The Lord of the Iron Hills died as the forges of ìbàdàn struck midnight.

  T??yìn felt the moment happen. It was not a spiritual ripple, for she was not bonded to the spirits of the dead, but a physical shifting of weight in the room. The air grew still. The rhythmic clang-hiss of the city’s foundries, usually a comfort that vibrated through the stone floor, seemed to hold its breath.

  She sat in the high-backed iron chair beside the bed. The oil lamps had burned low, scenting the air with camphor and burnt wick, failing to mask the smell of sickness.

  Olúf?? Balógun opened his eyes.

  For three days, he had been drifting in the grey fog of poppy milk and organ failure. Now, the fog cleared. His eyes, once the color of polished brown, were dull, but the man behind them was present. He looked at the ceiling, then at the heavy iron sword mounted on the wall, and finally at her.

  "T??yìn," he rasped.

  She leaned forward, taking his hand. It was cold, the calluses that had once defined his strength now feeling like dry parchment over bone.

  "I am here," she said.

  "The hills," he whispered. It was a struggle for air. "Are they... holding?"

  "The hills hold," T??yìn lied. "The walls are manned. The mammoths are fed."

  He squeezed her hand. A faint, trembling pressure. "You were... the steel," he said. "I was just the hammer. You were... the edge."

  T??yìn felt a crack form in the iron vault of her heart. He was not speaking of war. He was speaking of twenty years ago, when she had arrived from Ilorin, a diplomat’s daughter traded to a warrior’s house. He was speaking of the partnership they had forged in silence while the empire crumbled around them.

  "Rest now," she said, her voice steady. "I will keep the edge sharp."

  "Do not..." His gaze drifted, losing focus. "Do not let them... break us."

  The breath rattled in his throat, a long, dry exhalation that did not find an inhale to follow. The squeeze on her hand went slack.

  T??yìn sat in the silence. She counted to ten. She allowed herself to feel the temperature of the room drop. She allowed herself to remember the way he laughed, a sound like rocks tumbling in a canyon.

  Then she stood up. She closed his eyes. She took the heavy iron signet ring from his finger and placed it on her own thumb. It was too loose; she closed her fist to keep it in place.

  She walked to the door and opened it. ìyáb?? was there, a shadow in the corridor.

  "He is gone," T??yìn said. "Inform the priests. Stop the forges for one hour. No more."

  ìyáb?? bowed low. "And the children?"

  "Send them to the Great Hall," T??yìn said. "We have work to do."

  The Great Hall of House Olúf?? was a cavern of stone and smoke-stained timber. The skulls of ancestral war mammoths hung from the rafters, their ivory tusks scrimshawed with the history of battles won.

  T??yìn stood before the empty throne. She did not sit in it. Not yet.

  Her children entered. The fracture she had feared was no longer a hairline crack; it was a chasm opening beneath their feet.

  Ade entered first, dressed in travel leathers. Her eldest. He looked at her face, then at the ring on her hand, and bowed his head.

  "The Emperor's summons cannot be ignored, Mother," Ade said, his voice tight. "Even now. Especially now. If I do not ride for Abuja before dawn, House Olúf?? looks weak. It looks like we are hiding."

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  "You ride to a tomb," Tunde spat. Her youngest son paced the room like a caged wolf. He wore the dust-colored cloak of the northern rangers. "The Emperor is a corpse on a throne. The power is with the Sarkin. If we send our strength to Abuja, we die with them."

  "And if we join the traitors in Kano, we are executed," Ade countered.

  "Stop it," Bola whispered.

  They ignored her.

  "We are warriors," Tunde shouted. "We should be fighting, not bowing! The North offers an alliance of equals. The South offers chains."

  "Silence."

  T??yìn’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of the Mammoth bond, a low-frequency rumble that vibrated in the chest.

  "Your father is dead," she said. "His pyre is not yet built, and you squabble like jackals over a carcass."

  She looked at Dami. Her second son stood by a pillar, staring at the empty air above the throne. His pupils were dilated, swallowing the iris. He was Stage Five, dangerously close to Six, and the spirit realm bled into his vision constantly now.

  "Dami," she said.

  He blinked, turning his head slowly. "The spirits are loud tonight," he murmured. "They are... hungry. They know the big soul has left the house. They want to fill the space."

  "Focus," T??yìn commanded. "What do you see?"

  "I see roads," Dami said, tracing patterns in the air. "One goes to the red rock. One goes to the sand. One goes..." He looked at Bola. "One goes nowhere."

  Bola flinched. She stepped forward, grabbing T??yìn’s arm. She was sixteen, but tonight she looked twelve.

  "Mother, please," she begged. "Don't make me do it. Don't give me to him."

  The proposal. Osaze. The Cold Heir.

  House ?ba demanded a union. They wanted to weld the iron of ìbàdàn to the bronze of ?do. It was a perfect strategic match. It was a death sentence for her daughter.

  T??yìn looked at her children. Ade, the imperialist. Tunde, the rebel. Dami, the mystic. Bola, the victim.

  She could not keep them together. The centrifugal force of the coming war was too strong.

  "Ade," T??yìn said. "You will go to Abuja. You will represent us. But you will promise nothing. You will watch. If the Emperor is... as Tunde says... you will find a way to send word."

  Ade nodded stiffly. "I will do my duty."

  "Tunde." She turned to the youngest. "You wish to ride north? Ride. But you ride as an observer, not an ally. Tell Sarkin Muhammadu that House Olúf?? mourns. Tell him we remember who stood with us in the old wars."

  Tunde’s eyes flashed. It was not permission to rebel, but it was not a prohibition. "I will leave within the hour."

  "Dami," she said. "You stay. The wards need strengthening. The house is vulnerable."

  Dami giggled, a wet sound. "The house is already broken, Mother. The ghosts are coming in through the cracks."

  T??yìn turned to Bola. She smoothed her daughter's hair.

  "You will not marry Osaze," T??yìn said softly.

  Bola collapsed against her, sobbing. "Thank you. Thank you."

  "Not today," T??yìn corrected, her voice hardening. "Tradition is our shield. The mourning rites for a High Lord last four moons. Four weeks where no business may be conducted, no unions formed, no treaties signed. We have four weeks, Bola."

  "And then?" Bola asked, looking up, terror returning to her eyes.

  "A great deal can happen in four weeks," T??yìn said. "Kingdoms can fall. Alliances can shift."

  Or I can find a way to kill a prince without starting a war.

  The heavy doors of the Great Hall groaned open.

  ìyáb?? entered. She did not walk with her usual gliding stealth; she hurried. Her face, usually a mask of servant’s indifference, was tight with alarm.

  "My Lady," ìyáb?? said. "A rider at the gates. From ?do."

  The temperature in the hall seemed to drop ten degrees.

  "A messenger?" Ade asked. "Did they know of Father’s death before it happened?"

  "Not a messenger," ìyáb?? said. She looked at T??yìn. "It is a convoy. Royal guards. Bronze armor."

  T??yìn stepped away from Bola. She felt the Mammoth stir, a grey mountain rising in her mind. "Who leads them?"

  "Lord Osagie," ìyáb?? said. "The second son."

  Tunde laughed bitterly. "The 'Kind Prince'? Ewuare sends his puppy to bark at our gates while we grieve?"

  "He does not bark," T??yìn said. She understood the move immediately. It was brilliant. It was cruel. If Ewuare had sent Osaze, the Cold Heir, it would be a threat. ìbàdàn would bristle. But sending the smiling, beloved second son... that was a gesture of respect. Of family.

  To refuse him entry would be an insult to the ancestors. To admit him was to let the enemy inside the walls while the house was weakest.

  "He claims he comes to offer personal condolences," ìyáb?? added. "He says his father felt a great disturbance in the spirits and feared the worst."

  "Lies," Dami whispered. "Ewuare feels nothing but rot."

  T??yìn looked at the ring on her thumb. The iron was cold.

  "Open the gates," T??yìn commanded.

  "Mother!" Tunde protested.

  "Open them," she repeated. "We will not show fear. We will not show weakness. We will welcome the Kind Prince."

  She turned to Bola. "Dry your eyes. Put on your mourning whites. You are a daughter of the Iron Hills. Do not let him see you tremble."

  She looked at Ade and Tunde. "Go. Ride now, out the postern gates. Do not let the ?ba prince see you leave. If he asks, you are grieving in seclusion."

  Her sons hesitated, then bowed. One by one, they left the hall.

  T??yìn stood alone in the center of the room as the great doors opened to the night. She adjusted her stole. She pushed her grief down into the dark place where she kept her fears.

  The problems had begun. Now she had to ensure the house did not shatter.