Then she raised her other hand, and pressed a massive, rocky finger to my forehead.

Grief, as wide and troubled as the Obasi Ocean, filled every crease of my brain. I cried out, eyes streaming with the tears of peasants. Paupers who descended into the mine before sunrise and emerged with the moon, raking a pittance wage to fill the bellies of infants they rarely saw. I knew the agony of child workers, trapped beneath the collapsed walls of shafts, clumsily erected for the rising profit demands of bluebloods. I groaned through the discontent of scar-handed blacksmiths, fleeced into buying iron of paltry quality, while nobles whisked the best specimens far away to the Imperial Armory.

But the sharpest, most lasting pain was that of the mountain itself. Olojari teemed with generations of tragic memories, stories that had seeped down, down, into the rock, weakening the spirit who lived there. Malaki remembered a time long ago, before Raybearers, before emperors or kings of any kind, when the people ruled themselves, and took little more than what they needed. A time when the stories that trickled down into Malaki’s bones were made of music—the laughter of souls well fed, the beat of picks on stone, bodies lean from strength, not hunger.

Then Malaki lifted her finger. I gasped with relief as the memories subsided, then coughed as Malaki’s smoke filled my lungs. She held me, quiet for now, with an expression on her face like understanding and mild contempt.

“What does she want?” Dayo asked me in a whisper, still gripping the alagbato’s fingers for dear life.

I almost replied that I didn’t know—and then I realized that wasn’t true. The day’s events came together, piece by piece, in my mind, which had always excelled at puzzles. The tapestries surrounding the suite common room. The elegant noble villas and the ramshackle village. The peasants swaying before the mountain, filthy hands lifted in prayer.

“She wants me to fix it,” I said slowly. “And so I will.” I pressed my hand into Malaki’s giant fingers, sending visions of a hopeful future—of a mountain filled with music. “You won’t have to feel those stories anymore,” I told her. “I promise, Malaki. But if you destroy the mountain now, it will only cause more pain. More—bad stories. So give me time.” I sent her visions of many sunsets, and of moons charting their course across the sky. “More—time.”

Malaki eyed me warily, her grip tightening around me ever so slightly. But right when I thought she would crush us to dust—she heaved a great, ashy sigh.

“LAST CHANCE,” she bellowed, and plunged forward, tossing us back at the foot of the mountain. Dayo and I tumbled to the ground, wheezing and scraping our limbs on the gravel before scrambling to our feet. Then, in a burst of lurid, searing sparks . . . the ancient creature vanished. Malaki disappeared back into the mountain, taking every drop of lava with her.

For now.

Our Guard warrior escort immediately surrounded us, clucking and inspecting us for wounds. They formed a barrier between us and the awestruck peasants, trying to herd us away from the mountain. But I broke their ranks, returning instead to the tall arched entrance of the Holy Olojari Forge. Malaki’s grief had shaken the temple, sending bits of rock, iron, and coal skittering across the clearing. I considered the entrance arch, then snatched a broken lump of coal from the ground.