Chapter 22
The gong began at dusk. Its first note rolled across the palace like thunder, and it did not stop. The bronze vibrated with each successive strike, the sound building into a continuous roar that buried all other noise beneath it.
The alarm for invasion. The call that had not been sounded in three generations.
Nkiru's heart seized in her chest. She dropped the washing she had been folding and ran, heedless of the rain.
The shrine courtyard was dark when she reached it, the last light of the dying sun painting the stones blood red. The gong continued its relentless toll, shaking the very air, and still Nkiru ran, her sandals slapping against the wet path, her skin freezing from the relentless rain.
"Akwaugo! Akwaugo, the gong—"
She burst through the archway and stopped.
Azul stood in the centre of the main hall, before the weathered pillar that held the inscriptions to Ukhel. Her back was to the door, her head tilted up toward the carved words she could not possibly read in this darkness. One hand pressed flat against the stone. The other against the floor.
She was laughing.
It was not loud or aggressive; it was a soft laugh coming from somewhere deep in her chest, spilling out despite her best efforts to contain it. Her shoulders shook with it. Her head fell forward, forehead pressing against the pillar; it scared Nkiru more than she could admit.
"Akwaugo?" she called out.
Lightning split the sky beyond the open walls, and in that instant, Azul turned.
Her eyes caught the flash, becoming a blaze of gold in the darkness, luminous and inhuman, the eyes of death. Her lips were set in a smile that stretched too wide.
"Nkiru." Her voice was warm. "Come here."
Nkiru's feet moved before her mind could object.
Azul reached out and caressed her face with one hand.
"Listen," she said.
Nkiru listened.
The gong still rang in the background.
"The army on our border," Azul said, "is not the enemy."
Nkiru blinked. "Akwaugo?"
"The enemy is in here." Azul's thumb traced her cheekbone, feather-light. "Has been all along. And now they've shown their hand."
Lightning flashed again. In its light, Azul's smile was enchanting. "I wonder who will fall first, the walls or the royal family."
"Akwaugo?" Nkiru whispered. "What are you praying for?"
Azul's eyes met hers. For a moment, something flickered in their depths.
The council chamber had transformed in the space of an hour.
Where before they had been ordered by rank and faction, now there was chaos—nobles shouting over each other, generals pointing at maps. The Igwe sat on his throne, chin on his knuckles, watching the storm explode in his court.
The Iyom’s father had been dragged away and imprisoned, his sentence pending, while the Iyom was sent back, as a war council was no place for women.
At the centre of the chaos stood a map table, wheeled in for the shift, and at its head stood General Ekwueme, his finger tracing a line along the northern border.
"They're here." His voice cut through the noise, and gradually the chamber fell silent.
"Ten thousand, maybe more. Camped just beyond the pass, close enough to strike within two days. Flying the banner of Orda Naiman."
A ripple of fear passed through the room.
Orda Naiman. The warlord who had swallowed three tribes in as many years. The man whose reputation preceded him like the plague. If his army was at the border, then they were all marked for death.
"How did they get so close without being seen?" someone demanded.
General Ekwueme's jaw tightened. “I heard nothing from our scouts; they couldn’t have possibly come by land.”
The Elder of Justice frowned. “What are you saying? That they came by river?”
The room simmered with anxiety. Only shattering when General Ekwueme nodded in confirmation.
The debate erupted again.
Some called for war—muster every able-bodied man, meet Naiman on the field, and drive him back. Others argued for defence—fortify the city, wait him out, and hope the approaching wet season would force him to retreat. A few, in whispers too low for the Igwe to hear, suggested negotiation.
General Ekwueme slammed his fist on the table. "We cannot fight ten thousand with what we have. Half our forces are spread across our tributaries. It would take weeks to gather them—weeks we don't have."
“Then what do you suggest we do!? The fact that they could come by the Udamili means the goddess is not on our side!”
“Do not assume such!” The Igwe’s voice boomed, silencing his men. Everyone turned to look up at him. “We must ask the Oracle.”
The room fell silent at the Igwe's words.
Ask the Oracle.
The Elder of Justice stepped forward, his expression troubled. "Your Majesty—the Oracle's declaration may cause unrest. Is this the time for spiritual frivolity?"
"Then we manage the unrest." The Igwe's voice was flat. "But I will not ride to war against ten thousand men without knowing what the Udamili intends. The river brought them here. The river may tell us why."
No one could argue with that. The Udamili river was their lifeblood, their provider. If she had turned against them—if she had opened her waters to an invading army—they needed to know.
The young girl hummed a soft and wandering melody. Her slender fingers moved a piece across the board—a game of Ukhel Dain, the game of gods.
The Igwe entered her quarters alone.
The room was modest by palace standards—a bed draped in simple linens, a writing desk cluttered with half-finished drawings, and shelves stacked with scrolls and trinkets in equal measure. The girl did not look up from her game.
She was nineteen, perhaps twenty—with deep skin and pale hair braided down with beads. Her eyes, when they occasionally lifted to consider the board, were gold.
Obiageli. Second Princess of the Borjigin.
"Father." Her voice was soft, unsurprised. "You've come."
The Igwe crossed the room slowly, his boots silent on the thick rugs. He stopped before her small table and looked down at the game spread between them.
The pieces were arranged in a pattern he did not recognise—not one of the classic openings, not any variation he had learned in his youth. They seemed almost random, scattered across the board like stars across the sky, and yet something about their placement made his skin prickle.
"You knew I would come," he said.
Obiageli moved another piece—a small pawn, advancing three spaces into what should have been certain capture. "The river told me you would."
The Igwe's heart stuttered.
He looked at his daughter—his hidden daughter, his secret, the child he had kept from the world because she was too precious to be exposed to the vipers of his court. He had told himself it was to protect her.
But looking at her now, at the malice in her eyes, he wondered if he had been protecting anyone at all.
The Igwe sank to his knees before her small table, bringing himself to her level.
"You came to ask about the army."
The Igwe swallowed. "Yes."
"The river brought them." Her voice was flat, factual. "As punishment. She is deeply unsettled; it seems within our people, there is a heretic."
Her father stammered. “A heretic?”
Obiageli smiled. “Yes, the Udamili is not happy; we have neglected this person and forced her to punish us.”
"Who?" The Igwe leaned forward. "Who is it?"
Obiageli's eyes met his. "I don't know. The river shows me many things, but not that. They hide their face even from the goddess."
The Igwe's hands clenched on his knees.
"But there the goddess is merciful; she has given us a way." Obiageli looked down at the board. "You will send someone to the enemy camp. To ask what they want."
"...Yes, that is our plan."
"The one you send—if Orda Naiman slaughters them and angers the river, you will win this war. The goddess will favour you. But if they return alive..." She paused. "You will lose everything. Your throne, and your entire lineage."
The Igwe stared at her. "That makes no sense. If they return alive, that means the negotiation succeeded.”
"I have not made the rules, father." Obiageli's voice was patient. "I only see them."
The Igwe's return to the council was met with expectant silence.
He stood before them, his face carved from stone, and gave the only order he could.
"We send envoys to Naiman's camp. To ask his terms and buy us time." His eyes swept the room. "Who will go?"
"The First Prince should go."
A hush passed, then whispers rose and fell like waves. The Iyom's faction—those who wished to crown her son—exchanged glances, already calculating. The Ugoeze's faction looked grim. The neutrals simply watched, waiting to see how the pieces would fall.
Borji stood near the front of the chamber; he did not turn to see who had spoken. He did not need to. He knew the voice—Enoch's.
The Igwe's eyes moved from Enoch to Borji.
"First Prince." His voice was formal, distant. "You were volunteered. Do you accept?"
Borji looked at Enoch, the two exchanging—to outsiders—a glare.
Borji turned back to his father. "I accept."
"Then we should prepare our allies, Great Khan!
" The Igwe's voice carried across the chamber, holding less respect and more vindication than any tone he had used with Ragnar before.
"I hear you have taken quite a liking to the woman we have given you.
Surely you do not plan to return her after you have defiled her. "
The room went quiet.
Ragnar looked up from his seat. He had not spoken a single word throughout the entire council and had merely sat in the guest section with his mask in place and his eyes missing nothing. But now those eyes fixed on the Igwe with an intensity that made nearby nobles shift uncomfortably.
"Defiled," Ragnar repeated. The word emerged void of emotion, making it infinitely more terrifying.