violence.
In the dead of night, a Molotov cocktail was hurled at Kayode’s family home. Flames licked the walls before firefighters arrived.
Kayode watched the smoke rise against the moonlit sky. "They know where we live."
"And now the world knows who we are," Zaria whispered beside him.
At the next city council meeting, debate raged.
"They’ve endangered public safety," one councilor argued. "This is no longer peaceful expression—it’s civil disruption."
"Or perhaps," another countered, "it’s society confronting its own reflection."
The mayor, weary and cornered, called for a press conference to address the growing unrest.
"Bring them in," he ordered. "Let them explain themselves publicly—under oath."
Back at the sanctuary, the leadership gathered.
"This is a trap," Camille warned. "They want to humiliate us on their stage."
"Or maybe," Amaka challenged, "it’s our stage now."
Zaria thought of the apprentices’ frightened faces. Of the weavers who had risked everything. Of her own trembling name written across the city like a scar.
"We’ll go," she said at last. "But we go together."
The press conference hall was a coliseum of words, the media waiting like lions. The sanctuary leaders walked in, heads high despite the storm.
The mayor opened the floor. "You claim to be peaceful, yet your actions spark conflict. How do you reconcile that contradiction?"
Zaria met his gaze. "Peace is not passive. It’s choosing compassion when anger would be easier."
"Your names now rally both sides," a reporter pressed. "Do you feel responsible for the violence committed in your name?"
Kayode spoke. "We are responsible for our choices, not the hatred others attach to them."
The questions continued, sharp as blades.
"Have you failed to protect your followers from harm?"
"Does your art have a hidden agenda?"
"Do you seek to topple the government?"
Amaka's voice cut through the noise. "We seek only to weave what this city has unraveled: trust, dignity, and peace."
Camille finished quietly, "And if that’s rebellion, then we accept the title."
By the time the press conference ended, the sanctuary’s message was clear: they would not hide. But clarity did not mean safety.
As they left the hall, protesters hurled insults and threats. Police barely held the line.
But for every angry shout, there were also cheers—quiet at first, then louder.
"We weave together!"
"Quiet, but never silent!"
"Names on fire, hearts unbroken!"
The sanctuary leaders smiled, weary but unbroken.
That night, they gathered in the courtyard once more.
Zaria addressed them beneath the stars.
"They burned our names to break us. Instead, we burned them bright enough for the world to see."
The sanctuary cheered softly, threads shimmering in the moonlight.
"Tomorrow," Zaria said, "we weave again."
And they did.
Because names on fire do not burn away—they shine.