The jungle between the Oyo border and the Delta was a place where light went to die. The canopy was woven so tight that the sun was merely a rumor, a greenish gloom that smelled of wet rot and orchids, filled with palm trees and iroko trees that stood taller than most people have seen their lives.

  Nana Yàmú did not walk through the undergrowth as normal people from there would, she flowed through it as though she was a native.

  She was an Ahosi—a King’s Wife, though her only spouse was the blade strapped to her back. Her head was shaved clean, the dark skin of her scalp gleaming with sweat and the ritual scars of her induction. She wore the sleeveless tunic and cropped trousers of the Dahomey vanguard, her feet bare to feel the vibrations of the earth.

  She stopped.

  Her bond, the Panther, pricked its ears in her mind. It was a Stage Five bond—Orin, The Song. She did not just see the jungle; she felt the pulse of every living thing within a hundred paces.

  There.

  Ahead, in a clearing dominated by a fallen mahogany tree, men were camped.

  Nana shifted her weight, melting into the shadows of a fern frond. She observed.

  There were twelve of them. They were not bandits. They wore the quilted cotton armor of the Oyo regular army, dyed a deep indigo that blended with the twilight. Their weapons were well-oiled, repeating crossbows and heavy, curved talwars.

  A scouting party, Nana thought. But they are too far south for a border patrol.

  She watched their commander. He was a man with the geometric tattoos of a tracker bond—likely a Hound or a Hyena. He was studying a map spread out on a stump.

  Nana moved closer.

  She did not use a weapon yet. She dropped from the tree branch above the sentry, her legs wrapping around his neck. One sharp twist, a crack of vertebrae, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

  She landed in a crouch, her twin short-swords drawn.

  "Dahomey!" one of the soldiers shouted, fumbling for his crossbow.

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  It was too late.

  Nana was a blur of steel and muscle. She sidestepped a spear thrust, severing the shaft and the wielder’s throat in one motion. She ducked under a sword swing, driving her blade up into the armpit of the attacker.

  It was not a fight. It was a harvest.

  Within seconds, six men were down. The others faltered, their discipline breaking against the terrifying reality of an Ahosi in close quarters.

  "Hold!" the commander roared. He drew a unique crossbow—a heavy, brass-barreled thing imported from the white men across the sea.

  Nana stopped. She stood amidst the bodies, breathing evenly, blood dripping from her blades. Her eyes, reflective and yellow in the gloom, locked onto the commander.

  "You are far from home, Oyo-man," she said. Her voice was low, accented with the Fon lilt of the west.

  "And you are trespassing on Imperial soil," the commander spat, aiming the bow at her chest.

  Nana smiled. It was not a nice smile. "The Empire is a carcass. The vultures go where they please."

  She flicked her wrist. A throwing knife, concealed in her palm, flew.

  It took the commander in the shoulder. He screamed, dropping the crossbow.

  Nana closed the distance. She kicked his legs out from under him and pressed the tip of her sword to his throat.

  "Talk," she commanded. "Twelve men with imperial-grade steel in the deep bush. You are not hunting deer."

  The commander gritted his teeth. "Go to hell, woman."

  Nana pressed the blade. A bead of blood welled up. "I have sent many men there. They are waiting for you. Tell me what I want to know, and I will make it quick. Refuse, and I will give you to the ants."

  The commander looked at her eyes. He saw no mercy there. Only professional curiosity.

  "We... we are vanguards," he gasped. "For General Ogundipe."

  Nana kept her face impassive, but her mind raced. Ogundipe was the Hammer of Oyo. If he was moving, it was an invasion.

  "The General marches on the Delta?" Nana asked.

  "He marches for the prize," the commander wheezed. "The Empress... she wants the bloodline."

  "Which bloodline?"

  "The Lion," the man whispered. "The runaway slave and the cub. We have their scent. They are in Igwe?cha."

  Nana felt a cold thrill. The Lion. The rumors were true. House Osa was not dead.

  And Empress Oyin wanted them.

  She knew Oyin. The Empress did not mobilize an army for a runaway slave unless that slave held the keys to a kingdom.

  "Igwe?cha," Nana repeated. "Thank you."

  She drew the blade across his throat. It was quick, as promised.

  She wiped her swords on his tunic and sheathed them. She picked up the map from the stump. It was detailed, marking the secret waterways and smuggling routes of the Delta.

  Nana looked east, toward the rising smoke of the distant city.

  Dahomey needed to know this. But if she returned to Abomey now, the Oyo army would reach the Lion first. And if Oyo captured a claimant to the Osa throne, the balance of power would shatter.

  Dahomey did not want an Oyo Empire that spanned the continent. Dahomey wanted chaos.

  "The enemy of my enemy," Nana whispered.

  She turned her back on the west. She began to run, her panther spirit lending speed to her legs, racing the coming storm to the city of black water.