The Weaver's stall was a space where time seemed to fold in on itself. Outside, the muffled roar of Balogun Market continued—the shouting of hawkers, the grinding of gears—but inside, the air was still, heavy with the scent of dried cedar and ancient dust.
"What do you mean he's sitting on it?" Lola demanded, her voice sharp with the remnants of her adrenaline. She stepped closer to the old woman, the cowrie shells on the curtain clattering as her presence agitated the air.
The Weaver didn't flinch. Her milky eyes remained fixed on the space between Femi and Lola. "Chief Adeyemi's penthouse isn't just a display of wealth, Princess. It is built upon the 'Foundation Stone'—the very spot where the first sculptor set his kiln when this world was still cooling. He didn't choose Victoria Island for the view. He chose it because the veil there is thin enough to tap into the *Ase* of the source."
Femi felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. "He's siphoning the earth itself."
"He is siphoning *your* earth," the Weaver corrected, her spindle whirring faster. "The terracotta you molded, the patterns you etched... they are the blueprints of the world's physical laws. By occupying the source, he is rewrite-ing the rules. That is why your 'True Clay' is failing. You are trying to build a house while someone else is stealing the bricks from the foundation."
Femi looked at his hands. The grey streaks in his hair felt heavier now. Every breath he took to keep the Wardens alive was being countered by Adeyemi's machines.
"If we take back the source," Femi rasped, "can I save them? Can I make them human for real?"
"To make a soul permanent in a mortal vessel requires more than just clay, Sculptor," the Weaver said, her voice dropping to a low hum. "It requires a sacrifice of divinity. You must pour your *Ase* into them until there is nothing left of the god 'Obu.' You would become just a boy. A boy with grey hair and a short life."
Lola's breath hitched. She grabbed Femi's arm, her grip bruising. "No. We're not doing that. There has to be another way."
"The girl is right to fear," the Weaver whispered. "Because while the Sculptor loses his divinity to save the past, the Storm must embrace hers to save the future. Adeyemi is preparing a 'Harvesting.' At the next lunar eclipse—which is three nights from now—he will use the Foundation Stone to strip the city of its collective memory, turning Lagos into a battery for his own ascension."
The old woman reached into a dark corner of her stall and pulled out a small, blackened wooden box. She handed it to Femi.
"Inside is a shard of the original kiln. It will lead you to the heart of the machine. But be warned: the Hunter is no longer your greatest threat. Adeyemi has begun to graft celestial essence onto his own soldiers. He is creating 'Iron Gods'—men with the strength of Orishas and the cold hearts of machines."
Lola took the box, her fingers trembling. "Why are you helping us? What do you want in return?"
The Weaver laughed, a dry, papery sound. "I am a weaver of yesterday. If Adeyemi erases the memory of this city, I cease to exist. I am not helping you, child. I am fighting for my own thread."
A sudden, sharp vibration rattled the jars on the Weaver's shelves.
"They are close," the Weaver said, her voice losing its warmth. "The Iron Gods do not sleep, and they do not eat. They track the scent of divinity like sharks track blood in the water. Go. Through the back. The tunnels will take you to the lagoon."
"Wait," Femi said, pausing at the back curtain. "What happens to you?"
The Weaver picked up her spindle, her blind eyes closing. "I have already lived yesterday, Sculptor. It is your tomorrow that is in trouble."
As Femi and Lola ducked into the dark, narrow tunnel behind the stall, the iron-chain curtain exploded inward.
The sound wasn't that of a man breaking a door. It was the sound of a hydraulic piston. A figure stepped into the Weaver's stall—a man in a tactical suit, but his arms were encased in glowing, translucent armor that hummed with a sick, neon-green light. His eyes were not human; they were glowing apertures that scanned the room with mechanical precision.
"Target signatures detected," the Iron God said, his voice a synthesized drone. "Initiating pursuit."
Behind them, the Weaver didn't move. She simply started to sing a song in a language that hadn't been spoken in a thousand years, her spindle glowing with a final, defiant light as the shadows of the market swallowed the children of the storm.