Naci Khan sits astride her mare, breath pluming like dragon-smoke in the brittle air. Dawn bleeds grey and grudging across the frozen steppe, painting the trampled snow the colour of blood. Below, the scar of Noga's camp sprawls – tents askew, debris scattered, exactly as Naci had imagined, when she learned about the Seop explosion from Lanau. Confidence thrums in her veins. "See, Pomogr?" she murmurs, her voice carrying easily in the stillness. "The Tiger's den reeks of fear. Send the Moukopl vanguard. Let them taste the spoils first."

Pomogr is already barking orders. A contingent of Moukopl heavy infantry, their emerald banners limp in the still air, lumbers forward, flanked by Tepr horsemen under Fol. They advance with the cautious optimism of hunters approaching a wounded bear.

The first sting comes swift and silent. From folds in the terrain seemingly devoid of life, Yohazatz horse archers materialize like vengeful spirits. Their arrows are whispers of death, slicing down scouts who stray too far, peppering the flanks of the Moukopl square. One arrow thuds into a supply sledge. It's hard to see, due to the sunlight, but it is lit. Flames lick greedily at the canvas. A soldier beats at it frantically with his gloves, cursing the "steppe devils" and their "fiery piss."

"Gnats," Naci scoffs, watching the harassment from her vantage. "Noga swats at us with gnats. Press on."

The Moukopl vanguard, nerves frayed, pushes deeper into the seemingly abandoned camp perimeter. They pass empty tents flapping like ragged ghosts, weave around scattered barrels and discarded gear – the carefully staged chaos. A burly sergeant, eager for plunder, spots a seemingly intact grain sack slumped against a half-collapsed yurt frame. "Lads! Breakfast!" he bellows, striding forward, hand outstretched.

CRACK.

Not a boom, but a vicious, localized thump, like a giant stepping on a rotten log. The sack erupts. Shards of pottery, nails, and splintered bone tear through the sergeant and the three men closest. One moment they're moving; the next, they're red mist and tattered meat staining the snow crimson. A severed arm, still clad in a Moukopl vambrace, spins lazily through the air and lands with a wet thud near Fol's horse. The beast shies violently.

Chaos, meticulously seeded, blooms. A horse near the front rank screams, its leg shattered by an unseen caltrop buried under powdered snow. It crashes, throwing its rider into the path of panicked comrades. Then, the earth itself roars.

...

"Seop merchants," Noga commands, his voice a low rasp that cuts through the terrified silence. "Bring them."

Two figures are shoved forward from the shadowed periphery where Dolma tends the wounded. Saya and Sen, sisters of the dead Goeghon. Their faces are hollowed by grief and exhaustion, eyes wide and vacant above grime-streaked cheeks. They clutch each other, shivering in their singed, soot-stained tunics. They stumble over the uneven ground littered with discarded spears and worse.

Noga stands before them like a monolith. He gestures towards the blackened scar on the snow marking the explosion site. He speaks in the tongue of the steppe, sharp and rapid. Saya flinches, burying her face in Sen's shoulder. Sen stares blankly, uncomprehending.

A flicker of impatience crosses Noga's face. He switches to Moukopl. Saya's head jerks up. Sen's eyes narrow, a spark of recognition igniting. "We… little speak," Saya whispers, her Moukopl fractured, accented thickly. "Brother… he…" Her voice hitches, lost.

"Enough," Noga cuts her off. He points again to the blast site, then sweeps his hand towards the approaching torches. "Life. Death." He taps his own chestplate. "You." He points to the scorched earth. "Powder. What remains."

Sen swallows hard, her gaze darting between the prince, the ruin, and the distant, ominous lights. "Powder… gone. Fire. Boom." She makes a small, explosive gesture with her hands.

Noga takes a single step closer. The firelight catches the drying blood on his blade, the splintered bone fragment caught in the lames of his armour near his thigh wound. The sheer, contained violence radiating from him is a physical pressure. "Not all gone," he says. "Barrels… thrown. Buried. Scattered. Find it." He leans in slightly, the movement predatory. "Make weapons. Make traps. Now." He holds up a single, gauntleted finger. It might as well be a headsman's axe. "Fail?" His voice drops to a whisper that carries further than a shout. "I peel your skins slow. Hang them beside my wives' biers for the crows. Understand? Life or death."

Saya whimpers, sinking to her knees. Sen, however, stiffens. A strange light – part terror, part frantic calculation – enters her eyes. She looks past Noga, scanning the blast zone with a sudden, sharp intensity her grief had masked. She pulls Saya roughly back to her feet. "Stand, sister. Kneeling saves nothing now," she says in Seop.

She turns her full attention to Noga, her fractured Moukopl gaining a desperate fluency. "Not all lost, Great… King." She stumbles over the title. "Brother… cautious. Always." She gestures erratically. "Barrels… far edge? Maybe… thrown clear. Not burned heart." She swallows again, her throat working. "Powder spilled… mixed with snow… dirt…" She wrinkles her nose instinctively, the artisan recoiling from contamination. "Bad. Weak. Dangerous. But can salvage."

Noga's obsidian gaze doesn't waver. "Salvage. How?"

Sen takes a shaky breath, her mind racing visibly. "First… fire out! All fire! Now!" She points urgently at lingering embers near the wreckage. "Find barrels whole. If seal good… maybe powder dry inside? Spilled powder… scoop." She mimes frantic shoveling. "Onto hides… tarps. Bring inside tent… away wind, snow."

"Dry," Noga states flatly.

"Dry!" Sen nods vigorously. "Crucial! Spread thin… very thin! Like… sun-dried noodles!" She gestures wide, thin layers. "Near fire… but not too near! Boom!" She flinches at her own word. "Small fires… many. Rocks heated… put powder on, but careful! Very careful!" She looks around wildly. "Quicklime? You have quicklime? Absorb wet… like thirsty sand?"

Noga barks an order in steppe-tongue. A nearby warrior, face pale, scrambles towards the supply wagons.

Sen continues, the dam of her specialized knowledge bursting under the pressure of imminent flaying. "Test… small bits. Pinch. On hot coal. See… fizz? Bang? Or… sad puff?" She makes a weak, sputtering sound. "Weak powder… good only for… fire-starter? Loud noise? Scare horses?" She shrugs helplessly. "Not… not fight big army."

Saya tugs her sister's sleeve, whispering frantically in Seop. Sen shakes her off, her focus entirely on Noga. "We… find powder. Dry powder. Maybe… half? Less? Good for… traps. In ground. Boom under feet. Or… throw-pot?" She mimes lighting a fuse and heaving. "Not… volley fire. Not… wall of thunder. But… sting. Hurt. Slow them. One night… we try." She meets his gaze, a flicker of defiance born of utter hopelessness. "Or you skin us. We understand."

Silence stretches. Noga studies the slight, soot-stained woman before him. He gives a single, curt nod. "Start digging. Now."

Saya bursts into silent tears. "We are going to die," she says.

Sen grabs her arm, her own hands trembling, but her voice is low and urgent in Seop. "Stop crying. Think of Brother. Think of not being a rug. We will get out of this!" She drags her sister towards the blasted, corpse-littered ruin.

...

Discipline, momentarily shattered by grief and mutiny, is reforged in the crucible of a greater threat. Noga turns from the kneeling, trembling ranks, his gaze falling on two captains who hadn't flinched during the chaos – Böröge, a grizzled veteran with a scar splitting his lip, and Khasar, young but with eyes older than his years, recently promoted.

"Böröge. Khasar. You command the wings now. The remaining Tigers answer to you. Fail me, join them." A flick of his chin towards the cooling bodies near the firepit is all the elaboration needed. Their faces pale, but spines stiffen. Fear of Noga outweighs fear of the Moukopl, for now.

He strides towards the blast zone, where Sen and Saya frantically direct terrified warriors. Men shovel snow and frozen earth like possessed ghouls, uncovering half-buried, scorched barrels, scooping filthy, damp powder onto stretched hides. Sen's voice, high-pitched with stress and grief, cuts through the wind in a mix of Seop and Moukopl: "Spread it THINNER! Like grandmother's hair before the plague! Not clumps, you mud-brained oafs! You want it to explode, do you?!"

Noga halts before her. "Time bleeds, engineer. Show Böröge and Khasar what's next. Now."

Sen wipes grime from her cheek, leaving a streak like war paint. She takes a shaky breath, squaring her slight shoulders against the mountain of the Khanzadeh. "Right. Stings. Angry wasp nests." She grabs a broken spear shaft, sketching rapidly in the snow near a cluster of nervous warriors. "Here. Gullies. Between hills. Where horses must go, or men stumble tired." She jabs the shaft. "Dig. Shallow. Angled out." She demonstrates the incline. "Ground frozen? Burn it! Small fires, thaw just enough. Hurts less than skinning, yes?"

Böröge leans in, scarred face intent. "What fills the yawn?"

"Rocks!" Sen snaps. "Broken blades! Nails! Stones! Anything sharp and heavy. Then…" She gestures towards a hide where warriors are cautiously spreading the driest-looking powder scrapings, "…this angry dust. A layer on top. Then…" She scoops snow, patting it over her sketch. "Hide it. Snow. Brush. Frozen dirt crust. Make it look like… like nothing. Like shy virgin steppe."

Khasar frowns. "How does the wasp sting?"

"Ah!" Sen's eyes gleam with a desperate, professional fervor. "Fuse. Slow match hidden. Or… tripwire." She mimes a wire catching an ankle. "Snap! Hiss! Then…" She throws her arms wide, "BOOM! Rocks fly! Legs go… bye-bye." Sen shrugs. "Or… flintlock? If you have one that doesn't weep in the cold. Doubtful." She turns to Böröge. "Place them where they channel. Make them run into the sting. Understand?"

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Böröge grunts, already scanning the terrain towards the approaching torches. "Understood. Make the ground bite."

Noga turns to Khasar. "Walls. Funnels."

Khasar nods eagerly, relief at a concrete task evident. Sen interjects. "Snow! Pile it high! Like… like angry white badger mounds! Then… pour water. Freeze it solid. Bullets bounce? Maybe. Hard to climb? Yes! Put them…" She sketches lines radiating from the central camp where the wives' biers stand. "…here, here! Make paths narrow. Like driving sheep to…" She trails off, glancing uneasily at the wrapped bodies. "…to a place."

"Abatis," Khasar says, recalling the term from some half-forgotten campaign tale. "Trees?"

"If you find any not burnt, yes!" Sen nods vigorously. "Chop! Sharp points! Tangled mess! Put before snow walls. Or…" Her eyes dart. "Little holes! Foot traps! Caltrops! Sharp sticks, twisted metal. Hide under snow. Step… crunch-scream! Slow them down. Make them dance on knives!" She mimes a hopping, wounded soldier, a parody that draws a nervous chuckle from one warrior before it dies in his throat under Noga's stare.

Noga's gaze sweeps the preparations. "The illusion. They think us broken by the boom. Show them. We'll use their own tricks."

Böröge cracks a grim smile, understanding dawning. "Leave tents standing? Empty. Scatter trash. Look… defeated?"

"Exactly!" Sen almost shouts. "When they come… first lines? Run! Look scared! Drop things! Lure them in… past the virgin ground… towards the narrow paths…" She points emphatically towards the areas she'd sketched for the fougasses and kill zones.

Khasar adds, "Archers. Massed. Behind the ice walls. High ground. Wait until they're tangled in the traps… then fill the air with feathers."

Noga's eyes fix on the distant green torches. "Horse archers. Böröge's best. Forward. Flanks. Hide. Not to stop. To gnat them. Sting scouts. Feign panic. Lure them deeper. Signal…" He looks at Sen. "Rockets?"

Sen throws her hands up. "Weak powder! Damp powder! Good for noise, fire, smoke! Big angry spark-fart into sky! That signal? Yes! Red spark? Green spark? You tell me! Just don't light it near the dry powder!"

A warrior nearby mutters to his comrade, "Grandmother's hair… angry badgers… spark-farts… Is she mad or brilliant?"

"Does it matter?" comes the whispered reply.

Noga ignores them. He turns his back on the frantic activity, the shouted orders, the stink of fear and thawing earth. His steps take him back towards the centre, towards the cedar biers and the silent forms of Bora and Altantsetseg. He kneels, not in prayer, but in silent communion with the dead.

A captain approaches, hesitant, bearing a report on the powder salvage – perhaps a third recovered, mostly weak. Noga doesn't turn. His gauntleted hand rests once more near Bora's still fingers. The message is clear. Use it. Make it sting. Even mourning must sharpen its claws tonight.

...

WHUMPF! WHUMPF! WHUMPF!

Sen's "angry wasp nests" detonate in sequence. Fougasses vomit forth their deadly harvest: rocks, scrap iron, and frozen clods of earth become shrapnel. A plume of dirty snow and smoke erupts near the gully entrance Fol's horsemen were funnelling towards. Horses and men are lifted off their feet, torn apart, or riddled with projectiles. The concussive blast wave knocks men flat yards away, ears bleeding. The air fills with the metallic tang of blood, the acrid stench of gunpowder, and the cacophony of screams – equine and human, indistinguishable in their agony. A warrior stares dumbly at a jagged piece of barrel stave protruding from his thigh. "Grandmother's hair…?" he mutters deliriously before collapsing.

Above the carnage, a single, wobbly green rocket – Sen's "spark-fart" – arcs into the grey sky, sputtering violently before vanishing. It's the signal.

From behind hastily piled snow walls – glittering, ice-glazed ramparts that shimmer with deceptive fragility – massed Yohazatz archers rise as one. Their bows groan, then sing. A black cloud of arrows blotts out the weak dawn light, descending with lethal precision into the congested, panicking mass of Moukopl infantry and Tepr horsemen caught in the trap zone. Men fall like wheat before a scythe, feathered corpses piling atop those mangled by the fougasses. Ambushers, Böröge's elite Tigers howling like wolves, surge from concealed positions behind scrub and snowdrifts on the flanks, crashing into the disordered Tepr horsemen with axes and curved swords.

Naci watches, her expression unreadable. She sees Fol rallying his riders, carving a bloody path through the ambushers with his saber. She sees the Moukopl heavy infantry reforming into a desperate, spiked turtle behind their shields, slowly pushing forward over the bodies of their comrades towards the main Yohazatz fallback lines – formidable snow ramparts crowned with abatis of sharpened branches.

The advance grinds to a bloody stalemate before these frozen fortifications. The sun climbs, indifferent, casting long, stark shadows from the piled dead. Arrows fly in punishing exchanges. Men slip on blood-ice scaling the walls, only to be speared or hacked down. The Moukopl pay the heaviest toll, their cumbersome armour making them targets.

Pomogr reins in beside Naci, his face grimed with soot and spattered blood that isn't his own. "Naci," he rasps, his voice hoarse. "We can break them. Send in the lancers… we push hard here, flank there… but this grinding…" He gestures towards the slaughterhouse before the snow walls, where Moukopl bodies litter the approach. "...it bleeds us white. Every man lost here..."

Naci doesn't turn. A slow, genuine smile curves her lips, startling in its warmth amidst the surrounding grimness. She finally looks at Pomogr, her eyes gleaming with an unnerving light – amusement, appreciation. She actually laughs.

"Bleeds us white, Pomogr? I expected no less from the feared Yohazatz Khanzadeh! The Prince Conqueror! The heir of Demoz! The Lord of the Steppes! The Khan of Khans in the making!" Naci repeats, her voice light. She leans slightly towards her war-leader, her gaze locking onto Pomogr's with terrifying intensity. The smile doesn't fade; it deepens, becoming something predatory. "Look again. Look closely." She gestures languidly towards the heaped corpses wearing Moukopl green, the men dying now to take the next yard of frozen ground. "Those aren't our people bleeding out on the snow. That," she says, the amusement still dancing in her eyes, "is Moukopl manpower. Every one that falls here is a soldier the Emperor won't have tomorrow. Let Noga spend his rage breaking their bones against his walls. We're not wasting lives. We're harvesting them." She straightens, the smile settling into a serene mask as she turns back to survey the carnage, the screams of dying imperial soldiers now sounding like a grimly satisfactory tally being counted. "Let the Tiger feast."

...

Prince Puripal stands atop his dune, a crimson silhouette against the awakening sky. Dawn bleeds honey-gold across the Qixi-Lo oasis, gilding the white-plastered villas and turquoise tiles, turning the desert beyond into a sea of molten copper. Below, the Moukopl legion stirs – ten thousand men forming ranks with the metallic sigh of shifting pikes and the dull thud of oval shields locking.

"Signal Kan," Puripal murmurs, his voice barely louder than the desert wind whipping his cloak. A rider gallops downhill, a polished mirror flashing twice towards the city's southern fringe.

Within Qixi-Lo, chaos blooms like a night-flower under the rising sun. Near the Gate of Figs, a laden ox-cart "accidentally" overturns, spilling pottery and snarling traffic. As guards shout, figures in nondescript robes dart from alleys – Kan among them, her face a mask of serene determination beneath a dusty shawl. Silk handkerchiefs flutter from windows – Puripal's prearranged signal. Steel whispers from hidden sheaths. The brief, brutal struggle at the gatehouse is over before the overturned pot stops rolling; loyalist daggers find throats, loyalist hands bar the heavy timber with the ox-cart's splintered axle. A plume of smoke, thin and controlled, curls from a distant storehouse – another signal fire.

"They're in," Dukar observes, his eyes narrowed on the sudden flurry near the gate. Jinhuang, perched nervously beside him on her shaggy pony, grips the reins until her knuckles whiten. Below, a low groan ripples through the Moukopl ranks as commanders bellow orders. Six thousand infantry surges forward with terrifying discipline, their boots churning the soft sand into a dun fog. Pikes lower, forming a bristling forest aimed at the yawning gateway.

"Now the fun begins," Puripal smiles. He nods to Ta, who spurs his baggage yak forward with a comical kick, bellowing encouragement that sounds suspiciously like a recipe for roast lamb.

Inside the city, the Moukopl spearhead meets the first trickle of resistance. Qaloron's guards, roused by the commotion, spill into the street near the gate, buckling on armour. They meet a wall of pikes. Volleys of crossbow bolts from the Moukopl rear ranks scythe down defenders caught in the open. The narrow street becomes a charnel house within moments, cobbles slick with blood still steaming in the cool dawn air. A Qixi-Lo captain, magnificent in plumed helmet, rallies a dozen men behind a fruit seller's stall. "For the Khan!" he roars. A focused volley reduces the stall to matchwood and the captain to a pincushion. The Moukopl advance, relentless, their formations compressing the chaos, securing the gate plaza, then pushing down the Avenue of Spices towards the sturdy stone bulk of the Temple of Ten Thousand Fortunes – Puripal's chosen beachhead.

Outside, the remaining four thousand Moukopl form defensive squares facing outward, shields locked, pikes angled like a steel thicket. Jinhuang watches, heart hammering, as dust plumes materialize east and west. Nemeh's cavalry, sleek northern coursers bred for speed, appear like vengeful ghosts on the dunes. They swirl, testing the Moukopl perimeter, loosing arrows that thunk harmlessly into shields or skitter off lacquered chest plates. A captain shouts, "Hold! Volley at forty paces!" The disciplined Moukopl ranks shift slightly, crossbows rising as one. The Qixi-Lo cavalry, seeing the impenetrable hedgehog, wheel away, unwilling to charge home against massed infantry on open ground. They content themselves with harassing fire from a distance, a nuisance but not a breach.

The battle settles into a grim rhythm. Inside the city, the brutal street-fighting continues block by block. Moukopl soldiers methodically clear buildings near the temple, dragging out terrified civilians or cutting down isolated defenders. Barricades of overturned carts and furniture spring up, only to be dismantled by axe and pike. The air fills with screams, the clash of steel, the crackle of fires spreading from the loyalist-set blazes. Outside, Nemeh's cavalry continues its fruitless dance, occasionally losing a rider to a well-aimed crossbow bolt from the immovable squares.

Jinhuang flinches as a stray arrow whistles past, embedding itself in the sand near her pony's hooves. She sees the Moukopl reserves standing stoically, their ranks thinning slightly under the constant peppering of arrows. She sees bodies being dragged back from the city gate – Moukopl bodies, clad in the green she once called her own. A young soldier, barely older than her, stumbles out clutching a shattered arm, his face grey with pain and shock before comrades pull him behind the lines.

"Uncle," Jinhuang whispers, her voice tight with horror, tugging at Dukar's sleeve. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the growing number of still forms laid out behind the reserve squares. "Look… so many. Too many losses already."

Dukar doesn't turn. He watches the street fighting near the temple roof, where Moukopl soldiers are now hauling up heavy crossbows to dominate the approaches. He sees the grim efficiency, the cost paid in blood for every yard gained. He sees Puripal, still atop his dune, watching it all with the detached focus of a master player moving pieces on a Xiangqi board.

Puripal hears Jinhuang. He glances down, a flicker of amusement touching his lips as he sees her distress. He actually chuckles, a dry, unsettling sound amidst the distant screams and the thrum of arrows.

"Losses, little niece?" Puripal asks, his voice light. He gestures elegantly towards the heaps of Moukopl dead being piled like cordwood behind the reserves, then sweeps his hand towards the carnage visible within the city gates. A spray of arterial blood momentarily paints a crimson arc against a white wall in the middle distance, stark as a brushstroke. "Look closely. Those aren't losses." His shark-smile returns, wider now, utterly devoid of warmth. He meets Jinhuang's horrified gaze, his own eyes gleaming with cold calculation. "That," he purrs, nodding towards the green-clad corpses, "is the Crown Prince's blood. This strategy ensures that as few of them survive as possible." He turns back to survey the battlefield, the screams of dying imperial soldiers seeming to harmonize in his mind. "Ahh, such a pleasant sound. Third Brother, Father, Moukopl dynasty... Your dead bodies I see in my dreams will soon pave the sand my horse steps on."

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