In ìbàdàn, they did not bury the dead. They forged them, along with their ancestors.

  Tóyìn stood before the massive blast furnace of the Main Foundry. The heat was a physical wall, searing the air, curling the edges of the heavy mourning veils worn by the court. Inside the furnace, the body of King Olúfé Balógun was returning to ash and carbon, his spirit theoretically ascending to join the Iron Ancestors.

  Tóyìn felt nothing but the sweat trickling down her spine.

  "The fire takes him," chanted the High Priest of Ogun, scattering iron filings into the flames. The fire roared, turning from orange to a blinding white. "The iron keeps him."

  "And the vultures circle him," Tóyìn whispered to herself.

  She glanced to her left. The Council of Chiefs stood in a semi-circle. They wore their ceremonial robes of rust-colored velvet, heavy with beads. Their eyes were dry. They were not looking at the fire; they were looking at her.

  Specifically, Chief Adebayo was looking at her. He was a thin man with a smile that looked like a crack in a dry riverbed. He had been Balogun’s "advisor." He was already mentally measuring the drapes in the High Chief’s office.

  The ceremony ended. The ashes would be mixed with molten steel to forge a ceremonial shield—the final resting place of a warrior who had died in his bed, coughing up blood.

  Tóyìn turned. Her movements were slow, deliberate. She was a large woman, built like the foundation of a fortress. Her bond, the Mammoth, gave her a solidity that made the ground seem to stabilize beneath her feet.

  "My Lords," she said. Her voice was low, resonant. "The House of Iron thanks you for your prayers. Now, leave me."

  "Leave you, My Lady?" Chief Adebayo stepped forward. "The House is headless. There are... administrative matters. The succession—"

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  "The House has a head," Tóyìn cut him off. She didn't shout. She didn't need to. "I am the Regent until my son comes of age. And since Tunde is currently running wild in the North with that zealot Sani, I am the House."

  Adebayo smiled, condescendingly. "A woman cannot hold the Iron Gavel, Tóyìn. Tradition demands—"

  Tóyìn took a step forward. Just one.

  The air in the foundry grew heavy. The gravity seemed to double. Her Mammoth bond didn't manifest visually, she was too controlled for that but the spiritual weight of it slammed into the room. The Chiefs stumbled. Adebayo’s knees buckled slightly.

  "Tradition demands strength," Tóyìn said. "My husband is dead. If you wish to join him in the fire, continue to speak."

  Adebayo paled. He bowed, stiffly. "We await your command, Regent."

  They filed out, like rats scuttling from a light.

  Tóyìn walked to the private solar adjoining the foundry. It was cool here, the walls lined with weapons forged by her ancestors.

  She went to a small cabinet and opened it. Inside sat a simple clay cup. It was empty now.

  She picked it up. Her hand trembled, just once.

  She remembered the nights. Mixing the powder—Ilorin Nightshade, tasteless, slow-acting into his evening wine. He had been a weak man, a very great warrior but a weak man still. A man who wanted to sell the House to the Emperor. A man who would have let the Unbinding take them all because he was too afraid to fight.

  She had loved him, once. But she loved ìbàdàn more.

  "I saved us," she whispered to the empty cup. "I made the hard choice."

  A knock at the door broke the silence.

  "Enter," she barked, placing the cup back and locking the cabinet.

  A messenger entered, breathless, dusty from the road. He wore the Imperial seal.

  "A message, my queen. From the Throne."

  Tóyìn took the scroll. It was cold to the touch. The paper felt dead.

  She broke the seal and read the words. The Witch of Oyo marches... Rally your banners... Bleed the earth.

  She read it twice. Then she walked to the fireplace and threw the scroll into the embers.

  "War," she said.

  "My lady?" the messenger asked, confused. "What are your orders? Do we march?"

  Tóyìn turned to the map on the wall. Oyo was to the West. The Emperor to the North. The Delta to the South. ìbàdàn was in the middle. The anvil.

  "If we march," she said, "we leave the city undefended. The Emperor wants us to grind ourselves against Oyo so he can pick the bones."

  She looked at the messenger.

  "Send word to the garrisons. Close the gates. Recall the patrols. No iron leaves the city. No soldiers march."

  "But... the Emperor's command..."

  "Let the Emperor come and enforce it," Tóyìn said, her eyes hard as granite. "ìbàdàn stands alone."

  She was a murderer. She was a widow. And now, she was a traitor.

  But as she looked out the window at the smoke rising from her city’s chimneys, she knew one thing: She would be the wall that the world broke against.