The days bleed into a strange, suspended rhythm within the sprawling Yohazatz camp. Temej sleeps in a small, utilitarian tent near the horse lines, the air thick with the scent of dung and leather. Lanau rests in a partitioned section of the wives' luxurious pavilion, surrounded by silks and the cloying sweetness of incense. They pass like ghosts in the grey dawns and frigid twilights, exchanging fleeting, heavy-laden glances across trampled snow, but words remain unspoken, trapped beneath layers of duty, trauma, and the suffocating presence of Prince Noga.

Noga, the vortex of the camp, consumes Temej's days. They ride the frozen steppe, Noga testing his knowledge of eagles, of Tepr's hidden valleys, of the migratory patterns of the elusive snow antelope. He sets Temej intricate puzzles with carved bone pieces, watches him struggle with the complex courtly script of the western khanates, observes his quiet competence in tending the borrowed horse. Noga speaks of irrigation, trade routes, the unification of law. He speaks with the chilling certainty of a man reading a preordained script. Temej, starved of purpose, bruised by Naci's violence and the relentless pragmatism of survival, finds the sheer, undeniable force of Noga's vision seeping into the cracks of his resistance. The Prince sees not a broken eagle-handler, but raw material – perceptive, resilient, strangely honest. A potential advisor, honed in a different forge.

Lanau, meanwhile, navigates a different gilded cage. She spends hours with Dolma in the healer's smoky alcove, her hands learning the texture of herbs, the sting of antiseptics, the grim mechanics of stitching flesh. Dolma barks, critiques, occasionally grunts approval. "Less clumsy today, Assistant!" Lanau endures, the practical skill a tangible anchor amidst the surreal horror. She also dines with the wives. Bora probes, subtle as a stiletto beneath velvet, weaving visions of peace through Lanau's lineage. Sarangerel offers quiet empathy, Altantsetseg shares tales of Qixi-Lo's gardens. Lanau eats their delicate pastries, listens to their silken promises of an end to bloodshed bought with her name, and feels the terrible weight of the choice solidify like ice in her gut. Duty wars with visceral revulsion. The luxurious tent feels like a beautifully appointed tomb.

Then, chaos erupts. Dolma's voice, usually a raspy bark, ascends into a shrieking ululation that slices through the camp's murmur like a rusty blade. Pots shatter. A cloud of violently purple smoke billows from her tent flap, smelling aggressively of fermented plums and crushed beetles. The old shaman stumbles out, hair wilder than usual, eyes rolling white, robes askew and smeared with unidentifiable gloop. She brandishes a staff topped with a desiccated marmot skull.

"FOX!" she howls, spinning in a clumsy circle, the marmot skull clacking against her own head. "Sly! Slick! Whispering lies on the wind! Slithered right in, bold as brass, while you all snore like drunken marmots!" She jabs her staff towards a cluster of startled warriors. "You! Did you smell sulfur? No? Useless! Like noses carved from cheese!" She points dramatically at the cook fires. "You! Burning good mutton fat! The fox loves the smell! Distraction! Oh, Sky's wrinkled backside, it's laughing at us!"

Warriors stop sharpening blades. Cooks drop ladles. Noga, deep in conversation with Temej near his command tent, turns, his obsidian eyes narrowing not in alarm, but cold assessment. Temej watches, bewildered, as Dolma staggers towards the Prince, tripping over her own staff. "Khanzadeh! Khan-of-Whatsits! Open your eyes! Or better yet, your nostrils! Fox! In the camp! Right now! Smells like cheap perfume and cheaper lies! Find it! Or it'll steal your victory, your boots, probably your favourite wife's underthings!" She collapses theatrically at Noga's feet, wheezing. "Count them! Count all the sheep! Find the fox or he'll eat you WHOLE!"

A beat of stunned silence hangs. Then Noga speaks, his voice a low rumble that instantly snaps the camp to rigid attention. "Formation. Now. By sections. Full count. Head of section, report discrepancies immediately." No question, no hesitation.

The camp explodes into organized chaos. Thousands of men, a sea of fur and steel, shuffle into rough columns of one hundred. The air fills with the guttural chants of section heads counting off: "Arvan! Khoyor! Gurav! Döröv!..." The counts ripple down the lines, a monotonous, time-consuming tide. Hours crawl by. The weak sun climbs, offering little warmth. Breath plumes thickly. Feet stamp against the freezing ground. Dolma, seemingly recovered, prowls the edges, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, muttering imprecations about "musty fur" and "overconfident rodents."

Temej stands near Noga, feeling the immense, impersonal weight of the army. He scans the faces – hard, weathered, anonymous. Where is Lanau? He spots her near the wives' tent, face pale, watching Dolma. The counting drones on. Sections report: "One hundred, present!" "One hundred, present!" The sheer scale is numbing. Noga stands like an iron statue, radiating impatience.

Then, a ripple. Near the center, two section heads erupt into a snarling argument. "Ninety-nine! I counted twice!" "One hundred! You can't count your own fingers, Bor!" Their voices rise, sharp in the cold air. Instantly, Noga is moving, striding through the ranks like a glacier parting the sea. Warriors flinch aside. Temej follows, drawn by the sudden tension.

Noga halts before the disputed section. His gaze sweeps the hundred faces. "Name," he commands the first warrior. The man snaps it out. Noga moves to the next. "Name." And the next. "Name." It's a relentless, terrifying roll call. Temej watches the faces – some stoic, some nervous, all stamped with the harsh life of the steppe. He feels a prickle of unease, a memory scratching at his mind. A fox... Konir. That flamboyant Orogol shaman... The eunuch Meicong talked about. Kuan. Why did it feel... present?

Noga reaches the end of the row. The last warrior, a lean man with a scar bisecting one eyebrow and eyes that dart like minnows, meets his Khan's gaze. "Konir, Great Khan," the man states, his voice surprisingly smooth.

Konir. The name lands in Temej's mind with the weight of a dropped anvil, but this man? This scarred, unremarkable warrior? This isn't the loud, embroidered nuisance. This is wrong. Deeply, unsettlingly wrong. Temej shifts his weight, a subtle intake of breath his only tell.

Noga doesn't hesitate. His obsidian eyes hold no flicker of recognition, only the cold finality of judgment. "I know no Konir in my army," he states, the words devoid of inflection. His hand, moving faster than thought, snakes out. Not a punch, not a weapon drawn. A simple, brutal, twisting motion. A sickening crack, sharp as splitting ice, echoes across the suddenly silent field. The man named Konir crumples bonelessly to the trampled snow, neck twisted at an impossible angle, eyes staring blankly at the bruised sky.

A collective gasp ripples through the ranks, quickly stifled. Dolma, who had been sniffing near the back, lets out a theatrical sigh. She shuffles forward, her earlier frenzy replaced by a grim focus. She stops beside the corpse, closes her eyes, and hums a low, discordant note. The air around her seems to thicken, to shimmer faintly like heat haze off summer stone. She bends, places a gnarled hand briefly on the dead man's forehead, then straightens, opening her milky eyes. They fix on Noga, sharp and clear.

"Dead meat," she rasps, nudging the body with her boot. "But the fox..." She taps her own temple, then sniffs the air again, a predator catching a fading scent. "...the cunning... it flits. Not dead yet, Prince. Just... relocated. Sly thing." She smiles. "Best keep counting."

The execution of "Konir" settles over the Yohazatz camp like a layer of fresh, undisturbed snow – chilling, momentarily silencing, but quickly trodden under the relentless march of routine. By the next grey noon, the rhythms of survival reassert themselves.

Temej finds himself squatting near a communal cook-fire, cradling a wooden bowl of thin, greasy porridge studded with dubious bits of gristle. He's surrounded by a half-dozen Yohazatz warriors speaking of home – the vast, arid plains west of the Tengr, the scent of sagebrush after rain, the specific ache of missing wives or mothers. Complaints about dwindling supplies – hardtack like stone, salt meat running low, the pervasive chill that seeps into bones – are voiced with stoic resignation.

One warrior, however, vibrates with an energy entirely out of place. He's wiry, with a forgettable face save for eyes that dart like trapped birds. His bowl is perpetually empty, his spoon clacking against it like an impatient woodpecker. He leans conspiratorially towards Temej, his breath smelling faintly of fermented mare's milk.

"…and the women of Pezijil," the talkative soldier sighs theatrically, "skin like polished jade, they say. Fragile as spun sugar. Not like our sturdy Yohazatz flowers, eh? Though your Tepr women… fierce! Like snow leopards! Tell me, Eagle-man, is it true the Alinkar women fight naked under the full moon? A ritual? Or just… practical?"

Temej grunts, shoveling porridge to avoid speaking. The man barrels on.

"Your Khan, this Naci… fiery, yes? Bet she's got a temper like a stepped-on hornet's nest. What sets her off? Bad news? Slow horses? Men who talk too much?" He chuckles at his own non-joke. "And her wife, the Khatun who scorched her land… Horohan, was it? Strong? Beautiful? Bet the Moukopl officers took a… keen interest, eh? They're not used to women marriages." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Temej's knuckles whiten on his spoon. The warrior's relentless, grating voice scrapes against his raw nerves. He mentions Horohan with a casual cruelty that makes Temej's stomach clench. The man leans closer, oblivious.

"And you, Eagle-man… Temej. Fine name. Grounded. Solid. But eagles soar, don't they? Ever feel… trapped? Here? With us? Or back there? With the… scorched earth policy? Must chafe a man who loves the sky. Bet you dream of flying away. Where would you go? South? Warm springs? Tell me Temej, where is your eagle?"

Temej stands up so abruptly his bowl clatters to the frozen ground, porridge splattering like pale blood. The chatter around the fire dies instantly. All eyes snap to him – wary, questioning. The talkative soldier looks up, feigning innocent surprise.

"Eagle-man? Something wrong? The porridge disagree? Or my sparkling conversation?"

Without a word, Temej grabs the man by the front of his grubby tunic. He's surprisingly light for his tall frame, and Temej's grip, fueled by shock and fury, is iron. He hauls him upright, ignoring the man's squawk of protest. "Walk," Temej growls, low and dangerous, propelling him away from the fire, away from the watching eyes. He steers him forcefully behind the nearest large yurt, its felt wall blocking the wind and the view. He shoves the man hard against the frozen, tapestry-stiffened felt.

"Alright, alright! Easy, friend! No need for roughhousing! My ribs are delicate!" the soldier whines, rubbing his chest, but his eyes, those darting bird-eyes, now hold a sharp, calculating gleam beneath the feigned panic.

Temej crowds him, pinning him against the yurt, his face inches away. "Shut up, Kuan," he hisses, the name a venomous dart.

The transformation is instantaneous. The cringing soldier vanishes. The eyes stop darting and lock onto Temej's, wide with exaggerated shock that quickly melts into pure, delighted amusement. A slow, wicked grin spreads across the forgettable face. "Kuan?" he echoes, his voice dropping its Yohazatz rasp, sliding into that familiar, melodious, slightly mocking lilt. "Oh, deadname, darling! How dreadfully rude of you!" He places a hand dramatically over his heart. "That name belongs to a dusty old scroll in a forgotten archive. Buried. Deceased. Decomposed. Call me Konir, my dear Temej. It's ever so much more… alive. And frankly, suits my current complexion better, don't you think?" He gestures vaguely at his grimy, unremarkable visage.

Temej doesn't budge. "Meicong told me," he states flatly.

Kuan's face crumples into an absurd parody of heartbreak. "Meicong? Oh, that vicious little viper! Always so mean to me. Calls me names, stabs me in the back…" He sniffles theatrically, though no tears appear. "She doesn't understand my delicate artistic temperament. Konir is my truth now. My chosen identity. Show some respect for a person's journey, Eagle-man. It's the compassionate thing to do." He bats his eyelashes.

Temej leans closer, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "What are you doing here, Kuan?" He deliberately emphasizes the last word.

Konir flinches, genuinely irritated this time. "Tsk. Petty. Very petty." He smooths his tunic with exaggerated dignity. "As for my purpose… well, a weaver must guard his loom, mustn't he? Secrets are my silk, Temej. Delicate. Easily tangled. Wouldn't want clumsy eagle-handlers stomping through the pattern." He offers a smile that's all sharp edges and hidden needles. "Let's just say… I'm ensuring the wind blows in a very interesting direction soon. A direction our mutual friend Naci might find… fortuitous. Eventually." He winks. "Now, if you'll excuse me? I have a column count to avoid and porridge to not eat. Ta-ta, Eagle-man. Do try not to shout my deadname across the camp, there's a dear. Spoils the surprise." And with a surprising twist and a rustle of felt, he slides out from Temej's pinning arm like smoke, melting into the labyrinth of yurts, leaving Temej alone behind the shelter.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The following days hang heavy with Dolma's palpable unease. She stalks the camp perimeter, muttering incantations that make the nearby horses skittish. She burns foul-smelling bundles of herbs outside Noga's command tent, the acrid smoke clinging stubbornly to the felt. She peers intently at ravens, argues with marmots, and once throws a cup of perfectly good tea at a passing cloud, shrieking about "bad omens swimming in the broth!"

Noga observes this shamanic tempest with cold detachment. Riding out with Temej one brittle morning, the weak sun struggling through high clouds, he gestures back towards the camp where Dolma can be seen vigorously shaking a sack of dried beetles at a cluster of bewildered guards. "The old vulture smells a rat," Noga remarks, his voice devoid of amusement. "Or rather, insists the air smells of rat. Claims the fox-spirit slipped its skin and slunk back in, wearing a new face. More perfumed nonsense?" He glances sideways at Temej, his obsidian eyes probing. "Or does the wind whisper warnings even I cannot hear, Eagle-handler?"

Temej feels a bead of sweat trace a cold path down his spine beneath his layers. He keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, the vast, snow-veiled expanse offering no answers. He cannot risk revealing Kuan yet – not without understanding the eunuch's game, not without potentially condemning Lanau or himself.

The trap is born of necessity and Kuan's own flamboyant weakness. Temej notices the man's — currently disguised as a grumpy quartermaster's assistant named Bor — subtle, yet profound, aversion to the communal latrine trench. Kuan, even buried under grime and a borrowed identity, retains a fastidiousness bordering on the pathological. He holds his breath, pinches his nose, and performs his business with the speed and desperation of a man fleeing poison gas. Temej sees his chance.

One frigid afternoon, Temej corners "Bor" near the supply yurts. "Heard you complaining about the stench near the horse lines, Bor," Temej states, his tone conspiratorial. "Unbearable, truly. Found something. Stashed it." He pulls a small, rough clay jar from his sleeve. "Seop traders passed through months ago. Left this. 'Mountain Flower Soap.' Smells like… well, not that. One whiff clears the sinuses for a week. Guard it with your life." He presses the jar into Kuan's hands. The jar contains nothing but rendered mutton fat mixed with wood ash and a faint trace of mint Temej scavenged – utterly useless, but plausibly exotic.

Kuan's eyes, beneath the practiced scowl, light with desperate hope. He sniffs the jar cautiously. The faint mint is enough. "Bless you, man!" he rasps in his quartermaster-assistant growl, clutching the jar like a holy relic. "A true comrade! Where…?"

"Quiet spot," Temej murmurs, nodding towards the secluded latrine trench shielded by a low berm of frozen earth and snow. "Best used in privacy. Enjoy." He walks away, heart pounding.

He doesn't have to wait long. From his vantage point behind a supply sled, Temej watches "Bor" approach the trench area with the reverence of a pilgrim approaching a sacred spring. He glances furtively around, then ducks behind the berm. The moment Kuan is hidden, focused on his precious "soap," Temej moves. He sprints, low and silent, snow crunching softly under his boots. He crests the berm just as Kuan is uncorking the jar, his borrowed face a mask of hopeful anticipation.

Temej doesn't speak. He simply lunges, tackling Kuan backwards into the pristine, drifted snow away from the trench, but perilously close. They land in a flurry of white. Kuan lets out a squawk of pure outrage, the clay jar flying from his grasp to shatter harmlessly against the frozen berm.

"MY SOAP!" Kuan wails, the quartermaster persona evaporating instantly into familiar, melodramatic despair. He scrambles, trying to rise, but Temej pins him effortlessly, a knee planted firmly on his chest. The stench from the nearby trench is potent.

"Shut up, Kuan," Temej hisses, leaning close. "Or I'll shove your face in it."

Kuan stops struggling. His eyes, wide with feigned terror, suddenly sharpen. The despair melts into pure, unadulterated amusement. He starts to laugh, a rich, slightly manic sound that echoes weirdly off the frozen berm. "Oh, very good, Eagle-man! The soap gambit! Delightfully cruel! Appealing to my one tragic vulnerability! Bravo!" He beams up at Temej. "Did their shaman teach you that? She is so strong I can't approach the prince's yurt at all."

"Why?" Temej demands, his voice tight. "Why are you here? What is your goal?"

Kuan sighs, a picture of wounded innocence despite the knee on his chest and the ambient aroma. "Goal? Dear Temej, must everything have a goal? Can't a humble weaver simply… observe the tapestry of war? Appreciate the intricate patterns of ambition and despair?"

"Try again."

"Fine," Kuan concedes, his smile turning razor-thin. "I fell into your charmingly primitive trap… on purpose."

Temej's grip tightens on Kuan's tunic. "Liar."

"Am I?" Kuan's eyes glitter. "Think, Temej. I evaded the hag's sniffing, Noga's count, an entire army's suspicion. Yet I succumb to soap? Please. I wanted this conversation. A private audience with Noga's newest… potential lapdog." He tilts his head. "Tell me, Eagle-handler. The Prince's vision… does it shine brightly in your mind? His 'strength is perception'? His 'knowledge wielded ruthlessly'? Does the prospect of advising the Khan of Khans warm your frozen Tepr bones? Will you trade your eagle feathers for a Yohazatz leash?"

Temej flinches. "I haven't decided anything."

"Haven't you?" Kuan's voice drops, losing its theatrical lilt, becoming cold, clear, and unnervingly like Noga's in its relentless logic. "Consider the arithmetic, Temej. Noga builds an empire on a mountain of skulls – his violence is 'securing a future'. Horohan poisons wells and burns forests – her violence is 'survival'. The Moukopl flood cities and crush rebellions – their violence is 'order'. Rebels lose their arms for freedom – their violence is 'sacrifice'. Where does the scale tip towards righteousness? Does the intention sanctify the slaughter? Or is violence simply… violence? A brutal, ugly constant, like the wind or the cold, wielded by whoever holds the biggest stick and the smoothest lie?" He holds Temej's gaze, his own eyes dark pools reflecting the grey sky. "The world is a butcher's block, Temej. Always has been. Trying to find the 'right' wielder of the cleaver is a fool's errand. They all get blood on their hands. The only question worth asking your heart is… whose vision of the charnel house do you find less… nauseating?"

The words land like stones in Temej's gut. He feels the icy ground beneath him, the reek of the trench, the weight of the choice pressing down. He sees Noga's undeniable power, Horohan's desperate defiance, the endless river of blood. Kuan's cynical clarity is terrifyingly seductive in its simplicity.

"Get out," Temej rasps, the fight gone out of him. He removes his knee, standing up. "Go back to wherever you slithered from. Before I change my mind and hand you to Noga."

Kuan scrambles to his feet, brushing snow and imagined filth from his disguise with fastidious disgust. "Such hostility! And after such a stimulating discourse!" He offers a flamboyant, mocking bow. "As you wish, O Grumpy Guardian of Latrines. I shall return to the… fragrant embrace… of our mutual friends." He straightens, his eyes sharpening. "The Tengr camp. Behind the Ruturk Stream bend. You know the place? Good." He takes a step back, his gaze locking with Temej's. The playful mask slips entirely for a fleeting second, revealing something cold and deadly serious beneath. "I do hope, for everyone's sake, that you don't mention this place to our dear Prince. He might feel compelled to send his elite horsemen there for a… surprise visit. Such a distraction, when he could be focusing his considerable energies… elsewhere." He lets the implication hang, heavy and threatening. "Farewell, Temej. Choose your butcher wisely."

Before Temej can react, Kuan turns and melts into the maze of yurts and supply sleds, vanishing as completely as smoke on the wind.

...

The biting cold of the Tepr plateau has sunk its teeth deep into the Yohazatz camp, turning breath to ice crystals and making even the hardiest warrior dream of hearthstones. Two days after Kuan's unsettling disappearance, Noga finds Temej huddled near a sputtering cook-fire, attempting to coax feeling back into his fingers. The Prince strides up, his midnight cloak swirling like a storm cloud, a predatory grin splitting his face.

"Eagle-handler! You look like a half-frozen marmot contemplating hibernation!" Noga booms, clapping Temej hard on the shoulder, making him wince. "Sky's teeth, man, we need to thaw that Tepr ice from your bones before you shatter!"

Temej shivers, pulling his worn wolfskin tighter. "Thawing requires fire, Prince, or sunlight. Neither seems abundant."

Noga throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing like cracking ice. "Fire? Sunlight? Primitive comforts for primitive men! We are civilized, Temej! We bathe!" He gestures grandly towards the edge of the camp where a new, larger yurt stands, thick plumes of steam curling defiantly from its smoke-hole into the frigid air.

Temej stares, bewildered. "Bathe? Now? In that?" He imagines plunging into a frozen spring, skin turning blue. "Respectfully, Prince, that sounds like a swift path to joining the ancestors."

Noga's grin widens, revealing strong white teeth. "Frozen spring? Pah! Do I look like a goatherd washing in a puddle?" He leans closer, his obsidian eyes gleaming with amusement. "That steam, Eagle-man? That's the breath of warmth. Liquid fire drawn from the earth itself. Trust me. Ten minutes in that embrace, and you'll forget the word 'cold' exists. Clears the mind, boils the blood – perfect for making sharp decisions." He winks, a gesture loaded with implication. "Come. Consider it a Khan's command."

Reluctance wars with intense curiosity and the undeniable allure of promised warmth. Temej follows Noga through the camp, the plume of steam acting as a beacon. Two of Noga's Tigers Guards, the warriors guards clad in black-lacquered lamellar, stand rigid as obsidian statues outside the yurt's entrance, their breath frosting the air despite their proximity to the heat source. Noga pushes aside the heavy felt flap, releasing a thick, fragrant cloud of steam that momentarily blinds Temej.

Inside, the transformation is staggering. The familiar circular space is unrecognizable. The ground is covered in smooth, heated river stones radiating palpable warmth. A large, sunken wooden tub dominates the center, filled with water so clear it shimmers like liquid topaz, roiling gently from a hidden heat source beneath. The air is thick, wet, and laden with the scent of pine needles and something spicy – cedar, perhaps, or sandalwood. Condensation beads on the taut felt walls, catching the flickering light of a single, shielded oil lamp. It feels like stepping into the warm, beating heart of the earth itself, a sanctuary carved from the frozen hell outside.

Noga sheds his cloak, tunic, and boots with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to command even in undress. His body is a map of hard muscle and old scars. "Off with it, Eagle-man!" he commands, already stepping towards the water. "Modesty is for virgins!"

Feeling acutely self-conscious, Temej fumbles with his own layers. The contrast between his lean frame, marked by the recent burn and years of handling eagles, and Noga's powerful build is stark. He hesitates at the tub's edge, the steam coiling around his bare legs. Noga, already submerged up to his chest, lets out a deep, satisfied groan that vibrates through the water. "By the Sky Father's beard! That's the stuff! Don't just stand there gawping like a startled hare, Temej! In!"

Temej dips a tentative toe. The heat is startling, almost painful after the pervasive cold. He gasps, then slowly, achingly, lowers himself in. The sensation is overwhelming. Scalding bliss floods his frozen limbs, chasing the bone-deep chill, turning his muscles to liquid warmth. A groan escapes him, unbidden, a sound of pure, animal relief. He sinks deeper, until the water laps at his chin, closing his eyes against the steam.

Noga watches him, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "See? Told you. Liquid fire. Better than a woman's embrace on a winter night, eh?" He splashes water playfully at Temej. "First time in a proper bath, Eagle-handler? You look like you've discovered fire all over again!"

Temej manages a weak nod, too consumed by the sheer, decadent pleasure of warmth to speak. He floats, weightless, the heat leaching the tension from his bandaged arm, the worries from his mind. Noga leans back against the smooth wood, closing his eyes, the harsh lines of his face softening momentarily in the steam.

The comfortable silence stretches, broken only by the gentle lap of water and the hiss of the heating stones. Noga's voice, when it comes, is quieter, less the conqueror, more… contemplative. "Tell me, Temej. Do you have siblings back in your nest?"

Temej opens his eyes, the warmth making him feel strangely loose-tongued. "An older brother," he says, the words slipping out easily. "Borak. Strong. Brave. A true warrior." A shadow crosses his face. "Captured. In Qixi-Lo."

Noga's eyes snap open, sharp and alert. "Qixi-Lo? My father's…?" He frowns, genuinely surprised. "When?"

"During the Moukopal draft," Temej explains, the warmth unable to melt the cold knot of worry entirely. "He was taken west with others. Then… your people took them."

Noga nods slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his obsidian gaze. "I was campaigning further north when that fortress fell. Dealing with… other pretenders." He pauses, then meets Temej's eyes.

Temej murmurs. "He'd rather starve than rot in jail."

Noga studies him for a long moment. The steam curls between them. Then, the Prince dips his head in a curt, decisive nod. "A warrior's spirit. I respect that. When we return west…" He locks eyes with Temej, his voice dropping to a low, resonant vow. "I swear it by the Sky Father and the Earth Mother. Your brother walks free. Consider it done."

The promise hangs heavy in the fragrant air. It's immense, unexpected. Hope, treacherous and fragile, blooms in Temej's chest. "All of them?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Tepr men taken?"

Noga's smile is thin, but it holds a strange kind of honor. "All of them. A gesture of goodwill."

"What about you, Prince?" Temej asks mindlessly.

The shift in Noga is instant and chilling. The relaxed posture vanishes. He stares down into the swirling water, his face hardening into a mask of granite. The warmth in the yurt suddenly feels oppressive. "Two younger brothers," he says, the words clipped, devoid of warmth. "Good boys. Obedient. Follow the rules. Probably spend their days cursing my name." He pauses, the silence thick with unsaid tension. "They hate me, most likely. For what I am. What I've done." He looks up, his eyes dark pits. "But I would die for them. Without hesitation. They are my blood."

Temej senses the deep, tragic undercurrent. He treads carefully, yet the question forms almost unbidden. "What about the first son?"

Noga's head snaps up. His gaze locks onto Temej's, not with anger, but with a bleak, terrifying emptiness. Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hands from the water. They are powerful hands, scarred, capable of crushing stone. He brings them up towards his own throat. His fingers curl, not touching the skin, but hovering inches away, mimicking the act of strangulation with horrifying precision. The muscles in his forearms cord. His knuckles whiten. Steam rises from his clenched fists.

He holds the pose, his eyes never leaving Temej's. Then, in a voice flat as a tombstone, devoid of any inflection, he speaks the terrible truth.

"I killed him."

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