The wind in Kano carried the red dust of the deep desert, polishing the white mud walls of the city until they gleamed like bone.

  Sani stood at attention in the Courtyard of the Sun. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders, but she did not sweat. A daughter of the desert did not waste water.

  Before her, on a dais shaded by indigo silk, sat Sarkin Muhammadu.

  He was a man carved from the land itself—gaunt, hard, enduring. He wore the high turban of his station, covering everything but his eyes. Those eyes were black chips of flint, unreadable and ancient.

  Beside him sat the council of Emirs, men in heavy robes who muttered and shifted in the heat.

  "The message," the Sarkin rasped. His voice was dry, like sand sliding over stone.

  A scribe stepped forward, unrolling a scroll stamped with the red wax of Abuja. He read with a trembling voice.

  "To the Lords of the North. The Witch of Oyo marches. She brings foreign gods to enslave the faithful. The Empire calls for its shield. Rally your banners. March south. Bleed the earth to save it."

  Silence followed the reading. The wind hissed through the courtyard.

  "The Emperor commands," one of the Emirs muttered. "We must obey. If we do not march, the Legions will turn on us."

  "The Legions are hollow," Sani said.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The Emir glared at her. "You speak out of turn, Captain."

  "I speak the truth," Sani said, keeping her eyes on the Sarkin. "I have ridden the border. The Imperial patrols are erratic. Their movements make no sense. And the villages... the villages are being emptied not by war, but by something else. People disappear in the night. There are no bodies."

  The Sarkin looked at her. "You suggest the Throne is compromised."

  "I suggest the Throne is rotting," Sani replied. "If we march south to fight Oyo, we leave the North undefended. And we bleed our strength for an Emperor who does not look us in the eye."

  The Sarkin stood. He walked down the steps of the dais. He stopped in front of Sani. He was tall, looming over her.

  "The Witch of Oyo is a threat," the Sarkin said. "She is a godless expansionist. If she takes the Delta, she controls the trade. She controls the lifeblood."

  "Then we fight her," Sani said. "But we fight for Kano. Not for Abuja."

  The Sarkin smiled beneath his veil. It was not a kind smile.

  "We will march," he announced, turning to the council. "But we will not run. The desert teaches patience. The Emperor wants us to grind ourselves against Oyo’s pikes? Very well. We will move south. We will secure the border. We will watch."

  He looked back at Sani.

  "Captain Sani. Take your squadron. Ride as the vanguard."

  "To engage the Oyo forces?" Sani asked.

  "No," the Sarkin said softly. "To find the spark."

  "Spark?"

  "The spirits whisper of a Lion in the Delta," the Sarkin said. "A ghost returned from the dead. If the prophecies are true... then the Emperor is not the only king on the board."

  Sani felt a chill. The Golden Lion. The story every soldier knew.

  "You want me to find him?"

  "I want you to weigh him," the Sarkin said. "If he is strong, he is an ally against the Witch and the Rot. If he is weak..." The Sarkin shrugged. "Then he is just another casualty."

  He handed her a scroll case—black leather, silver seal.

  "Go to Igwe?cha. Find Ojie Osawe. And tell him the Dust Crown is watching."

  Sani took the case. She bowed, fist to chest.

  "By the sun and the sand," she swore.

  "Go," the Sarkin commanded. "And Sani?"

  She paused.

  "Do not let your honor get you killed. We are in the time of wolves."