The command yurt is thick with the smell of smoke, greasy mutton, and medicinal herbs. A woman rises from a low stool near the central hearth as they enter. She's not young, her face a roadmap of wrinkles etched by wind and sun, but her dark eyes are sharp, observant, and hold a disconcerting glint of amusement. Her hair, streaked with iron grey, is braided tightly back, and she wears practical leathers adorned with pouches, bone charms, and a single, startlingly bright red feather tucked behind one ear. She sniffs the air dramatically as Noga enters.

"Ah, Khanzadeh! Smells like victory out there!" she cackles. "Or maybe just overcooked idiot? Heard Ahal finally achieved his lifelong ambition: becoming the center of attention." She peers past Noga at Temej and Lanau. "These the fire-dancers? Hmph. Look like they danced a bit too close." She gestures impatiently. "Well? Off with the layers! Can't poke the holes if I can't see 'em! Especially interested in the burn, big fella," she adds, pointing a gnarled finger at Temej's forearm. "Want to see how deep the idiot's folly cooked him."

Temej, swaying slightly from exhaustion and pain, his mind still reeling from the explosion and the rescue, balks. "Physician," he rasps, his voice rough. "The merchant… Goeghon… he was closest. He needs your skill more than we do."

Noga, pouring himself a cup of fermented mare's milk with deliberate slowness, doesn't look up. "The merchants," he states flatly, "brought destruction into my camp. Their powder crippled my men, destroyed supplies. Nothing proves they weren't sent by your Khatun as a final, fiery surprise."

Lanau bristles, wincing as the movement pulls her bruised shoulder. "She would never risk our lives."

Temej nods emphatically, the bulky remnants of his disguise shifting awkwardly.

Noga finally looks at them, a slow, chilling smile touching his lips. He sets his cup down. "Fascinating," he murmurs. "So, you were sent here, deep into the heart of my power, disguised as your Khan, carrying a message you knew I wouldn't believe… by someone who would never risk your lives?" He chuckles, a dry, mirthless sound. "The loyalty is touching. The logic, however, not so much."

Temej meets his gaze, defiance battling exhaustion. "We knew you wouldn't kill us outright. Not then. You're too clever for that." He gestures weakly at the devastation outside the yurt flap.

Noga's smile widens, almost appreciative. "Cleverer than you look under all that grime and borrowed fur. A point in your favor." He nods to the shaman. "Dolma. See to them."

Dolma the shaman claps her hands. "Right! Off with the gear! Shirts, vests, the whole itchy lot! Let Auntie Dolma see the damage! Especially you, charred one!" She advances on Temej, reaching for the ties of his tunic.

Temej takes a step back, raising his good hand defensively. "Whoa! Hold on! I… I can't just… undress in front of…" He glances wildly from Dolma to Lanau to Noga's impassive wives huddled nearby. "...ladies! It's… improper!"

Silence crashes down in the yurt. Dolma freezes, hand outstretched, her eyebrows climbing towards her hairline. Bora's sharp eyes narrow, flicking over Temej's face, his frame beneath the torn furs. Even Sarangerel and Altantsetseg pause their shivering to look at him with confused curiosity.

Noga's gaze sharpens, zeroing in on Temej with laser intensity. "Improper?" he repeats, his voice dangerously soft. He steps closer, circling Temej like a wolf assessing a strange new animal. "Ladies?" He stops directly in front of him. "Explain."

Temej flushes crimson, realizing his blunder too late… it had worked too well. "I… I meant…" he stammers.

Dolma bursts out laughing, a loud, wheezing sound. "By the Skyfather's frozen kneecaps! You thought he was a girl? This strapping lad?" She slaps her thigh. "Oh, that's rich! Did the furs confuse you, Khanzadeh? Thought you were kidnapping a particularly large she-wolf?"

Noga doesn't laugh. His expression is one of pure, baffled astonishment rapidly shifting towards irritated realization. He stares at Temej's adam's apple, the line of his jaw beneath the soot, the breadth of his shoulders even slumped in fatigue.

Before Temej can formulate another defense, Noga moves. He grabs the front of Temej's tunic and the remnants of the bulky fur cloak in one powerful fist. "Enough," he growls. "If modesty offends, we'll observe it under the open sky." He half-drags, half-marches the stunned and unresisting Temej out of the yurt, back into the freezing chaos of the camp.

Ignoring the confused stares of nearby warriors, Noga shoves Temej against the relatively clean side of his command yurt, away from the worst of the gore. The cold hits Temej like a physical blow. Without ceremony, Noga rips the scorched, torn tunic open down the front, buttons pinging off into the snow. He yanks it off Temej's shoulders, followed swiftly by the padded undershirt beneath. Temej, too exhausted, too shocked, and frankly too numb from the burn and the cold to resist effectively, stands shivering in the snow, stripped to the waist, revealing a lean, muscular torso, the angry red burn stark on his forearm, and crucially, the completely flat, undeniably male chest.

Noga stares for a beat, confirming the obvious. He lets out a short, sharp breath that clouds in the frigid air, a sound of pure exasperation. "Definitely not a woman," he mutters, almost to himself. He then barks an order. A warrior scurries forward with a bucket of clean snow and a strip of clean linen. Noga scoops up a handful of snow and, ignoring Temej's hiss of pain, begins packing it firmly onto the burn on his forearm, the cold a shocking counterpoint to the heat of the injury. His movements are brisk, efficient, surprisingly competent. He binds the snow pack loosely in place with the linen strip. "Hold that. Prevents the flesh cooking further. Dolma will salve it later."

Inside the yurt, Dolma is already chuckling as she helps Lanau ease out of her own tunic and padded vest, revealing the deep bruise blossoming across her shoulder and collarbone. "See, girl?" Dolma says, her fingers probing the injury with surprising gentleness despite her sharp words. "Men! Always causing a ruckus, then getting shy about their nipples! Now, hold still." She smears a pungent green salve onto the bruise, making Lanau gasp. "There! Stinks like a demon's armpit, but it'll keep the swelling down." Lanau manages a weak, pained smile.

Dolma, having efficiently bound Lanau's bruised shoulder, turns her sharp eyes to Sarangerel and Altantsetseg. Bora, the eldest wife, stands like a stern sentinel, arms crossed over her embroidered deel.

"Right, you two," Dolma barks, striding over. Sarangerel, the middle wife, coughs weakly, her voice a raspy whisper. "Open wide, songbird," Dolma orders, peering down Sarangerel's throat with a bone spatula. "Hmm. Soot-dusted gullet. Lungs sound like a leaky bellows, but nothing's cracked. Gargle with salt water and stop breathing smoke." She turns to Altantsetseg, the youngest, who winces as she tries to put weight on her right foot. Dolma prods the swollen ankle with surprising gentleness. "Twisted. Not snapped. Lucky. Wrap it tight, okay?"

Bora steps forward, her expression a mix of relief and simmering maternal ire. "Imprudent girls!" she scolds, her voice low but carrying the weight of years. "Frightened by a noise like startled fawns! Running towards the collapsing yurt instead of away! What were you thinking? That felt walls make good blankets?" Sarangerel ducks her head, coughing again. Altantsetseg sniffles, tears welling.

Before the younger wives can stammer apologies, Bora's stern gaze softens. She turns, not to Dolma, but to Lanau. With a grace that speaks of deep tradition, she folds herself into a formal, deep bow, her forehead nearly touching the felt floor. "Sister-warrior," Bora says, her voice thick with emotion. "You pulled my sworn-sisters from the Skyfather's fiery breath. Our hearth owes you a debt that can never be fully repaid. May your courage be sung for generations."

Sarangerel and Altantsetseg, tears now flowing freely, scramble to mimic Bora's profound bow, their movements stiff with injury but filled with sincerity. "Our lives are yours," Sarangerel rasps. "Thank you," Altantsetseg whispers, her voice trembling.

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Lanau, unused to such formality, shifts awkwardly, her bruised shoulder protesting. "I... it was nothing. Anyone would—"

"Alright, alright!" Dolma interrupts, clapping her hands like shattering ice. "Enough waterworks and life-debts! Save the poetry for the minstrels. If you start offering tea and mooncakes next, I'll dose you all with something truly foul." She shoos Bora towards the younger wives. "Get them settled, Bora. Rest, water, quiet. You!" She fixed the Tepr warrior with her bright, assessing gaze. "You. Strong bones, thick skull. Bruise is ugly but superficial. Smoke cleared your head?" Lanau nods, wincing only slightly. "Good. Then you're my new assistant. Need hands that don't shake like leaves. Plenty more fools out there needing poking."

Lanau doesn't hesitate. "The merchants. From Seop. Goeghon and the two girls. They were closest... they need you most." Her voice holds quiet urgency.

Dolma grunts, grabbing a worn leather satchel overflowing with pouches and jars. "Lead on, Assistant. Let's see what the 'dirt' merchants left behind besides chaos." She bustles towards the yurt flap, Lanau falling in step.

Stepping back into the camp's frigid, sulfurous chaos is like diving into an icy nightmare after the yurt's warmth. Lanau's eyes instinctively scan for Temej. She spots him near the yurt wall, partially obscured by Noga's immense, dark-cloaked form. Noga is meticulously tying off the snow-packed bandage on Temej's burned forearm. Temej stands rigid, shirtless in the freezing air, his torso pale and muscular in the harsh daylight, steam rising faintly from his skin. Lanau's gaze snaps away. This day just keeps piling on him.

They push through the stunned warriors towards the blast crater's grim periphery. The scene is heart-wrenching. The two Seop sisters, their strange layered clothing torn and smudged black, huddle over their brother Goeghon. The elder sister cradles his head in her lap, her left arm and hand a ruin of angry red blisters and weeping, blackened skin where the blast's heat had seared her. The younger clutches his limp hand. Her round spectacles are cracked, one lens missing entirely, the frame bent. A trickle of dried blood runs from one nostril down her chin, and her eyes are wide, vacant pools of shock behind the broken glass. But her gaze is fixed not on her own injuries, nor her sister's burns, but on Goeghon's back.

It's a horror. His heavy wool tunic is shredded and fused to his skin by the intense heat. Raw, blistered flesh shows through, mixed with charred black patches. Splinters of wood from the shattered crate and sharp fragments of the clay jars are embedded deep in the muscle. He lies utterly still, his breathing shallow, ragged, and wet – a terrible, bubbling sound. The elder sister strokes his hair with her unburnt hand, her face a mask of numb despair. The younger just stares, trembling. There's no hope in their posture, only the bleak acceptance of imminent loss.

Dolma crouches beside them, her usual sharpness replaced by a grim, professional focus. Her experienced eyes take in the extent of the damage – the depth of the burns, the labored, wet breathing suggesting internal injuries or lung damage from the concussive force. She gently checks Goeghon's pulse at his neck. It's thready, fading.

"Ah, little sparrows," Dolma sighs, her voice losing its edge for the first time, becoming almost gentle. "Your brother... he shielded you with his own sky." She shakes her head slowly, the red feather bobbing. "The fire inside him... it burns low. The Skyfather's path calls him." She reaches into her satchel, not for salves or tools, but for a small, worn pouch of dried herbs. "All Auntie Dolma can offer now are prayers to ease his journey. Sweet smoke to guide him home."

Lanau stares at Goeghon's ruined back, then at the shattered faces of his sisters. "No," Lanau says, her voice surprisingly firm, cutting through the desolate air. She kneels beside Dolma, ignoring the frozen mud soaking her trousers. "Not yet. You said you needed hands. Use mine." She looks directly at the shaman, her eyes fierce. "We saved your Prince's wives." She points towards Temej, still visible near Noga. She gestures to the command yurt where Noga's wives rest. "This is how you'll repay your debt."

Dolma studies Lanau's face, then looks down at the dying man, then at his sisters. A slow, reluctant sigh escapes her. She tucks the prayer herbs away. "Stubborn as mountain goats, the lot of you," she mutters, but there's no heat in it. She rummages in her satchel, pulling out a wicked-looking pair of bronze tweezers and a small, sharp knife. "Right then, Assistant. First lesson in battlefield butchery: try not to faint. Hold his shoulders still. This," she gestures at the embedded shrapnel and fused cloth, "is going to be messy." She spits on the knife blade for luck, her sharp eyes already calculating the first, least damaging point of entry.

...

Noga steps back, surveying his handiwork with a clinical eye, then his gaze shifts to Temej's face. He gestures vaguely towards the smoldering crater where Ahal's remains lie. "Exploding merchants. A novel tactic. Annoying, but undeniably effective." He pulls a thick wolfskin cloak from a nearby saddlebag and tosses it at Temej. "Cover yourself. Your modesty is safe, but frostbite is less forgiving than my wives' curiosity."

Temej fumbles with the heavy cloak, wrapping it gratefully around his shivering frame. He watches Noga, this predator-prince who commands annihilation yet now bound his wounds. The contradiction gnaws at him. "Why?" Temej asks, the word escaping before he can filter it. His voice is raw, but steady. "All this… the conquest, the burning, the…" he nods towards the crater, "...this? What do you want, Prince Noga? Just… more land? More people to bow?"

Noga's obsidian eyes, usually sharp with calculation or icy fury, seem to deepen, reflecting the bleak sky. He leans back against the soot-stained felt of his command yurt, folding his arms. "Want?" he echoes, a dry chuckle escaping him. "A child's question, Tepr warrior. Or perhaps a philosopher's." He tilts his head, studying Temej with unnerving intensity. "What does any leader want? Order. Strength. A legacy carved not in sand, but stone. The steppes are chaos. Tribes squabble like jackals over scraps. The Moukopl Empire squeezes from the south like a bloated tick. Weakness invites decay. Invites predators… like me." He pushes off the yurt, taking a step closer. His presence is immense, a physical pressure. "Violence is the chisel. Ugly, brutal, undeniable. But necessary. To break the weak structures, to forge something stronger. To impose order. Is that not what your Khan does? Breaks tribes, submit them? Uses the blade more than it's necessary?"

Temej flinches internally. He remembers his younger self, full of righteous fury, seeing the world in stark blacks and whites. But months at Naci's side, seeing the compromises, the necessary ruthlessness, the sheer bloody cost of forging Tepr… it has sanded his edges. He sees the chilling logic in Noga's words, a dark mirror to Naci's own pragmatism. "She unites," Temej counters, but his voice lacks its old fervor. "She builds something for the people, not just over them."

"Does she?" Noga's smile is razor-thin. "Or does she simply replace one master with another? Herself? Unity forged by the sword is still forged by the sword. The difference lies in the hand that wields it, and the vision it serves. Mine is larger. The Khanate of Khans. No more petty squabbles. One will. One strength. From the borders of the world to the frozen wastes. Under me." He pauses, his gaze sharpening, piercing. "And you? What does someone like you want?"

The question catches Temej off guard. Ambition? He'd never framed it that way. "To… stay alive," he admits, the simplicity sounding hollow even to him. "To see my people safe… strong." He hesitates. "To not be chained or flayed. Simple things."

Noga barks a short, genuine laugh. "Simple! Ha! The hardest things in this world." He pushes away from the yurt again, pacing a short circle in the churned snow, his movements restless, predatory. "You saved my wives. That buys you life. More than life." He stops directly in front of Temej. "It buys you a choice. You followed Tepr's Khan. Why? Because she was strong? Because she offered a path? Because she was the most powerful force you knew?" He doesn't wait for an answer; he sees the truth in Temej's eyes. "Now you stand before the Khan of Khans. The apex predator. The force that will reshape this land. The logic remains the same. Follow strength. Follow vision. Follow the hand that wields the chisel with purpose." His voice drops, persuasive, almost intimate. "Your Khan fights for a patch of frozen grass. I fight for an empire. Where does a man of your… surprising resilience… truly belong? Serving a doomed cause? Or shaping the future?"

Temej stares at him. The cold bites at his exposed legs below the cloak, but it's Noga's words that send a deeper chill through him. The ruthless logic is undeniable. He had followed Naci because she was the strongest, clearest path to survival and purpose he saw. And now… here stands a force, magnitudes greater, offering the same cold calculus. Naci's fierce loyalty wars with the terrifying allure of aligning with undeniable power. He sees no flaw in Noga's argument, only the fearsome scale of its ambition. Yet… Horohan's steady gaze flashes in his mind. Naci's reckless, blazing courage. The fragile hope of Tepr.

"I…" Temej falters, his usual defiance muted by exhaustion and the sheer weight of the proposition. "It's… not a choice made shivering in the snow, Prince, with half my skin hanging off."

Noga watches the conflict play out on Temej's face. He doesn't press. He nods slowly, a flicker of respect, or perhaps just patience, in his eyes. "Fair," he concedes. "Words are wind. Actions reveal the heart. And a frozen man thinks poorly." He gestures towards the camp's edge, where the vast, snow-blanketed steppe stretches towards the distant, brooding Tengr peaks. "My larder took a hit courtesy of your merchant friends. I need meat. You need to move, get the blood flowing, clear that smoke-addled head." He grins. "Hunt with me, Warrior of Tepr. Talk is easier on horseback. See the land I will rule. See the strength at your fingertips… should you choose to grasp it."

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