Death sat on the chest of the Lord of ìbàdàn.

  It was a heavy, patient thing. Tóyìn could feel its weight in the room, pressing against the stone walls, dimming the oil lamps that burned with scented kola nut oil.

  She stood at the bedside. Her husband, Olúfé Balógun, lay beneath sheets of crimson silk. The man who had ridden war mammoths through the gates of Kano, who had broken the sieges of the western border, was now a husk. His breath rattled in his throat like dry leaves.

  "Tóyìn," he whispered.

  She leaned close. Her own bond, the War Mammoth spirit woven into her blood, rumbled deep in her chest, a low frequency vibration that usually heralded a charge. Now, it was a mournful sound.

  "I am here," she said.

  His eyes opened. They were clouded, the irises milky with the blindness that comes before the end. "Hold the hills," he rasped. "Do not... let them break."

  "I will hold them," she promised.

  He closed his eyes. His hand, scarred from a thousand sparring matches, went limp in hers. He did not die then, the physicians said he had hours, perhaps a day; but he left the room. What remained was only meat and waiting.

  Tóyìn straightened. She smoothed the front of her gown, feeling the cold weight of the iron necklace at her throat. She allowed herself one breath of grief. Then she locked it away in the iron vault of her heart.

  She turned to the heavy mahogany doors. "Let them in."

  Her children entered. The heirs of the Iron Hills. The cracks in her house made flesh.

  Ade came first. Her eldest. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the heavy formal robes of a courtier rather than a warrior’s leather. He bowed to the bed, then to her.

  "Mother," he said. "The Emperor’s summons arrived within the hour. Abuja expects a representative."

  "Your father is not yet cold," Tóyìn said.

  "The Empire does not stop for grief," Ade replied. He believed in the structure. He believed that if he followed the protocols, the world would make sense. He was a fool.

  Dami entered next. He did not bow. He drifted, his movements loose and disjointed. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, fixed on things no one else could see. He was Stage Five, bordering on the madness of Six. The spirit realm was more real to him than the stone floor beneath his feet.

  "The hyenas are laughing," Dami murmured, glancing at the ceiling. "They know he’s leaving. They want the meat."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Quiet, Dami," Tóyìn said.

  Tunde pushed past Dami. Her youngest son wore the dust of the road. He smelled of horse sweat and rebellion. He glared at Ade.

  "We should be closing the gates," Tunde spat. "Not bowing to Abuja. The North is mobilizing. House Sarkin asks for our iron. If we march with them—"

  "We become traitors," Ade cut in. "We burn with them."

  "We burn anyway!" Tunde shouted.

  "Enough." Tóyìn’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a falling hammer. Silence snapped into place.

  Finally, Bola entered. Her daughter. Eighteen years old, with eyes too old for her face. She stayed by the door, as if ready to run. She looked at her dying father with a mixture of sorrow and terrifying calculation.

  They stood in a rough circle; imperialist, mystic, rebel, and fugitive. A family held together by the dying breath of one man.

  The doors opened again.

  ìyábò, Tóyìn’s shadow, slipped into the room. She was small, unassuming, dressed in the grey of a servant. Only Tóyìn knew that ìyábò carried enough poison in her rings to kill everyone in the room.

  She held a scroll case sealed with bronze wax.

  "My lady," ìyábò said softly. "From Edo."

  The room temperature seemed to drop. Edo. House Oba. The Bronze Throne.

  Tóyìn took the scroll. She broke the seal. The wax crumbled like dried blood. She read the formal, proverb-laden script of the Oba court.

  The Leopard greets the Mammoth. In times of transition, strength seeks strength. To bind our hills and our forests, Lord Ewuare proposes a union.

  She looked up. Her children were watching her.

  "Lord Ewuare offers condolences," Tóyìn said. "And he proposes a marriage."

  She looked at Bola.

  "His heir, Osaze, asks for your hand."

  Bola went the color of ash. "The Cold Heir?"

  "It is a great honor," Ade said, though he looked uneasy. "Osaze will be Oba. You would be Queen of the Empire."

  "He is a monster," Tunde snarled. "He flays his enemies. He hunts people for sport. You cannot give her to him, Mother. It is a death sentence."

  "It is an alliance," Ade insisted. "With House Oba and House Olúfé united, no one can challenge us. Not the North. Not the Cults. We would be safe."

  "Safe?" Dami giggled. It was a wet, ugly sound. "Osaze has no soul. I’ve seen him in the spirit world. He is a hole in the air. He will eat her light."

  Bola took a step forward. Her hands were clenched into fists. "Mother. Please."

  Tóyìn looked at her daughter. She saw the terror there. She also saw the truth of her position.

  House Olúfé was strong in iron and beasts, but they were surrounded. To the north, the Sarkin’s fanatics. To the south, the unstable Delta. In the center, the rotting Emperor. House Oba offered the only shield strong enough to hold back the storm.

  But the price was her daughter.

  "The mourning period begins tonight," Tóyìn said. Her voice was flat, betraying nothing. "Tradition demands four weeks of silence. We cannot discuss marriage while the pyres are unlit."

  "Mother—" Bola began.

  "We have four weeks," Tóyìn said, meeting her daughter's eyes. "A great deal can happen in four weeks."

  She turned back to the bed. She placed her hand on her husband’s chest. The heart was still beating, but slowly. So slowly.

  "Leave me," she commanded.

  Her children filed out. Ade, planning his trip to Abuja. Tunde, planning his treason with the North. Dami, returning to his spirits. Bola, planning her escape.

  Tóyìn stood alone in the silence.

  She felt the mammoth stir within her; a vast, grey presence, ancient and unyielding. It remembered the time before empires. It remembered when survival meant crushing the wolves before they could bite.

  She would not give her daughter to the Cold Heir.

  But she could not refuse the Oba. Not yet.

  She needed a third path. She needed a weapon.

  She looked at the scroll in her hand, then crushed it.