Dawn broke over the desert’s edge like a bruise, purple turning to a harsh, blinding white. The heat came instantly, rising from the sand to meet the sun.

  Sani drove her squadron through the dust. They were forty riders on fast, lean horses, wheeling in formation across the scrubland.

  "Tighten the flank!" she shouted. Her voice was already rough with dust. "If you leave a gap, you are dead. If you hesitate, you are dead."

  She did not need to turn her head to know that the rider on her left, a boy named Dauda, was lagging. Her bond, the Desert Fox, was awake in her blood. It did not roar like a lion or crush like a mammoth; it listened. It gave her the ears of the predator. She could hear the distinct, ragged rhythm of Dauda’s breathing over the thunder of hooves. She could sense the spike of his exhaustion and the sour smell of his fear.

  She nudged her horse, a bay mare bred for the long treks of the trade routes, and fell back until she was beside him.

  "Focus, Dauda," she said, low enough that only he could hear. "The sand does not forgive."

  He nodded, face pale beneath the layers of indigo cloth, and spurred his mount forward.

  Sani watched them for another hour, pushing them until the horses were lathered and the riders were swaying in their saddles. Only then did she signal the halt.

  "Water and shade," she commanded. "Check the hooves. If your mount goes lame, you walk."

  She dismounted with a fluidity that belied her own fatigue. She was mid-twenties, her skin the color of polished mahogany, marked on arms and thighs with the intricate geometric tattoos of House Sarkin. The ink was dark against her skin, the lines sharp—evidence of a Stage Four bond, the Call.

  She walked to the edge of the encampment, where the land began to dip toward the greener, softer earth of the south. Her fox spirit shimmered into visibility at her side—a translucent overlay of russet fur and oversized ears, panting in the heat. It looked south, ears swiveling.

  "Captain."

  Sani turned. K?lá stood behind her, holding a waterskin. He was a man carved from the desert itself—weathered, scarred, with a permanent squint from staring into the sun. He was common-born, unbonded, and the best soldier she had ever known.

  "You push them hard," K?lá said, offering the skin.

  "The world pushes harder," Sani replied. She drank, the water warm and tasting of leather. "Report."

  "Riders from Kano arrived while we were drilling. New orders from the Sarkin."

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  K?lá handed her a scroll case. It was wrapped in white leather and sealed with indigo wax—the colors of House Sarkin.

  Sani broke the seal. The script was sparse, economical. Lord Muhammadu wasted neither ink nor words.

  The South fractures. The Emperor in Abuja is deaf to the righteous. The Coalition moves.

  Sani felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. The rumors were true. Sarkin Muhammadu was mobilizing the north. He intended to march on the capital, or perhaps cut the empire in half.

  She read on.

  Your squadron is to secure the southern flank. The villages of the borderlands have grown fat on illicit trade with the south. They harbor spies and deny the true faith. Pacify them. Deny the enemy their resources. Begin with Omota.

  Sani rolled the parchment slowly. Pacify. It was a clean word for a dirty thing.

  She looked at her hands. They were calloused, capable, dangerous. They were the hands of a woman who had invoked the Husband’s Path—the ancient law that allowed a daughter to renounce marriage, children, and the domestic sphere to take up the sword. She had walked away from her family, from the soft life of a minor noble’s daughter, because she believed in honor. She believed in the clarity of the desert, where survival was earned and water was shared.

  She had sworn to defend the realm. She had not sworn to burn farmers in their beds.

  "Bad news?" K?lá asked. He was watching her face, reading the tension in her jaw.

  "We move south," Sani said. "To Omota."

  K?lá spat into the dust. "Farmers. Goat-herders. They trade grain to the Ilorin merchants because the Kano caravans don't pay enough."

  "The Sarkin calls it treason," Sani said.

  "The Sarkin calls everything treason that doesn't fill his treasury or bow to his God," K?lá muttered. He glanced at the other soldiers, who were resting in the shade of the few acacia trees. "The men won't like it. They signed up to fight warriors, not burn granaries."

  "They will do as they are ordered," Sani said automatically.

  But the words tasted like ash.

  She walked away from the camp, finding a solitary ridge. The fox padded after her, its spirit-form kicking up no dust. It sat on its haunches, watching her with intelligent, golden eyes.

  Survival demands becoming monstrous. The old adage of the war academies whispered in her mind.

  If she refused the order, she would be stripped of her rank. Her squadron would be given to a commander who would not hesitate. The village would burn anyway, and she would be nothing—a woman without a house, without a family, without a purpose.

  But if she obeyed...

  She looked at the tattoos on her arms. They were a mark of favor, of potential. Stage Four meant she could call the spirit into the world, use its senses, borrow its speed. It was a gift. Was she to use it to hunt children?

  The fox chuffed softly. It nudged her hand with a cold, wet nose that wasn't quite there.

  Sani looked at the landscape below. The terrain was broken, full of ravines and dry riverbeds. Tracks in the sand. Paths that led around obstacles rather than through them.

  She traced the line of a dried wadi with her eyes. It wound past Omota, hidden from the main road.

  There were ways to interpret orders. Pacify. It could mean death. It could mean silence.

  It could mean a performance.

  She did not know if she could pull it off. She did not know if her soldiers would hold their tongues. She did not know if Lord Muhammadu, who saw everything, would see through her.

  But she knew she could not ride into Omota and slaughter people whose only crime was hunger.

  Sani turned back toward the camp. K?lá was waiting, watching her.

  "Prepare the squadron," Sani said. "We ride in the hour."

  "To war?" K?lá asked.

  Sani touched the hilt of her sword. "To something else."

  The first village was three days' ride. Sani had three days to decide what kind of soldier she is.