There were four of them, entering through the craftwork sector's public entrance at the hour when Rotimi's senior smiths had gone to the midday meal. The sector was down to two apprentices and Kola.
Kola saw them first from the back of the third station. Finishing a blade gave him a direct line of sight to the entrance without turning his head. The men wore civilian cloth, which was wrong—encampment visitors wore military or administrative attire. They moved with the deliberate focus of men watching their surroundings while seeking a target. The leader asked the apprentice at the first station a question, and the apprentice pointed straight toward Kola.
He set the blade on the work surface instead of the rack, keeping his hand near the hilt.
"You," the front man said, reaching the station. He was about thirty-five, well-built, carrying the posture of someone accustomed to violence. "The Babalawo. Agba Ife. Which compound?"
"There is no Babalawo here," Kola said.
"Don't lie. The gate log lists his arrival six weeks ago. Where is he sleeping?"
"I work the forge. I don't track sleeping arrangements."
The man studied him, evaluating Kola's height, reach, and the items on the bench. His eyes stopped on the blade. "Move away from the bench," he said.
Kola stayed put.
The man stepped forward and reached for Kola's arm. It was a mistake—not because Kola possessed formal combat training, but because three years of forge work had given him iron grips and reflexes built around heavy, dangerous objects. Moreover, the forge behind the station had burned at full heat for four hours, and as the man's fingers closed on Kola's arm, the forge acted.
Heat surged off the hearth like a wall—not a blast of flame, but a wave of raw presence that struck the man in the chest. He stumbled back, his grip breaking. The two men behind him recoiled.
The fourth man, waiting at the entrance, called out, "What was that?"
"Iron," Kola said, taking the blade in his right hand. "Hot iron. It does that."
The front man regained his balance, staring at the forge with a mix of confusion and threat. Overriding his hesitation with aggression, he drew a short blade from inside his robe.
Rotimi struck him in the back of the head with a forge hammer.
The blow landed flat side first, calibrated to stun rather than kill. The man went down hard. The two middle men turned to find Rotimi blocking the exit—fifty years old, built like his trade, holding the hammer with quiet resolve.
"Sector's closed for midday," Rotimi said. "Check the board at the gate."
The second man lunged at Rotimi, targeting his hammer arm. Rotimi dropped the tool and caught the man, both crashing sideways into the tool rack. The metal clatter echoed through the yard, guaranteed to bring workers running within seconds.
Kola moved. The third man drew a long blade and thrust directly at him. Kola sidestepped on instinct, but the tip grazed his left forearm, leaving a line that burned before the pain set in. Kola drove his right elbow into the man's jaw, feeling bone give, then pivoted behind him with the forge between them.
The forge burned with a strange, brilliant white light—a luminosity the senior smiths had stopped trying to explain. The third man backed away from the heat and bolted toward the exit.
The fourth man had already fled across the outer yard.
Rotimi and the second man wrestled in the tight space. Rotimi absorbed several strikes, relying on his weight and endurance until the second man drove a knee into his thigh, landed a heavy punch to his jaw, and broke free to run.
Silence returned to the sector.
Rotimi picked up his hammer, checking the unconscious man on the ground before glancing at Kola's arm. "Put cloth on that," he said.
"Yes."
"Go to the gate-house. Report to the commander's deputy. Leave the man on the ground."
"What about you?"
"I'll watch him until the guards arrive." Rotimi sat on the bench at the first station, hammer resting across his knees. "The one who ran knows the sector is occupied. They'll return with force or abandon it entirely. Tell the commander now."
Danladi received the report with quiet focus. He led four guards to the craftwork sector, dispatched two more to log departures at the south gate, and sent a runner to the command tent.
He examined Kola's forearm, wrapped in a strip of emergency cloth and still bleeding steadily.
"How bad?" Danladi asked.
"It's fine."
"How bad?"
"Long, but shallow. It needs stitches."
"Tell me everything first," Danladi said. "From the moment they entered."
Kola detailed the events in order: the civilian clothes, the search for Agba Ife, the weapon, the forge's reaction, and Rotimi's intervention.
Danladi listened carefully. "The forge—when it pushed them back, did you trigger it, or did it act on its own?"
Kola considered the moment. He had felt a tightness in his chest before the heat surged—a focused, defensive impulse directed at the man's grip. He had not consciously commanded the fire, but he was not disconnected from it either.
"Both," Kola said.
Danladi nodded. "The old man—where is he?"
"The gate-house."
"Good. Stay out of the craftwork sector until I clear it." He looked at the injury. "Get stitched up. You did well today. Tell Rotimi the same."
Danladi walked off to manage the encampment. Kola headed for the physician's tent as the cut began to throb. Behind him, the forge returned to a steady, ordinary burn.
Adisa, the camp physician, stitched the arm efficiently and silently, offering only a brief warning before applying seven stitches and a clean bandage.
"The man Rotimi hit," Kola asked as she finished. "How is he?"
"Concussion," she said. "He'll recover."
"Did Rotimi hit him hard?"
"Hard enough to stop him, soft enough to keep him alive. Rotimi knows how to measure a blow."
Kola stepped out into the afternoon air. The compound moved with tense efficiency, conversations hushing whenever officers passed.
He found Agba Ife in the inner compound, housed in a defensible room backing against the old stone wall. The old man sat at a small table, reviewing documents arranged by priority.
"Sit," Agba Ife said without looking up.
Kola sat.
"The men in the sector," Agba Ife said. "They were looking for me."
"Yes."
"They don't know about the record yet," the old man said, setting down his pen. "They only know a Babalawo entered the camp. They want to contain what I know, but they are four days late."
"Because of Beyinka's findings?"
"Because of her record in the ghost-lines," Agba Ife said. "And because of what happened at your forge."
Kola looked at his bandaged arm. "I didn't choose to ignite it."
"That is what makes it significant. Most bloodline Asẹ manifestations trigger through fear or anger. Yours was tactical. The force responded directly to the geometry of the threat before you had time to process the emotion."
"Is that unusual?"
"It indicates awareness within the Asẹ itself—an instinctual defense mechanism." He picked up his pen. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow you join me here, not at the forge."
"What happens tomorrow?"
"We determine what this means for the convergence," Agba Ife said, returning to his writing. "And we receive word from the frontier, which will dictate our next move."