The following dawn arrives not with sunlight, but with a relentless, howling blizzard that turns the Tengr camp into a world of swirling white fury. Inside the largest command yurt, the air is thick with the scent of wet wool. Khanai sprawls like a living snowdrift near the central hearth, her massive head resting on enormous paws, blue eyes like frozen sapphires half-lidded in regal boredom. A low fire crackles, casting long, dancing shadows on the felt walls adorned with rough maps drawn on cured hides.

Naci sits cross-legged on a thick rug, her back against a saddle, one hand absently stroking Khanai's broad head between the ears. Horohan sits beside her, posture straight as a spear, sharpening her ritual dagger with a rhythmic shink-shink. Fol huddles near the heat source. Pomogr nervously shuffles scrolls weighted down by more throwing daggers. Kuan, perched precariously on a small stool, attempts to balance a steaming cup of tea while simultaneously adjusting the folds of his flamboyantly embroidered, yet slightly damp, shamanic robes.

Khanai's ear twitches. Kuan shifts his stool with a scrape. Instantly, the tiger's head lifts. A deep, rumbling growl vibrates through the yurt. Her blue eyes fix on Kuan with undisguised antipathy, lips curling back slightly to reveal ivory fangs the length of a man's finger.

Naci doesn't look up from the map she's studying. Her stroking hand moves to scratch Khanai firmly under the jaw. "Good girl," she murmurs, her voice rich with approval. "Excellent judgment. Keep an eye on the slippery one."

Kuan flinches, nearly spilling his tea. "Great Khan! Such slander! And from the Sky's own majestic creature! I am wounded! Deeply!" He clutches his chest dramatically. "What have I ever done to earn such... disdain?"

"Existed," Meicong states flatly from the shadow. Khanai's growl deepens in apparent agreement.

Horohan glances up, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she watches Naci soothe the beast. Naci catches the look and winks. "See, Horo? Proof you're divine. Only a goddess could tame a creature this magnificent and tolerate the likes of me." She gives Khanai's head another fond scratch. The tiger's growl subsides to a watchful rumble, her gaze never leaving Kuan.

Horohan's cheeks flush faintly, pleased in spite of herself. "She has taste," she says mildly, testing the edge of her dagger with a thumb.

Pomogr, sweating slightly despite the cold draft sneaking under the yurt flap, eyes Khanai with profound trepidation. "Horohan speaks truth, Naci," he stammers, bowing his head slightly towards the tiger. "Khanai is no mere beast. She is spirit-walker. A guardian soul of Tepr given form! We must show reverence! Offerings! Not... not provoke her divine wrath!" He flinches as Khanai's tail gives an irritated thump near his scrolls.

"Reverence is her due," Horohan agrees calmly. "But she understands loyalty. And suspicion." She nods towards Kuan.

"See?" Meicong smirks. "Even the spirit-tiger knows scum when she smells it. Good kitty."

Kuan lets out a theatrical wail, slumping forward, his teacup forgotten. "Betrayed! By my own adopted little sister! By the noble beast! By the stoic Miss Khan! Even the esteemed Pomogr thinks I reek of heresy!" He lifts his head, tears glistening — onion-induced — in his eyes. "Is there no love in this frozen wasteland for a humble servant of the Sky? Must I wander, friendless, misunderstood, perpetually growled at?"

Naci finally looks up from the map, her expression shifting from amused indulgence to focused intensity. The playful glint in her amber eyes hardens. "Enough theatrics, Kuan. Save it for the campfire. We have wolves at the door." She taps the hide map spread before her. "Before the storm swallowed the world whole, Fol, Lanau, Meicong, Temej, and I saw Noga."

The mood snaps taut.

"He wasn't with his whole army," Naci continues, her voice low and gravelly. "He rode with maybe... forty to sixty men. Tops." She meets Horohan's gaze. "But these weren't normal warriors. They were... different. Like carved from iron and wealth."

Fol shudders, wrapping his arms around himself. "Black armor," he whispers. "Like... like night-metal. Smooth. Cold. Swords tall and thin as willow switches but... they hummed when they moved. Bows made of layered horn and sinew, strung with wire that could cut your fingers off."

"Expensive," Meicong states. "Very expensive. Very deadly."

Naci nods grimly. "Exactly. Noga doesn't travel light. If he's riding with only them, it means he trusts them more than his own shadow. More than his brothers, probably. They're his fangs. His personal claws." She stabs a finger onto the map near the symbol for the abandoned Nedai camp. "He was heading there. Just twenty men like that? In a camp full of our wounded, our elders, our children before we evacuated? They could carve through it like a hot knife through frozen butter. Cause chaos, demoralize everyone before the main horde even arrived."

Horohan's face is stone. "Is this why Temej and Lanau...?"

"They had the same thought I did," Naci says, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Urgently. We split. I came here to rally you. They stayed to slow him down. Harass him. Make sure he doesn't reach the Nedai camp unopposed. Buy us time."

Pomogr wipes his brow. "Brave! Foolishly brave! But Naci... How do we beat them?"

Naci leans back, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. "We don't fight them head-on. Not yet. We lure them." She points to the symbol marking their current Tengr mountain camp. "Here. We make Noga want to come here. Bring his precious shadows with him. Into our terrain. Our blizzard. Our mountains."

Kuan, who had been sniffling melodramatically into a silk handkerchief, suddenly stops. His head snaps up. The tears vanish, replaced by a sharp, calculating gleam. His theatrical despair evaporates like mist under a desert sun. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips, utterly transforming his face from buffoon to cunning strategist.

"Ah," he breathes, the sound almost a sigh of delight. He stands. He smooths his robes with exaggerated care, then clasps his hands before him, tilting his head. A strange, almost melodic cadence enters his voice, a shaman's lilt mixed with a spy's confidence.

"Great Khan," he singsongs, his eyes locked on Naci's, sparkling with dark amusement. "You speak of luring the tiger from the plains to the crags... a most elegant stratagem. But tigers are proud. Suspicious. They do not follow whispers on the wind... unless the wind carries the scent of certainty." He takes a step forward, ignoring Khanai's renewed, warning growl. "You need a message delivered. Not just any message. A tempting message. A foolish message. A message that reeks of desperation and hidden treasure... delivered by a source Noga would never doubt. A source that whispers only truth... or delightful lies disguised as such." He spreads his hands wide, a performer taking center stage. His smirk widens into a razor-sharp grin. "You need a weaver of tales. A spinner of silken deceptions. You need... a humble servant of the Sky, who just happens to know exactly how to make a Yohazatz prince salivate with greed and lower his guard." He bows deeply, flamboyantly. "Great Khan, your humble shaman... Konir... volunteers for this perilous, yet utterly necessary, mission. Consider the bait... set."

...

The blizzard howls around the snug confines of another yurt, a furious white beast hurling itself against the thick felt walls. Inside, it's an oasis of warmth and flickering lamplight. The air is thick with the comforting scents of cedar smoke, baking barley cakes, and the earthy tang of strong, steaming tea brewing in a sturdy iron pot suspended over a small, glowing brazier. Fat globules of rendered mutton fat sizzle merrily in a pan, promising crisp edges.

Gani kneels by the low table, her movements brisk and efficient. Opposite her, perched with an air of quiet grace on a cushion of worn wolf fur, sits Lizem. Her dark eyes, so like her daughter's but gentler, hold a watchful stillness. She accepts a cup with a murmured thanks.

"The spirits test us," Gani declares, not unhappily, as she pushes a platter of golden-brown cakes towards Lizem. "But they provide warmth, tea, and good company. Even the fiercest storm is easier weathered with both." She takes a loud, appreciative sip.

Lizem smiles faintly, breaking off a piece of cake. "They provide strong daughters, Gani. That is warmth enough for any storm." She nibbles delicately. "Though I confess, this blizzard makes me grateful for sturdy walls. Horohan tells me the winds near the Orogol winter grounds could peel the hide off a yak."

Gani snorts. "Bah! Our winds carry character! Build resilience! Though," she adds, eyeing the shuddering walls, "this one seems determined to build an entire mountain range on top of us. More tea?"

Before Lizem can answer, the yurt flap is thrust aside in a whirlwind of snow and frigid air. Kelik, Temej's mother, stumbles in, bundled like a bear cub. Frost clings to her eyebrows and the fur trim of her heavy parka. She carries the scent of the storm and the high, cold places of the Tengr slopes.

"Forgive the delay!" Kelik gasps, shaking snow from her hood like an enormous, disgruntled bird. "The Sky's breath is particularly forceful tonight! Had to check the eagles. Foolish creatures would sit on their perches and turn into ice statues if you let them." She wrestles off her snow-caked outer layers, revealing a practical tunic and trousers beneath. "Had to coax them into the shelter, tuck them in with extra down... fussy as hatchlings in this cold." She finally sheds the last layer, hanging the snowy furs near the brazier where they steam gently, and sinks gratefully onto a cushion beside Lizem, reaching instantly for the proffered cup of tea Gani slides towards her. "Ahhh. Bless you, Gani. That hits the frozen core."

Gani refills Lizem's cup and her own. "Eagles are proud fools," she observes, not unkindly. "Like certain sons." She sighs, a sound like wind through rocks. "Miss having useful hands around the hearth. Naci wed and off playing Khan, Dukar..." Her jaw tightens momentarily. "...snatched away by those Moukopl idiots. Leaves an echo in the yurt."

Lizem nods sympathetically. "I am blessed, perhaps, with only one child. Horohan is... a tempest, but she is here. Mostly. The worry for a child drafted far from home..." She trails off, her gaze flicking towards Kelik, who is intently studying the steam rising from her tea. Lizem's cheeks flush slightly with realization. "Oh, Kelik. Forgive me. I spoke without thought."

Kelik waves a dismissive hand, though her knuckles are white on the porcelain cup. "No forgiveness needed, Lizem. The Sky knows the worry. My eldest, Borak... strong lad, drafted with the others. My heart aches for him in some Moukopl pit, or worse." She takes a shaky breath. "But Borak... Borak has a spine of iron. He'll endure. It's Temej..." Her voice softens, thick with a different kind of fear. "Out there now, in this? With that girl from your clan," she smiles to Gani, "Lanau, yes, clever as a sparrow, but... Temej's heart is soft as fresh snow. A limping wolf cub. Making the hard choice, the necessary choice... it breaks something in him every time. Battlefields demand broken things, not mended ones."

Gani leans forward, her brow furrowed. "Soft heart? Kelik, you didn't raise a warrior! Not raising him to face the hard edge of the world is like not teaching a foal to run! Leaves him vulnerable. Exposed!"

Kelik meets Gani's fierce gaze, her own eyes holding a quiet, stubborn light. "He wasn't made for the hard edge, Gani. He was made for the high edge. For the wind under wings, the cry of the eagle, the quiet watchfulness of the nest. His hands know feathers and leather cords, not just sword grips. His soul sings with the free things, not the screams of battle."

Lizem places a gentle hand on Kelik's arm. "The world would be a gentler place, Gani, if all children were raised as herders of beasts or birds, not as herders of men towards slaughter. Less glory, perhaps, but more peace."

Gani slaps her thigh, a sharp crack in the cozy space. "Peace? Ha! Peace is the dream of full bellies and quiet nights, Lizem. But it only takes one warrior who wasn't raised soft, one hungry wolf like Noga, to shatter that dream like thin ice! Then where are your herders? Scattered like frightened sheep!" She takes a large, defiant bite of cake. "Strength is the cradle peace sleeps in, even if it's an ugly cradle."

Kelik stares into her tea. She sees the brutal, undeniable truth in Gani's pragmatism – a truth etched in the lines of the woman's face, a truth that shaped the steppes. But beneath it, she feels the deeper wrongness, the moral rot of a world where kindness is a liability, where a son's gentle spirit is a flaw to be hammered out. It needs only one warrior to break the peace, she thinks silently, but it needs a thousand gentle hearts to build it anew. She wants to argue, to defend the worth of her son's quiet courage, his empathy. But she sees the flint in Gani's eyes, the unshakeable belief forged in a lifetime of loss and survival. To challenge it here, now, over tea and cakes, feels like pitting a snowflake against a mountain. It would only fracture this fragile warmth.

So, Kelik swallows the words. She takes another sip of tea, the warmth a poor substitute for the fire of conviction she stifles. She forces a small, tight smile. "Perhaps," she murmurs, noncommittally. "The world is... complicated."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Gani, mistaking the concession for agreement, nods decisively. "Complicated, yes! That's the word for it! Like untangling wet rope in the dark." She pushes the plate of cakes towards Kelik again. "Have another cake, Kelik. Build your strength. The eagles will need you when this Sky-tantrum ends. And Temej... well, Lanau's sharp. She'll keep his soft head attached. Mostly."

Lizem catches Kelik's eye, offering a look of silent understanding and shared sorrow. Kelik smooths the fur of her sleeve, a silent gesture of smoothing over the ruffled feathers of dissent. The conversation drifts towards the eagles, the state of the herds, lighter topics that float like down on the surface of deeper, unspoken currents.

...

The vast, snow-draped steppe stretches beneath a bruised sky, the wind carrying the last bite of the blizzard's fury. Two horses move at a steady trot, their breaths pluming white in the crisp air. Noga rides slightly ahead, a dark silhouette against the endless white, his midnight stallion moving with predatory grace. Temej follows on a sturdy Yohazatz pony, the borrowed wolfskin cloak pulled tight against the cold, his bandaged forearm resting carefully across the saddle horn.

Noga glances back, his obsidian eyes sharp as flint arrows. "Your name echoes strangely in my camp, Tepr warrior," he states, his voice cutting through the wind. "Temej. It sounds… grounded. Like the roots of an old tree. Yet you move like wind over grass. Tell me of Temej. Who is the man who impersonates Khans and saves wives?"

Temej shifts in the saddle, the movement pulling at the burn beneath his bandages. "Son of Kelik," he replies, his voice still raw from smoke and shouting. "Eagle-handler of the Alinkar." He looks out across the desolate beauty. "I tend birds. Or did. Now I tend… complications."

Noga lets out a dry chuckle. "Complications. A mild word for the firestorm you brought." He guides his stallion around a snowdrift. "Tell me, Eagle-handler, why does the violence of the Khan of Tepr sit lighter on your conscience than mine? Your Khatun… Horohan." He savors the name. "She wielded a brutal chisel. Scorched earth. Poisoned wells. Slaughtered herds not for food, but for spite. To deny me. To starve my advance." He gestures broadly at the barren landscape. "She turned fertile valleys into graveyards of ash and salt. Is that not violence? Is that not inflicting suffering upon her own people, denying them their homes, their sustenance, purely to hinder an enemy?"

Temej flinches. "Survival," he counters, but the word feels weak. "Wasn't it the only way to slow you down?"

"Survival?" Noga's laugh is short, harsh. "Is that the justification? My violence secures a future empire, an end to tribal squabbles, a shield against the Moukopl leviathan. Hers merely delays an inevitable reckoning, at a terrible cost. She burns the field to stop the locusts, condemning her people to a slower starvation. Tell me, Temej, where is the moral high ground in that arithmetic of suffering? Is the violence noble when it's your Khan who orders it?"

Temej stares at the snow-crusted mane of his pony. The chilling logic, paired with the visceral memory of Naci and Horohan's ruthless efficiency, erodes his defenses. He sees the pragmatism, the terrible necessity Naci and Horohan embraced. It was violence. Calculated, devastating. Just like Noga's conquests. The distinction blurs. "Perhaps…" he murmurs, the wind snatching the word.

Noga slows his stallion, turning to face Temej directly. A flicker of satisfaction, cold and sharp, lights his eyes. "Acknowledgment. The first step." He nudges his mount closer. "But conviction requires proof. You doubt my strength? My claim as Khan of Khans?"

Temej meets his gaze, a spark of his old defiance flickering. "Strength isn't just blades and numbers, Prince. It's knowing the land. Knowing your enemy. Knowing yourself. You command fear. But have you earned the steppe's respect? Or just its terror? You speak of forging an empire… but can you even read the land you stride upon?"

Noga arches an eyebrow, intrigued rather than offended. "A challenge? From the eagle-handler? Speak plainly."

Temej gestures eastward, towards a dark smudge on the horizon that wasn't visible from the camp. "Where do you hunt today?"

Noga follows his gaze, a predatory smile touching his lips. "There. The forest. The first true woods I've seen. A welcome change from endless grass."

Temej frowns, genuinely puzzled. "Are there no forests west of Tepr?"

"None," Noga confirms, his voice dropping to a low, confident rumble. "This is new ground. Yet," he adds, his gaze sweeping the approaching tree line with unnerving focus, "I know its heart already. See the density? The mix of evergreen and bare-limbed hardwoods? That speaks of deep soil, sheltered from the worst winds. Game will be plentiful – deer sheltering from the open cold, boar rooting in the leaf litter under the snow. Predators too, drawn by the prey." He points to a barely visible game trail leading into the trees, partially obscured by fresh snowfall. "A stag passed there within the hour. A large one, carrying weight even in winter. Water?" He sniffs the air. "A stream runs through it. I can smell the ice and stone." He looks back at Temej, his obsidian eyes gleaming. "I don't need a name on a map to know a place's secrets, Eagle-handler. I need only eyes that see, a nose that smells, and a mind that understands the language of the wild. Strength is perception. Strength is knowledge wielded as ruthlessly as any blade."

Temej stares at him, a grudging respect warring with his apprehension. "It's called the Bepr Forest," Temej says quietly.

Noga throws his head back and laughs, a rich, genuine sound that startles a flock of crows from a nearby skeletal birch. "Bepr! There, you see? A name! Useful for maps, perhaps. Less useful for finding dinner." He spurs his stallion forward towards the dark embrace of the trees. "Come, Temej of the Alinkar. Let's see if your knowledge of names helps you keep pace with my knowledge of dinner."

The hunt is swift, brutal, and efficient. Noga moves through the snow-draped pines and skeletal oaks like a shadow given form. He reads sign with uncanny speed: the scrape of antler bark, the deep imprint of a boar's trotter, the delicate tracery of hare prints. He stalks with infinite patience, then strikes with terrifying speed and precision. Temej, an adept hunter in his own right, finds himself relegated to observer and retriever, marveling at the Prince's lethal grace. A massive stag falls to Noga's arrow through the heart before it even senses danger. A surly boar, charging from a thicket, meets a spear thrust so perfectly placed it drops mid-stride. Even rabbits, flushed from their snow burrows, are snatched from the air by Noga's throwing knives with casual, deadly accuracy.

By the time the weak winter sun bleeds red and orange across the western horizon, staining the snow crimson, their horses are laden. The stag's heavy carcass is lashed across Noga's stallion, the boar across Temej's pony, and a brace of plump hares hangs from both saddles. Blood steams in the freezing dusk air.

They ride back towards the distant glow of the Yohazatz camp in companionable silence, the only sounds the crunch of snow under hooves and the creak of laden tack. Noga rides easily, the picture of a conqueror returning with bounty. Temej rides beside him. The silence stretches, filled only by the dying light and the echo of Noga's chillingly persuasive question: Where does a man of surprising resilience truly belong? The proof of undeniable strength lies draped across their saddles, dripping onto the snow.

...

The air inside the small, hastily commandeered healer's yurt hangs thick with the cloying reek of charred flesh, pungent salves, and the metallic tang of blood. Smoke from the brazier mingles with the acrid scent of the explosive powder still clinging to everything. Dolma, sleeves rolled past her scarred elbows, works with grim, relentless focus. Lanau, her bruised shoulder a dull throb she barely registers, mirrors the shaman's movements with a speed born of desperation. She holds Goeghon steady, her hands slick with blood and the greenish unguent Dolma smeared on the worst burns. Dolma's bronze tweezers dart like a bird's beak, plucking shards of wood and pottery from the ruin of Goeghon's back. Lanau applies pressure, cleans seeping wounds with snow-melt water, holds flaps of skin as Dolma stitches with gut thread as thick as fishing line.

"Hold him, Assistant! Don't let him twitch!" Dolma barks, her voice raspy from inhaled smoke. "This splinter's lodged near his lung. One wrong move..." She doesn't finish, but the implication hangs heavy. Goeghon doesn't twitch. He lies terrifyingly still, his breathing a wet, bubbling rasp that fills the tense silence between commands. His sisters, Saya and Sen, huddle nearby on a pile of furs. Saya's left hand and forearm are thickly bandaged, the salve soaking through the linen. Sen, her cracked spectacles discarded, stares blankly ahead, a dried trail of blood stark against her pale chin. They whisper to each other in rapid Seop, their voices tight with panic and grief. Saya whimpers, clutching her bandaged hand to her chest. He's cold... what do we do?

"Silence, sparrows!" Dolma snaps without looking up. "Your twittering frays my nerves! Lanau, the honey paste! Slather it thick on that patch near his shoulder blade. Sky knows if it helps, but it smells better than this damnable sulfur!"

Hours bleed away, marked only by the flickering brazier and Goeghon's increasingly labored breaths. They clean, stitch, pack wounds with moss and herbs, bind him tight. Dolma forces a bitter-smelling infusion of willow bark and something narcotic down his throat. His breathing eases slightly, the wet rattle softening for a blessed moment. Hope, fragile and foolish, flickers in Lanau's chest. Dolma sits back on her heels, wiping her brow with a relatively clean part of her forearm, leaving a smear of blood and salve. "Hmph. Tough little sparrow, this one. Maybe..." She doesn't finish, exhaustion etching deep lines around her eyes.

But the reprieve is brief. As the deep cold of the steppe night settles, seeping through the felt walls, Goeghon's breathing grows shallow again. Then slower. The wet rattle returns, louder, more final. His skin turns waxen, cold beneath Lanau's touch despite the brazier's heat. Dolma checks his pulse at the neck, then again. She lets out a long, slow breath that clouds in the chill air. She gently closes his unseeing eyes.

"Gone," Dolma states, the word flat and heavy as stone. She pulls a small, worn pouch from her satchel – different herbs now, sweetgrass and sage. She sprinkles them onto the brazier's coals. A thin, fragrant smoke curls upwards. "Sweet smoke for a brave journey, little sparrow. You flew well." She bows her head briefly.

Saya lets out a choked sob, burying her face in her bandaged hands. Sen just stares, her vacant eyes fixed on her brother's still face, trembling violently. They cling to each other, whispering broken Seop words of loss and confusion. Lanau feels a lump rise in her own throat, a mixture of grief and profound weariness. She failed. They all failed.

Dolma rises stiffly, groaning as her knees crack. She turns to Lanau, her sharp eyes assessing her not as a patient, but as a person. "You," she declares, poking Lanau firmly in the chest, making her wince. "Strong hands. Steady nerve. Didn't faint, didn't vomit, didn't run screaming when Auntie Dolma started digging shrapnel out of a man's kidneys. Learned quick." A rare, almost grudging respect warms her voice. "Been looking for someone like you for... oh, fifty winters? Maybe sixty. Lost count." She gestures broadly at her chaotic satchel, the jars, the pouches. "All this? My life's work. Potions to purge a demon, salves to soothe a sunburn, tricks to tell if a man's faking a bellyache or actually dying. Needs passing on." She fixes Lanau with an intense stare. "Stay. Be my apprentice. My heir. Never found anyone else whose skull was thick enough and their fingers clever enough. You fit."

Lanau blinks, stunned. The offer is as abrupt and unexpected as the explosion itself. "Dolma, I... I have duties. To my Khan. To Tepr..."

"Pah!" Dolma waves a dismissive hand, already starting to pack her tools with renewed energy. "Tepr! Tepr will be ash or tribute soon enough. Noga sees something in that charred boy you came with, mark my words. The wind shifts. Be smart. Learn the healing arts. Useful anywhere. Smarter than swinging a sword until you get your head chopped off." She doesn't wait for an answer, bustling towards the flap. "Think on it, Assistant. Sky knows I won't ask twice!" She disappears into the night, leaving Lanau alone with the dead man and his grieving sisters, the weight of the offer settling alongside the grief.

Later, Lanau finds herself guided not back to the grim healer's space, nor to the remnants of the guest yurt, but to the entrance of Noga's large command tent. A young warrior silently ushers her inside. The contrast is jarring. Warmth envelops her, along with the scent of expensive incense, mutton stew, and the faint perfume of exotic oils. Rich carpets cover the frozen ground, layered with furs. Low tables groan under platters of glazed fruits Lanau has never seen, candied nuts, delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar, and steaming bowls of fragrant stew. Sarangerel, her voice still raspy but her eyes alert, offers Lanau a cup of hot, spiced wine in a delicate silver cup. Altantsetseg, her ankle propped on a cushion, beams and pushes a platter of honey-drenched pastries towards her. Bora sits regally, observing everything with her sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Eat, Sister-warrior," Bora commands, though her tone is warmer than before. "You saved our lives. Our hearth honors you." She gestures around. "Take what pleases you. Treasures from the heartlands of Yohazatz." She points to intricate silver jewelry, bolts of shimmering silk, a beautifully carved jade horse figurine.

Lanau, overwhelmed, accepts the wine. The richness of the spread, the sheer luxury after the harshness of Tepr and the recent horror, is disorienting. "Thank you, Honored Wives," she murmurs, taking a small pastry. "This is... unexpected generosity."

"Generosity is owed," Bora states simply. "Sit. Tell us of your home. Your family. We are far from Qixi-Lo, and news is... scarce." Her gaze is probing.

Lanau, her guard lowered by exhaustion and the surreal comfort, finds herself talking. She mentions her family, her sister, her nieces, a clan elder, the respect commanded by the Axi-Örukai name. She doesn't boast, but the lineage is clear in her bearing.

Bora listens intently, sipping her wine. Sarangerel asks gentle questions about the horses of Tepr. Altantsetseg sighs dreamily about wide-open spaces. Then, Bora sets her cup down with a soft clink. Her gaze locks onto Lanau, sharp and calculating.

"The blood of chieftains flows in your veins, Lanau Axi-Örukai," Bora states, no hint of question. "Not a common warrior. A daughter of power."

Lanau flushes slightly, caught. "My family is respected, yes. But in Tepr merit matters most."

"Merit is proven," Bora concedes. "You have proven yours tenfold." She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping, becoming intensely serious. "Respected daughter of a powerful Tepr clan... hear me. This war, this river of blood soaking the snow... it could stop. Today. Now."

Lanau stares, the pastry turning to ash in her mouth. "Stop? How?"

"A marriage," Bora says, the word hanging in the fragrant air. "A union. Between you... and Noga Khanzadeh."

Lanau's breath catches. Sarangerel gasps softly. Altantsetseg's eyes widen.

"Think," Bora presses, her voice low and urgent. "Tepr bows to the Khanate of Khans, yes. But Noga recognizes strength, lineage. He needs legitimacy beyond the sword in the north. You provide it. Daughter of the Axi-Örukai, wed to the conqueror. Your people become his people, not crushed enemies, but integrated subjects. The killing ceases. The camps are spared. Your tribespeople live." She pauses, letting the magnitude sink in. "Naci Khan? She would be... dealt with. Exiled, perhaps. But the bloodshed ends. Peace, forged through alliance, not annihilation."

Lanau's mind reels. A diplomatic marriage. She'd always known her status might demand one, perhaps to some ally's son. But Noga? The architect of Tepr's torment? It was monstrous. Unthinkable.

And yet... Bora's words paint a terrifyingly plausible picture. Peace. Lives saved. Her own pragmatic upbringing, drilled into her by a father who understood power and sacrifice, warred with visceral revulsion. She sees the faces of the warriors in the camp, the elders, the children – all spared the sword. She sees Horohan, Naci, spared a brutal death fighting a losing battle. She sees her duty, stark and undeniable.

Noga himself was... undeniable. Ruthless, brilliant, terrifying. A conqueror, yes, but also a force reshaping the world. Few "better parties" existed in terms of raw power and reach. Marrying him wouldn't be for love – it would be the ultimate political gambit, a sacrifice on the altar of survival.

The silence stretches. The crackle of the brazier, the faint scent of incense, the expectant faces of the wives – it all presses in on Lanau. The weight of the offer, the horrific salvation it promises, settles on her shoulders like a mantle of ice and iron. She looks down at the delicate silver cup in her hand, a symbol of a world utterly alien to the felt yurts of Tepr. Her voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse, barely a whisper, yet it fills the tent.

"It... is an offer," Lanau says, meeting Bora's intense gaze, "that requires... serious consideration."

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