The steam coils between them like lazy serpents. Temej watches Noga's hands sink back beneath the shimmering, topaz water.

In that moment, Temej doesn't see the ruthless conqueror. He sees a terrifying what-if version of himself. He sees the boy who might have been forced to crush his own gentleness, to strangle his softer dreams just to survive the brutal forge of ambition and necessity. He sees the crushing weight of choices that leave blood under the fingernails and ice in the soul. A profound, unexpected sadness washes over Temej, warmer than the bathwater, deeper than the steam. Sadness for the man Noga had to become. Sadness for the boy he never could be.

Noga stares into the swirling water, his voice losing its customary resonance, dropping to a murmur. "I want to watch birds." The admission is startling in its simplicity, its vulnerability. "High on a crag, feeling the wind, learning their calls… not the cries of dying men." He lifts his gaze, meeting Temej's. The envy in his obsidian eyes is naked, startlingly intense. "You… you have that. Or did. The sky. The quiet watchfulness. The freedom. I envy you that peace more than any throne, any conquered city. More than this."

The raw honesty cracks something open in Temej. "You deserve it, Noga," he says, the words surprising even him. They feel true. "To be Khan. To build what you see." He leans forward slightly, the water lapping at his chin. "And when you have an heir. When the empire is secure. You can go back. Find a high crag. Learn the eagles again. I… I could teach you."

A flicker of something almost painful crosses Noga's face – a longing so deep it borders on anguish, instantly buried beneath layers of iron resolve. He gives a short, bitter laugh, more a puff of steam than sound. "Bound, Temej," he rasps, tapping his chest where the heart beats beneath scar tissue. "Bound to this life until my last breath. It's the price. The only coin I have left to pay for the sins."

"Then let me teach you anyway," Temej insists, the warmth of the water, the shared vulnerability, pushing him. "Before the last breath. While you build." He holds Noga's gaze, the steam softening the hard edges of the Prince's face. "If… if this means I follow your vision… I will. As long as you promise… promise to settle this with Tepr diplomatically. After the show of strength. No more burning. No more slaughter. Talk. Can you do it?"

Noga's eyes narrow. The conqueror resurfaces, but tempered by the shared glimpse into each other's souls. Slowly, deliberately, Noga raises his right hand from the water. He places it flat over his heart, the water dripping from his powerful forearm. His gaze never wavers from Temej's.

"By the Sky Father who judges," Noga intones, his voice regaining its deep resonance, echoing slightly in the steamy confines. "By the Earth Mother who nourishes. By the blood I have spilled and the blood that binds me. I swear it, Temej of the Alinkar. Victory will be swift. Then… diplomacy. Terms. Peace for Tepr, integrated into the Khanate. Your people will keep their lands, their eagles… under my banner. You have my oath."

Relief, warm and heady, floods Temej. He sees the sincerity in Noga's eyes, feels the weight of the vow. It feels like a lifeline thrown across a chasm of violence. He nods. The pact is sealed.

Temej rises from the water. Rivulets stream down his frame as he steps onto the heated stones, reaching for his rough-spun drying cloth. He dresses quickly, the simple tunic and trousers feeling flimsy against the lingering warmth and the enormity of the moment.

Noga watches him, relaxed back in the water, a contemplative, almost satisfied expression on his face. The vulnerability is receding, replaced by the familiar mantle of command, but softened.

Temej pauses at the heavy felt flap, hand resting on the damp wool. He turns back, meeting Noga's gaze one last time in the steam-hazed gloom. The words form on his lips, a gesture of trust, a final offering to seal their new understanding. He speaks clearly, ensuring the Prince hears over the gentle lap of water.

"The Tengr camp," Temej says, his voice steady. "Where our people shelter. It's behind the Ruturk Stream bend. Well-hidden. Defensible." He offers the information freely, a symbol of his commitment, his belief in the promised diplomacy. "Now you know."

Noga's reaction is subtle. A slow blink. A fractional tilt of his head. Then, a smile spreads across his face. It's not the predatory grin of the conqueror, nor the fleeting warmth of shared understanding. It's something else entirely – a smile of profound, almost weary satisfaction. It reaches his eyes, but there's a chilling depth to it, a knowledge that seems to stretch far beyond the steamy yurt. He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He simply holds that smile, watching Temej.

Temej feels a prickle of unease, a cold drop sliding down his spine despite the lingering bath heat. The smile holds no warmth now. It holds… pity? Amusement? Finality? He pushes the feeling down. He gives a final, curt nod, then pushes through the flap, stepping back into the biting, snow-laden air of the camp.

Inside the bathhouse, the steam swirls around Noga, obscuring his face for a moment. When it clears, the smile remains, etched like stone. A low chuckle, devoid of any real mirth, rumbles in his chest, barely audible over the hiss of the heating stones. He lifts a hand, watching the water drip from his fingers, each drop a tiny, falling world.

"Diplomacy," Noga murmurs to the empty, fragrant air, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. A single, sharp, bitter laugh escapes him. "Sweet, foolish Eagle-man." He sinks lower into the deceptive warmth, the promise of peace already dissolving like steam in the frozen wind outside. "Diplomacy is dead." He closes his eyes, the image of the stream bend burning bright and terrible in his strategic mind. A perfect location for an ambush. A river. Nowhere to run.

...

The brutal Tepr cold slams into Temej like a physical blow the moment he pushes through the heavy felt flap. Steam billows around him, momentarily ghosting his vision before freezing into crystalline mist. He shivers violently, the lingering warmth of the bathhouse instantly leeched away by the howling wind that scours the camp, carrying stinging needles of ice. He pulls his worn wolfskin cloak tight.

He scans the trampled snowscape between the huddled yurts, seeking the familiar path back to his own meager shelter. Movement catches his eye – a flicker near the horse lines. Kuan. Or rather, the current forgettable face Kuan wears – a nondescript Yohazatz groom bundled against the cold. The figure gives an exaggerated, cheery wave, utterly incongruous with the grim surroundings.

Temej ignores it, turning away, his boots crunching on the frozen crust. He takes three purposeful strides, head down against the gale. Then, a frigid gust swirls snow into his face. He blinks it away… and Kuan is there. Not approaching. Simply materialized, leaning casually against a supply sled Temej had just passed, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk playing on lips that belongs to someone else entirely.

"What the hell!" Temej startles backward, hand instinctively dropping towards his belt knife. "How do you do that? Are you part shadowcat?"

Kuan pushes off the sled, dusting imaginary snowflakes from his borrowed groom's tunic. "Tut-tut, Eagle-man. So jumpy! And after such a steamy tête-à-tête with the Prince?" His voice is pitched low, barely audible over the wind, but the familiar, mocking lilt is unmistakable beneath the Yohazatz rasp. He taps his temple. "I am a winter spirit, dear Temej. The long dark, the whispering frost… it sings to me. Amplifies my powers. Makes slipping between spaces a trifle easier." He gives a theatrical sigh, his breath pluming white. "Though that infernal shaman crone… she's like a boulder in a stream. Disrupts the flow. Annoyingly potent."

Temej stares, trying to reconcile the grimy groom with the flamboyant eunuch. "You don't look like a winter spirit," he mutters, shaking his head. "You look like a demon of all seasons. Annoying in spring, treacherous in summer, insufferable in autumn, and currently, a frostbitten nuisance."

Kuan clutches his chest, feigning deep offense. "Nuisance? Demon? Such harsh words for a humble messenger! And after I went to all the trouble of arranging that delightful bathhouse confession!" He drops the act, his eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence. "But that woman… yes. She is… formidable. Perhaps the strongest natural conduit I've encountered since my old master shuffled off his mortal coil. Raw, untutored power, like a geyser. I can't even approach my little Lanau. So annoying."

Temej runs a hand over his face, the cold biting his damp skin. "Shaman nonsense," he grumbles, weariness warring with irritation. He fixes Kuan with a hard stare. "I told you. If you reappeared, I'd hand you over to Noga."

Kuan throws his head back and laughs, a rich, genuine sound that seems to momentarily defy the howling wind. "Hand me over? Oh, my sweet, earnest Eagle-man!" He steps closer, ignoring Temej's flinch, and claps him firmly on the shoulder. "You already did! Magnificently! Exceeded expectations!" His grin is predatory, triumphant. "The Ruturk Stream bend. Perfectly delivered. Clear as a mountain spring. Couldn't have scripted it better myself!"

Temej stiffens. "I didn't do it for you," he hisses, wrenching his shoulder away. "I did it for Tepr."

Kuan arches an eyebrow, his amusement undimmed. He leans in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Tell me, Temej… did his muscles glisten fetchingly in the lamplight? Did the tragic tale of fratricide soften your noble heart?" He chuckles, a dry, scraping sound. "He is compelling, I grant you. A force of nature wrapped in ambition and regret. Almost… makes you want to believe him, doesn't it?"

Temej meets Kuan's mocking gaze, his own green eyes hardening like frozen earth. "He is a good man," he states, the words feeling less certain now, scraped raw by Kuan's cynicism. "Burdened. Broken, perhaps. But the potential for good is there." He squares his shoulders, the decision solidifying within him, cold and heavy. "What he does next… with the knowledge I gave him… that will tell me what side I choose."

Kuan stares at him for a long moment, the mocking grin fading into something more thoughtful, almost… intrigued. Then, it snaps back, wider than before. "Ominous!" he declares, clapping his hands together softly. "Deliciously ominous! The Eagle-man grows talons!" He beams. "I do enjoy watching a moral compass spin wildly in a blizzard. So much more entertaining than a steadfast needle."

Without a word, without conscious thought, Temej lashes out. A simple, savage, snow-crusted boot connects solidly with Kuan's shin.

"GAH!" Kuan yelps, more in surprise than pain, hopping backward on one foot, clutching his leg. "Violence! From the moral arbiter! How hypocrit—"

"Go haunt a glacier," Temej growls, already turning away, stalking towards his yurt. Behind him, leaning against the sled again, Kuan rubs his shin, a genuine, if pained, chuckle escaping him as he watches Temej vanish into the swirling white.

"Feisty," Kuan murmurs to the blizzard, a flicker of genuine respect in his eyes beneath the amusement. "Good. You'll need it, Eagle-man. For what comes next." He melts back into the storm's embrace. The game, Kuan knows, is hurtling towards its brutal, inevitable end.

...

The warmth inside Noga's yurt feels like a desperate illusion against the furious symphony of the blizzard pounding the felt walls. Rich carpets muffle the howl, but the occasional violent shudder sends dust motes dancing in the lamplight. Bora sits ramrod straight, her needlework frozen mid-stitch, a hawk observing prey. Sarangerel gracefully pours steaming cups, her movements fluid despite the lingering rasp in her voice. Altantsetseg huddles closer to the central brazier, shivering despite the layers of silk and fur. Lanau sits cross-legged near Dolma, trying to absorb the shaman's muttered incantations over a pouch of dried beetles, her brow furrowed in concentration – or perhaps just profound annoyance.

Dolma suddenly slams her pouch onto a low table, making the teacups rattle. "Fox!" she hisses, her milky eyes wide, scanning the shadowed corners of the yurt as if expecting fangs to materialize. "He's here. Not just near. Here. Like frost on your breath, cold in your bones! Can't you feel it? The camp reeks of his sly stink! Danger coils tighter than a frozen serpent!"

Lanau blinks, momentarily distracted from her lesson. A face shows up into her mind every time she hears the word. The flamboyant, infuriatingly cultured shaman from her Orogol tribe. A memory surfaces: Konir, draped in absurdly embroidered robes, patiently showing Lanau's giggling nieces how to make tiny boats with paper, their little faces alight with wonder. "Honored Dolma," Lanau ventures cautiously, a faint smile touching her lips despite herself, "surely it's just… something harmless. Annoying, yes. Talks too much, wears terrible colours… but he ran a nursery for the clan children. Taught them silly songs and how to make puppets that looked suspiciously like clan elders." She remembers the outraged sputtering of parents discovering their children could perfectly mimic their most embarrassing habits. "The children adored him. He's… eccentric, not dangerous."

Dolma whips her head around, fixing Lanau with a piercing stare that seems to strip away layers. "You defend him? You know him?" Her voice drops to a guttural rasp. "The sly one whispers in your ear too, girl? Blinds you with pretty words?"

Sarangerel sets down her teapot, her dark eyes wide with concern. "What manner of beast is this fox, Wise Dolma? You speak of it as more than a man."

Dolma draws herself up, her ragged shamanic robes seeming to gather the flickering shadows. "Tramörygdel," she intones, the name itself sounding like ice cracking underfoot. "Winter's own deceit. Spirit of the long dark, the whispering blizzard. It wears faces like snow wears shapes – shifting, melting, reforming. It walks unseen on the wind, hears thoughts like rustling leaves, turns truth sour as frozen milk. It delights in chaos, in unraveling the threads of fate. Where it walks, trust dies, and blades find friends' backs."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Altantsetseg lets out a small whimper, pulling her fur shawl tighter. "A demon?" she breathes, her knuckles white on her teacup.

Bora scoffs, a sharp, dismissive sound. She resumes her stitching with deliberate calm. "Demons. Spirits. Winter tricks played on old eyes and fearful minds." She doesn't look up. "We are wives of Noga Khanzadeh. His shadow is our shield, his strength our fire. There is no danger within his reach that he cannot crush." Her gaze flicks towards Dolma and Altantsetseg, cool and commanding. "Fear is an insult to his power. It honors only the phantom you tremble before."

Lanau, still reeling from Dolma's accusation and the chilling description, seizes a distraction. She turns to Bora, her pragmatic nature seeking solid ground. "Honored Bora… what is it like? Being Noga's wife? Truly?"

Sarangerel's face softens instantly. "He is strength incarnate," she says, a blush warming her cheeks. "A fortress in the storm. When he looks upon you, you feel… seen. Valued."

Altantsetseg nods eagerly, her fear momentarily forgotten. "He brings treasures from across the world! Silks like spiderwebs, fruits like jewels! He listens… sometimes. And his laugh, when he is pleased…" She sighs dreamily.

Bora's needle pauses. She looks up, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, in a voice utterly flat, she states: "It is like caring for a particularly brilliant, yet sad child."

A beat of stunned silence. Sarangerel titters nervously, mistaking it for Bora's dry humor. "Oh, First Wife! Always so droll!"

Altantsetseg giggles. "Yes! Like when he forgets where he left his best bow!"

Bora doesn't smile. Her eyes hold a weary, ancient knowledge. "Precisely." She resumes stitching.

Lanau stares at her. The words land with the weight of truth, a truth far heavier than any whispered demon. Caring for a child. A brilliant, sad child. The image clashes violently with the conqueror. It also resonates with a deep, personal dread. Lanau had spent years tending her younger siblings, then her nieces. The thought of applying that to Noga… it wasn't fulfilling. It was another form of servitude. Her expression tightens, a flicker of dismay she quickly masks by looking down at her own hands.

Suddenly, Dolma gasps, a raw, sucking sound. She lurches to her feet, knocking over her pouch of beetles. They scatter like dark jewels across the carpet. Her head cocks, nostrils flaring wide. "There!" she snarls, pointing a gnarled finger not at the door, but seemingly at the felt wall itself. "He mocked us!" Before anyone can react, she bolts for the entrance flap, shoving it aside in a whirlwind of snow and fury, vanishing into the white chaos.

Lanau scrambles up automatically, duty warring with profound reluctance. "Sky's teeth... again?" she mutters, reaching for her cloak, already anticipating hours of chasing the old woman through knee-deep drifts while she screams at snowflakes.

"Sister, no!" Altantsetseg cries, her hand darting out to grasp Lanau's wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong. "Look!" She gestures towards the shuddering walls. "The Sky itself is furious! Dolma walks with spirits, but you are flesh! You'll freeze, or get lost! Stay. Please. The fox-spirit can wait until dawn. Or Dolma will drive it off with her shouts." She offers a tremulous smile. "Drink your tea. Warm yourself. You are safe here with us tonight."

"Alright," Lanau murmurs, sinking back onto the cushions, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders anyway. "Just… just for tonight." She accepts the fresh cup Sarangerel offers, the heat seeping into her chilled fingers.

...

The steam clinging to Noga's skin crystallizes instantly as he pushes through the bathhouse flap, becoming a rime of frost on his powerful shoulders and chest. The Tepr cold, sharp as a skinning knife after the liquid fire within, slams into him. He doesn't flinch. He stands for a moment, a statue carved from shadow and ice, letting the brutal wind scour him clean of the bath's deceptive intimacy.

He turns to the two guards beside him. Their eyes, visible through narrow visor slits, snap to attention. "Summon Captain Hüran," Noga commands, his voice cutting through the gale like a whip crack. "Immediately."

One guard melts into the swirling white without a word. Noga doesn't wait. He strides towards his command yurt, the snow crunching like shattered bones under his boots. He doesn't bother dressing fully; the cold is irrelevant. The plan, born in steam and sealed with a lie, is the only fire he needs now.

Captain Hüran arrives moments later, bursting through the yurt flap in a flurry of snow. He's a mountain of a man, his black armor seeming to absorb the meager lamplight, his face a landscape of old scars beneath a wolfskin cap pulled low. He slams a fist against his lacquered breastplate in salute. "Khanzadeh!"

Noga stands before a rough map etched onto a cured hide, his back to the captain. He doesn't turn. " Hüran. The Tiger Guard. Are they sharp?"

"Hungry, Great Khan," Hüran growls. "Teeth ache for Tepr flesh."

"Good." Noga's finger stabs down onto the map, near a sketched river bend. "Here. Behind the Ruturk Stream bend. A nest of rebels. The Khatun's refuge." He finally turns, his gaze meeting Hüran's. There's no warmth, no hesitation, only the cold, absolute certainty of a landslide. "Crush them at dawn."

A savage grin splits Hüran's scarred face. He bows, a quick, sharp movement, and is gone, bellowing orders into the blizzard before the flap even settles.

...

High in the Tengr mountains, the blizzard howls with a different voice – older, wilder, scouring the peaks. Inside the largest command yurt, thick felt walls muffle the fury. A low fire gutters in the hearth. Horohan paces, a restless shadow, her breath frosting the air despite the fire's efforts. Khanai, a vast sprawl of white fur, watches her with half-lidded blue eyes.

"Will this cursed white prison never end? It grinds the bones, steals the breath…" Horohan mutters.

Naci, cross-legged near the fire, mending a bowstring, looks up. Her amber eyes hold a strange calm. "The snow?" she says, her voice soft yet carrying. She watches the flakes whirl beyond the vent. "It reminds me of you, Horo." Naci smiles, a small, private curve of her lips. "Yes. Beautiful. Unyielding. Cleansing. It transforms the world, makes everything new…" She meets Horohan's gaze. "It hides movement. Muffles sound. Perfect for our strategy, my brilliant, frost-hearted Khatun. The blizzard is our ally." She nods towards the yurt wall, towards the hidden world outside.

Horohan's cheeks flush faintly, a warmth blooming beneath the cold-induced pallor. She looks away, towards Khanai, who thumps her tail once in apparent agreement. "It… it serves the purpose," she concedes, her voice gruffer than intended, trying to mask the sudden, unwelcome flutter caused by Naci's words. "The snow is… useful."

Suddenly, a piercing shriek tears through the muffled roar of the wind outside. Not human. Fierce.

Naci is on her feet in an instant, dropping the bowstring. She shoves aside the heavy entrance flap, stepping into the teeth of the storm. Snow lashes her face. She raises her right arm, bared to the elbow despite the cold, fingers outstretched like a perch.

A dark shape materializes from the swirling white chaos – a silhouette against the grey fury. Wings beat powerfully, fighting the gale. Uamopak, Naci's eagle, plummets downwards. He lands heavily on her outstretched forearm, talons gripping the thick leather bracer with a force that would shatter bone without it. Ice clings to his feathers, his chest heaving. One powerful wing hangs slightly awkwardly – a recent injury, perhaps from the brutal flight. But his golden eyes blaze with fierce triumph.

"Here you are!" Naci whispers, her voice thick with relief and pride. She pulls the magnificent, bedraggled bird close against her chest, shielding him from the wind as she ducks back inside. Her face brightens as she notices Shi Min's response, tied to Uamopak's talon.

Horohan is already moving. She grabs a soft, dry cloth and approaches, her stern expression softening as she sees the eagle's exhaustion. "Brave heart," she murmurs. Naci carefully transfers Uamopak to the perch hastily set up next to Khatan, Horohan's own eagle.

Khatan, startled from his drowsy watch, lets out an ear-splitting shriek of indignation at the sudden intrusion. He flares his wings, puffing up, his dark eyes fixed on the newcomer.

Horohan ignores the display, stepping close. She gently begins brushing the caked ice and snow from Uamopak's plumage with the cloth. "Hush, thunder-feathers," she soothes Khatan, though her eyes are on Uamopak. "He's earned his rest." She works meticulously, her touch surprisingly gentle on the bird. "See?" she says softly. "Khatan missed your noisy presence, old sky-rival. The yurt felt too quiet."

Naci watches them, the firelight glinting in her eyes as Horohan tends to her eagle. "They should never have been separated," Naci says quietly, her voice carrying over Khatan's diminishing grumbles and the wind's howl.

...

The world beyond the felt walls is a howling white void, but within the wives' yurt, warmth and the rhythmic breathing of sleep hold sway. Lanau drifts in the murky depths of exhaustion.

Then, the dreamscape shifts. Not subtly. It rips. One moment, she's trying to bandage a snow fox made of shadow that keeps dissolving, the next, Konir is sitting cross-legged on her chest. Konir as she remembers him: draped in ludicrously embroidered silks.

Lanau stares, her dream-mind sluggishly processing. He's… on my chest. Why is Konir sitting on my chest? In a dream? Wearing… that? It's so absurd, so utterly Konir, that a bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to escape her sleeping throat. She tries to shove him off. Her hands pass through shimmering, incorporeal silk.

"Took forever, darling," Konir sighs, examining his translucent fingernails with an air of profound weariness. Sweat beads on his spectral brow, freezing instantly into tiny diamonds of spirit-ice that tinkle as they fall through her. "That crone is a one-woman spiritual siege engine. Had to lure her out chasing phantom fox-farts near the latrines. Disgusting business, but needs must when the Sky's breath is howling."

"Konir?" Lanau's dream-voice is thick with sleep and utter bewilderment. "What in the frozen hells are you doing? Get off! And why do you look like you wrestled a snow demon?"

"No time for pleasantries, my fierce little sparrow!" Konir leans forward, his usually amused eyes suddenly sharp, intense, devoid of their customary theatrical gleam. The sheer seriousness radiating from him is more jarring than his presence. "Listen. One question. Just one. Answer it true, in the quiet heart of your soul, before the dawn breaks and choices turn to stone."

He fixes her with a gaze that seems to pierce the veil of sleep, anchoring her drifting consciousness. "Who are you, Lanau Axi-Örukai?" The spectral bells on his hair shiver. "A tribeswoman of the Orogol, bound by blood and bone to the steppes? The potential consort of a Yohazatz prince, bargaining peace with your name? The doting aunt, who left her nieces? The annoying sibling, sharp-tongued and fiercely protective? Or..." His spectral form begins to fray at the edges, dissolving like smoke in a sudden gust. "...are you, first and foremost, a warrior of Tepr?"

The question hangs, immense and terrible, in the dissolving dream-space. Konir's image flickers, his expression urgent, demanding an answer not spoken, but felt. Then, like a snuffed candle, he vanishes. Lanau is left gasping in the sudden, silent darkness of the waking yurt, the question echoing louder than the blizzard outside.

...

Dawn is a grey smudge bleeding through the relentless snow when Noga's boot connects none-too-gently with Temej's sleeping roll. "Up, Eagle-man! The frozen world awaits! Best time to hunt – prey is sluggish, tracks are fresh!"

Temej groans, the warmth of sleep ripped away. He blinks gritty eyes at Noga, already clad in thick furs trimmed with wolfskin, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He can't refuse. Not yet. He dresses swiftly, fingers numb, and follows Noga to the horses.

They ride into the teeth of the weakening storm, the world reduced to shades of grey and white, the forest a dark smudge ahead. Noga's midnight stallion moves with sure-footed confidence. The silence stretches, filled only by the crunch of snow and the wind's mournful song.

"Tepr will be subdued soon," Noga states abruptly, his voice cutting through the white noise. Not a boast. A fact. "Order will replace their squabbling chaos. My vision… it needs stewards. Men who understand the land, the people." He glances sideways at Temej, his obsidian eyes unreadable. "You have the eyes. The mind. The resilience. When the last ember of their defiance is stamped out… will you stand at my right hand? Advise me? Help me build this empire from the ashes?"

Temej feels the cold seep deeper into his bones. He looks straight ahead, towards the looming trees. "I said I will follow your vision," he replies, his voice steady but hollow, "if you keep your oath. Diplomacy." He turns his head, meeting Noga's gaze. "Do you intend to keep it?"

...

Lanau bolts upright in the wives' yurt, Konir's spectral question – Warrior of Tepr? – burning in her mind like a brand. The blizzard has lessened; pale, watery dawn light filters through the smoke hole. Sarangerel and Altantsetseg still sleep, huddled in furs. Bora, however, is awake, her sharp eyes watching Lanau rise and silently gather her things – her worn tunic, her sturdy boots, her belt knife.

As Lanau moves towards the flap, a hand, strong and unyielding, closes around her wrist. Bora stands, her face a mask of cool authority. "Lanau Axi-Örukai," she says, her voice low, urgent. "Where do you go? The storm barely breaks. The Prince offers peace. A future. Why do you turn your back on safety? On an end to the bloodshed? Why refuse the gift?"

Lanau stops. She doesn't turn immediately. She feels the weight of Bora's grip, the weight of the choice Konir forced upon her. She sees the faces of her nieces, the silly snow-foxes Konir taught them to make. She sees the scorched earth of Tepr, the defiant blaze in Naci's eyes. She feels the cold weight of her dagger at her belt.

Warrior of Tepr.

Slowly, deliberately, Lanau turns. Her eyes meet Bora's, holding no fear, only a terrible, resolved clarity. There is no hesitation, no dramatic flourish. In one fluid motion born of a lifetime on the steppe, her hand blurs.

Shink.

The polished bone hilt of her dagger is suddenly buried to the guard in Bora's throat.

Bora's eyes widen, not with pain, but with profound shock. A choked, wet gasp escapes her. Her grip on Lanau's wrist slackens instantly. She staggers back a step, her hand fluttering uselessly towards the impossible thing protruding from her neck. Dark, shocking scarlet blooms across the pristine silk of her sleeping robe.

Lanau stands firm, her gaze locked on the dying woman's eyes. Her voice, when it comes, is flat, cold, and carries the finality of a mountainslide. "Tepr," she states, the word dripping with the blood now bubbling from Bora's lips, "will never bow."

She yanks the dagger free. Bora crumples soundlessly to the rich carpets, her lifeblood pooling warm and vital in the sudden, frozen silence of dawn. Lanau doesn't look back. She steps over the body, pushes through the flap, and vanishes into the thinning snow.

...

Noga doesn't look away. There's no anger, no defensiveness. Only a chilling, absolute certainty. "No," he says, the word simple, final, like the crack of ice breaking underfoot. "I lied. Diplomacy… is a luxury I cannot afford. Not with wolves like your Khatun and her beast at the gate. Strength must be absolute. Fear must be sown deep. Peace comes only after total submission." He holds Temej's gaze, a conqueror stating an immutable law of nature. "There is no other way."

Temej stares at him. The profound sadness he felt in the bath returns, deeper now, mixed with a terrible, clarifying understanding. He sees the path Noga walks – a path of necessary brutality, a path that murdered his own brother, a path that leaves no room for the birds. He nods slowly, a gesture of acceptance, not agreement. "The eagles," Temej says, his voice soft but carrying clearly over the wind. "They were always there, Noga. Above the clouds. Watching. Waiting. You only needed to reach out your hand."

Noga's expression hardens, irritation flashing in his eyes like flint struck. "Reach out?" he scoffs, a harsh bark of laughter. "And where is your eagle now, Eagle-keeper?"

As if summoned by the challenge, a piercing cry splits the grey sky. A shadow detaches itself from the low, scudding clouds – a shape of power and grace battling the wind. It plummets, wings folding at the last second.

Temej doesn't flinch. He simply raises his right arm, bared to the elbow despite the cold, fingers outstretched.

Whump.

Sartak, Temej's magnificent golden eagle, lands with jarring force on his forearm, talons gripping the thick leather bracer. Ice clings to his feathers, his chest heaving from the flight, but his golden eyes burn with fierce loyalty, fixed unblinkingly on Noga. He mantles slightly, a silent challenge.

Temej meets Noga's stunned gaze, Sartak a living extension of his will. "You deserve to win, Noga Khanzadeh," Temej states, his voice ringing with newfound steel. "You are strength incarnate. But I, Temej of the Alinkar, warrior of Tepr… I will not let you."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.