Abuja was a place that merely existed in a state of suspended gray.

  The Imperial Palace, a monolith of black stone and ore that scraped the belly of the sky, was silent. There were no guards at the doors. No servants in the halls. The air here was sterile, cold, and smelled faintly of ozone and burning copper.

  In the center of the vast Throne Room sat the Red Throne. It was carved from a single piece of blood-quartz, ancient and jagged.

  And upon it sat a man who was not a man.

  To the casual observer, he was Emperor jaga, the unifier of the Niger, the father of the nation. He wore the heavy, embroidered robes of state, green and white silk stiff with gold thread. His face was unlined, handsome, regal.

  But his eyes were wrong.

  They were not white and brown. They were holes in the world. Voids that spiraled inward, swallowing the light of the glow-stones that lined the walls.

  The Thing that wore the Emperor’s skin tapped a finger against the armrest of the throne. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed too loudly, as if the room itself were a hollow drum.

  "It wakes," the Thing whispered. Its voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over pavement.

  It could feel the pulse in the South. A tiny, irritating heartbeat in the spiritual static of the world. The Lion. The Golden Echo. It was weak, sputtering like a candle in a gale, but it was there.

  And closer, to the West, a different fire burned. The Obsidian Eagle. The woman who called herself Empress. She was marching. She was bringing order.

  The Thing despised order.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Order was a cage. Order was the Binding that held the stars in place and kept the Void from drinking the world dry. The Thing wanted the cage broken. It wanted the Unbinding.

  It stood up. The movement was fluid, too smooth, lacking the friction of bones and joints.

  It walked to the massive balcony overlooking the capital. Abuja was a grid of lights, but the lights were flickering. In the streets below, reality was thinning. A building on the horizon shimmered and vanished for a second, then reappeared. A flock of birds flew into a cloud and simply ceased to exist.

  Good, the Thing thought. The seams are tearing.

  But the Lion could stitch them back together. The Lion was a Binder, a prophesy.

  The Thing returned to the desk of polished obsidian. It picked up a quill. It did not need ink; the quill drew darkness from the air itself.

  It began to write.

  To the High Chiefs and kings of the Seven Houses,

  The borders bleed. The Witch of Oyo marches East, seeking to enslave the Free kingdoms. She brings foreign gods and chains. The Empire calls for its sons and daughters. Rally your banners. Bleed the earth to save it.

  Signed, Emperor jaga.

  It smiled. A rictus grin that stretched the skin too tight.

  War.

  War was the fastest way to break the Binding. Fear, pain, death, these were the solvents that dissolved the glue of reality. If the Houses fought the empire of Oyo, the bloodshed would be catastrophic. The Unbinding would accelerate. The world would unravel by the next moon.

  But first, the glitch must be removed.

  The Thing waved its hand. The shadows in the corner of the room lengthened. They detached themselves from the walls, pooling on the floor like black oil.

  Three forms rose from the oil.

  They were humanoid, but featureless. Their skin was the color of a bruise. They wore no clothes, only masks of smooth, white porcelain. No eyes. No mouths. Just smooth, blank surfaces.

  "The Void Walkers," the Thing murmured.

  It projected an image into their minds. A face. Young, scarred, with eyes that held the memory of gold.

  Ojie of House Osa.

  "He is in the Delta," the Thing commanded. "In the city of stilts. He carries a spark that offends me. Snuff it out."

  The three figures bowed in perfect unison. They did not speak. They did not breathe. They turned and dissolved into mist, slipping through the cracks in the floor, moving South faster than any horse or bird.

  The Thing sat back on the Red Throne. It closed its void-eyes and listened to the song of the land dying. It was a beautiful song.

  "Come, Little Lion," it whispered to the empty room. "Let us see if you can roar in a vacuum."