The people gathered around the fire, their faces lit by its glow, carrying the weight of stories handed down in silence. The drums had stopped, and into the quiet came the voice of the White Raven.
“You were stolen,” Raven said, voice low but carrying. “Stolen from the arms of your mothers, stolen from the songs of your fathers. They cut your hair, they cut your tongues, they tried to cut the soul from your body. And yet—here you are.”
The people listened, the wind moving through the cedar branches above.
“They called it school, but it was a prison. They called it discipline, but it was abuse. They called it Christian, but it was cruelty. And the ones who did this still walk the earth. They were never judged. They were never punished.”
Raven’s eyes glowed pale in the firelight. “Do not wait for justice. There is no justice, only just us. Us who remember. Us who speak. Us who carry the names of those who never came home. We are the courts. We are the jury. We are the sentence. We are the song.”
The elders nodded. The young ones wept. Raven spread his wings, black against the stars.
“You survive because your ancestors whispered in your blood. They said: Hold on. One day the truth will be told. And today, we tell it. You are not broken. You are the fire. You are still here.”
And with that, Raven’s cry split the night, echoing across the land like the voice of every child who had ever been silenced.