Y?misí hated the damp.

  It was a petty grievance considering they were fugitives hunted by an empire, but as she sat on the rotting floorboards of the safehouse, watching mold climb the walls like black lace, she couldn't help but mourn her silk sheets.

  The safehouse was a loft above a pepper-soup kitchen in the Market of Whispers. The air was thick with the stinging aroma of habanero and crawfish, strong enough to mask any scent they carried. It was loud, chaotic, and filthy.

  Perfect.

  She opened her travel ledger. It was a small book bound in goat leather, the pages filled with cyphers only she could read. She dipped her quill into a portable inkwell and began to calculate.

  She tapped the quill against her lip. The cowries would buy food for a week, maybe two if the prices didn't spike due to the war rumors. But safety? Safety in Igweocha cost more than shells. It cost blood, or secrets.

  Ojie was asleep in the corner, his hand resting on the hilt of that ugly iron sword. He looked younger when he slept, the lines of grief around his eyes softening. He looked like the boy she had met at the tedious garden parties years ago, before the world broke him.

  She felt a pang in her chest, a mixture of affection and pity. He thought he could fight the storm with a sword. He didn't understand that storms didn't bleed.

  I have to be the anchor, she thought. If he wants to play hero, I have to play the banker.

  She stood up, wrapping her cloak tight. "Ebose," she whispered.

  The boy jerked awake, wincing as his bandaged shoulder hit the wall. "My Lady?"

  "Watch the door. If anyone knocks who doesn't use the code, put a bolt in their eye. Do not hesitate."

  Ebose nodded, swallowing hard. He gripped his crossbow.

  Y?misí slipped out onto the balcony and down the rickety stairs into the market.

  The Market of Whispers was a sensory assault. Stalls were piled high with dried lizards, jars of palm oil that glowed like molten amber, and baskets of kolanuts. But the real trade happened in the shadows between the stalls.

  She moved with the confidence of a woman who owned the street, even if she was currently renting. She found the stall she was looking for: a textile merchant selling indigo-dyed cloth. The patterns were intricate—Adire designs from the Yoruba interior.

  The merchant was a small man with tribal scars radiating from his mouth like whiskers. He was haggling with a customer. Y?misí waited until the customer left, then stepped forward.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She picked up a bolt of cloth, running her fingers over the wax-resist pattern. "The dye is deep," she said in flawless Yoruba. "But I prefer the patterns of the Old Court."

  The merchant paused. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "The Old Court is closed, Madam."

  "The gates are closed," Y?misí corrected, sliding a specific coin across the table, a gold piece stamped not with the Emperor’s face, but with the twin crescents of the River Guilds. "But the windows are always open for friends of the Weaver."

  The merchant’s hand swallowed the coin faster than a toad catching a fly. He glanced around. "You are far from your loom, Mistress Y?misí."

  "News travels fast."

  "Bounties travel faster. The Emperor’s hunters are offering a lordship for the Lion’s head."

  "And what is the price for a message?"

  The merchant leaned in. "Depends on the destination."

  Y?misí reached into her bodice and pulled out a sealed scroll. It was small, no bigger than her finger. The wax seal was blank.

  "West," she said. "Upriver. To the Blind Ferryman."

  The merchant’s eyes widened slightly. The Blind Ferryman was a known code for the Oyo intelligence network’s river relay.

  "That is... a dangerous current to swim in," the merchant whispered. "The West is stirring. They say the Empress is marching."

  "I know," Y?misí said. Her voice was steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "That is why the message must fly. Tonight."

  She placed another gold coin on the table. This one was heavier. It was her last reserve piece.

  "Tell them the package has arrived. Tell them the account is open."

  The merchant nodded, sweeping the scroll and the coin into his robes. "Consider it done."

  Y?misí turned and walked away, her pulse racing.

  She wasn't selling Ojie out. Not really. She told herself this as she navigated the crowded alleys. Oyo was the only power strong enough to stand against the "Thing" in Abuja. If she could secure Oyo's protection, Ojie would live. He would hate her for it, he would be a political prisoner, a pawn but he would be alive.

  Survival is not a sin, she repeated the mantra. Dead heroes save no one.

  She stopped at a food stall to buy roasted plantains called Bole, needing to justify her excursion. As she waited, she overheard two river-men talking.

  "...saw it myself. The water turned to blood near the estuary. The Python Priestess is screaming about the Unbinding."

  "Prophecy rot," the other spat. "It's the Emperor's sorcerers dumping filt."

  "No. It's the end, brother. The spirits are leaving."

  Y?misí took the plantains, wrapped in newspaper, and hurried back. The dread in the city was palpable. It wasn't just fear of war; it was a primal fear of the ground dissolving beneath their feet.

  She climbed the stairs to the safehouse. Ebose was still at his post, alert.

  Ojie was awake. He was stripping down his sword, cleaning the already spotless blade with a rag. He looked up as she entered.

  "You were gone long," he said.

  "The market is a maze," she lied smoothly, tossing him a plantain. "But I found a way to move us. There are river pirates who owe the Guild favors. If we promise them trade rights when you reclaim your House, they might ferry us North."

  Ojie bit into the plantain. "Pirates. Wonderful."

  "Better than the Emperor's Assassins," she said, sitting beside him. She watched his hands—strong, scarred, steady. She felt a sudden, fierce urge to touch him, to ground herself in his solidity.

  She reached out and placed her hand over his on the hilt of the sword.

  "We will survive this, Ojie," she said fiercely. "I promise you. No matter the cost."

  Ojie looked at her, surprised by the intensity in her voice. He turned his hand over and squeezed hers. His palm was calloused and warm.

  "I know," he said.

  Y?misí forced a smile. It felt brittle on her face.

  "Eat," she said, pulling her hand away. "Tomorrow, we buy a boat."