Steel flashes, catching the pale winter sun as Dukar surges up the ramp. Naci meets him halfway, snow‑dust still frosting her braids. She draws her scabbard across her brow in silent salute—then drives forward, all lean velocity and bone‑deep fatigue.

Their first clash rings off the plaza walls like a cracked temple bell. Dukar's heavier blade hammers down; Naci's lighter saber kisses it aside, redirecting the force, letting his momentum over‑extend him. She slips inside his guard, the point grazing his shoulder. He grunts, more puzzled than hurt, pivots, and snaps an elbow toward her temple. She ducks, feeling wind brush her scalp.

"Brother," she pants, "step aside before I break more than—"

Dukar answers with steel. A brutal overhand stroke splits the air. Naci parries; iron teeth shriek, sending sparks into the cold light. The shock rattles her injured arm—agony shoots from Noga's wound, white and blinding—but she shoves through it, whirling to slash at his ribs. Metal meets metal again. A fault line ripples through both blades; ancient Yohazatz steel, desert‑cured but travel‑weary, bites the newer Tepr alloy. With a hideous screech both swords fracture—shards cartwheel away, clanging over paving stones.

A single, startled heartbeat of stillness.

Then they crash together like bison at rut.

Dukar's arms loop Naci's torso in a wrestler's bear‑hug. She jams a boot between his knees, hooks his ankle and drives her hip under his center. He lifts anyway, legs pistoning, and they tumble in a tangle of limbs, hard onto the stone. Breath explodes from both. Prisoners on the Salt‑Pit ramp stare, chains clinking an uncertain rhythm.

Arban murmurs, "That's Naci, is it not? Dukar's sister?"

Pomogr, crouched beside Fol on the gate parapet, squints. "Looks like two marmots in a grain sack."

Below, the grapplers surge upright. Dukar attempts an outside trip; Naci counters, seizing his leather belt, pulling tight, driving a shoulder beneath his sternum. They spin. Her knee wobbles; he capitalizes, wrenching her arm behind her back and dropping his weight. She snarls, breaks free, lands a palm‑strike to his jaw that echoes like a cracked drum. Dukar staggers, blood blooming on his lower lip—then lunges again, forearm catching her throat. He cinches the choke, muscles like coiled yurt‑ropes.

A whistle, shrill and slicing, cuts across the plaza.

Every head tilts skyward. The great eagle Uamopak—broad‑winged, black tipped—has wheeled above his owner since dawn. Now, hearing the second whistle, he tucks and dives, a bronze‑feathered comet. As he passes over the struggling siblings, his talons snatch a glitter—keys—wrenched from Dukar's lax hand. He banks toward the pit mouth.

"Good bird," calls a voice dry as steppe gin.

Out of the prisoner knots steps a man. Uamopak glides low, deposits the keys in his palm, then flares onto a parapet with a self‑satisfied kroo. He strokes the kestrel‑striped feathers along the bird's leg plating. "Alinkar blood, no doubt," he murmurs. "Must ask your dam's name when we meet."

Arban gapes. "You tamed an unknown eagle in one breath?"

The man shrugs, fitting the key in the lock. "Eagles know our clan scent. Besides—this fellow smelled freedom." The bar crashes back, the gate yawns like a hungry maw, and chained Tepr warriors surge up, blinking at daylight.

On the plaza, Dukar still has the choke. Naci's face reddens, veins standing like riverpaths. She wedges a thumb into the crook of his elbow, gouges for a nerve cluster—pain forces his grip to slacken, but not enough. He whispers, voice ragged, "Yield, sister. For once."

Her response is a knee driven into his thigh so hard it deadens the muscle. His choke collapses. She flings him over her hip; they land again, rolling through dust and scattered tea leaves. The scene, once titanic, now borders the ridiculous: two legends rumpled, wheezing, locked in an angry sibling knot.

The newly freed warriors spill from the Salt Pit and freeze. Confusion ripples like wind over grass.

Dukar exhales, frustration crumbling to weary embarrassment. He releases the choke, rolls to his knees. Naci hacks a breath, eyes blazing but lips twitching upward in reluctant mirth.

She rises first, battered but unbowed, sidesteps a broken sword shard, and sweeps dust from her coat with exaggerated dignity. "Behold," she declares to the milling prisoners, voice hoarse yet commanding, "your Khan savior, arrived precisely when prophecy and poor timing collide." A grin splits several faces; somebody snickers. Naci lifts a brow. "Laugh now—your jaws will ache when I order drills."

Murmurs ripple: Khan? Jabliu girl? Is she serious?

Arban steps forward, fists on hips. "Naci, we've sat in irons while princes butchered legions in the square. Forgive us if we require… demonstration."

"Demonstration," Naci echoes, tasting the word. She points to Uamopak perched above. "An eagle none of you trained brought the keys that freed you. Why? Because Alinkar remembers its own, and Tepr's call is louder than prison walls."

"That's actually thanks to me." The man who tamed Uamopak says, a smile on his face.

Naci recognizes the man immediately, even though they have never met before. "You are Temej's brother. He told me about you. What is your name?"

"It is Borak," he replies with a smile, his freckles and green eyes shining the way her best friend's do when he's amused.

Naci sighs, "You people all have the same name. It is all Bora, Boram, Borak, Bore, Börän, Borei, Borgr, Borlei, Borek, Borëgen, Börgi, Boris. Anyway," she shakes a dismissive hand, "I bled across the Kamoklopr, dragged three hundred through blizzard and sand because your freedom matters more than treaties carved in jade. The invader who caged you lies stinking on a cot. The princes who mock you fatten on your fear. You want proof? You draw breath—that is my gift. Ask your hearts whether the wind today smells like fear or possibility."

Silence thickens, broken only by distant camel bells. Eyes meet, heads nod—first a handful, then a wave.

"Alright, brother," Naci continues. "Enough rolling in the dirt. That," she nods at the palace, "is where the real vermin nests. Take me to him. Your... Puripal."

Dukar meets her gaze, his jaw tightening. "You walk into the wolf's den, sister. Uninvited. Unannounced."

"Wolves," Naci counters, "respect strength. Or fear it. Either works. And I come bearing... not gifts, precisely. An offer. Terms for the head I came for, and perhaps... other arrangements." She raises a challenging brow. "Unless you fear my legendary charm will overwhelm your precious prince?"

A ghost of exasperation crosses Dukar's face. "Charm? There is nothing charming about you... tone it down."

Naci places a hand over her heart, her expression one of theatrical innocence. "Me? Brother, you wound me! I am the soul of diplomatic restraint." She flashes a grin. "Ask anyone. Fol? Am I hostile?"

Fol ponders for a minute, then nods. "Khan, the last time you were 'emphatically persuasive' with a Yohazatz, he needed a new head. Restraint is not your strongest lance, I must admit."

"See?" Dukar mutters.

Naci waves a dismissive hand, her eyes already scanning her surroundings. She strides towards Liara, who stamps a hoof impatiently. "Details, details. Pomogr! Your saddlebag."

Pomogr's weathered face sours further. "Naci... What do you plan to do with it?"

Naci rummages in the bag Liara presents, pulling out a heavy, clinking pouch of undyed leather. She jingles it meaningfully. "Consider it an investment. Hand it over."

Pomogr looks pained, clutching his own, undoubtedly fuller, pouch protectively. "Must I? This is hard-earned silver, pried from stingy Moukopl factors..."

"Think of it as paying for the privilege of not having to listen to hundreds of parched, irritable warriors complain about their Khan's lack of hospitality all afternoon," Naci retorts smoothly, holding out her hand. "Come now, share the wealth. Don't you know you won't need it when you die? The Spirits reward generosity."

With a sound like a deflating bellows, Pomogr reluctantly detaches his pouch and slaps it into Naci's waiting palm. She weighs both pouches, a satisfied glint in her eye. Turning to the milling crowd of freed Tepr warriors, their faces a mixture of bewilderment, exhaustion, and dawning hope, she raises her voice.

"Borak!" she calls. He looks up. Naci tosses both pouches in a high, glittering arc. Borak catches them deftly, one in each hand, the weight making him stagger slightly. "Take these valiant, recently unshackled souls," Naci commands, gesturing expansively at the warriors, "and find the nearest tavern that hasn't been redecorated with Moukopl entrails. Get them something tasty. My treat." She laughs. "My generosity knows no bound!"

A ripple of stunned laughter runs through the Tepr ranks. Arban shakes his head, a reluctant smile touching his lips. "This Khan... she's mad."

"Possibly," Borak grins, hefting the pouches. "But mad with funding. Right, lads? Who fancies discovering what Qixi-Lo considers 'strong'?"

Naci turns to the contingent of Moukopl cavalry who accompanied her, their faces stoic but eyes wide at the unfolding strangeness. She makes a shooing gesture. "You too. Find your own watering hole. Relax. Try not to start any wars while I'm talking."

The Moukopl captain blinks, then offers a stiff, bewildered nod. His men exchange uncertain glances before slowly dismounting, the prospect of unexpected rest and drink cutting through their disciplined reserve.

Naci turns back to Dukar, dusting off her hands. "See? Generosity. Hospitality. Utterly non-hostile. Now," she gestures towards the palace gates, "shall we?"

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Dukar sighs. "Try not to call him 'vermin' to his face. Or 'pup'. Or... anything else that leaps readily to your tongue." He starts walking, Naci falling into step beside him, her stride purposeful despite her fatigue. Fol and Pomogr materialize silently at her flanks.

They pass through the towering Jade Gate, leaving the plaza's grim spectacle behind. The Processional Way stretches before them, flanked by high-walled compounds and shuttered merchant stalls. The silence here is different – watchful, tense, thick with the residue of recent violence and the fear of what simmers in the palace ahead.

As they walk, Naci glances sideways at Dukar, her voice dropping, losing its performative edge. "Our niece," she says, almost casually. "is she here?"

Dukar stiffens almost imperceptibly. His gaze remains fixed ahead. "No."

"Ah." Naci responds. "A shame. I... would have liked to see her again."

Dukar's jaw works. "She's safe. Away from this." The 'this' hangs heavy, encompassing the bloodstained stones, the looming palace, Puripal.

"Safe is good, but roots need sun, brother. Not just shelter. Especially roots like hers." She nudges him lightly with her elbow. "You should bring her to Tepr. Let her feel the wind and learn to ride."

Marble corridors swallow their footsteps, torch‑flames guttering in bronze sconces like watchful serpents.

They turn a corner—and there she is.

Jinhuang stands in a pool of lattice‑filtered sun, arms folded around a stack of scrolls so large it nearly eclipses her small frame. Ink smudges stripe one cheek. Sleep‑stung eyes widen as she spots them.

Dukar's jaw drops. "Jin— I told you to stay in the east wing."

"Uncle Dukar?" Her voice is small, echoing slightly in the cavernous space. "You said... you said you'd find books. I waited a long time. I thought…"

Fol reacts on instinct: weight shifts low, hands open, ready for the whirlwind child who once floored him with a punch. Pomogr plants a steadying arm across Fol's chest. "Easy. She's armed with literature."

Naci, however, ignites like dawn striking bronze "There she is!" Naci booms, her voice ricocheting off the stone. The theatrical diplomacy evaporates. Before Dukar can protest, she surges forward, scoops Jinhuang bodily into the air, scrolls and all. The girl squeaks, sandals flailing, as Naci spins once, laughter rolling down the corridor like a warm gale. "My little storm cloud! My fierce, book-hunting niece! Oh, I knew that lump of gloom was lying!" She shoots a triumphant, scathing glance at Dukar, who looks ready to melt into the onyx floor.

"A-a-a-a-auntie?!" Jinhuang squirms.

"Look at you!" Naci crows. "Surviving this den of vipers! I missed you, little spark! Been looking forward to this reunion!" She pulls Jinhuang close into a bone-crushing embrace, burying the girl's face against her leather-clad shoulder. "Don't you worry. Auntie Naci's here now. We'll get you out of this gloomy stone trap, away from your mean, violent uncle who doesn't bring you books and stories, okay?"

Jinhuang squirms, a flurry of limbs trapped against Naci's surprisingly solid frame. "Put me down! Auntie Naci, please! I can't breathe!" Her protests are muffled, half-hearted. The initial shock is giving way to something else. The arms holding her are strong, unyielding, yet the embrace itself, beneath the boisterousness, is startlingly warm. It's a warmth utterly absent from Dukar's recent tense, disappointing presence.

Dukar rubs his temples. "Sister, stop, she is fourteen, not eight."

"She weighs nothing," Naci retorts, hugging tighter. "Bones like reeds." She looks down, mock scandalized. "Brother, you've been misfeeding her, haven't you?"

Dukar watches, a hand slowly rising to cover his eyes, a low groan escaping him. "I am feeding her normally, thank you very much."

Naci finally relents, loosening the vise-grip but keeping Jinhuang firmly within the circle of her arms, setting her back on her feet but not letting go. She holds the girl at arm's length, studying her face with fierce affection. Jinhuang's cheeks are flushed, her hair mussed, but her eyes, wide and startled, meet Naci's without flinching now. There's a hint of bewildered awe in them.

"See?" Naci says, her voice softening, though still vibrant. "All in one piece. Stronger than you look, aren't you? Just like your auntie." She ruffles Jinhuang's hair, a gesture both rough and tender. "Now, tell Auntie everything. Did this gloomy uncle feed you properly? Tell me the truth. Did he find you any good books before he decided lying was more fun?"

Jinhuang glances past Naci at Dukar, who has lowered his hand and is now pinching the bridge of his nose, radiating profound exasperation. She looks back at Naci's beaming, dust-streaked face, the genuine warmth in her eyes, the sheer, overwhelming presence of her. "We ate nothing but dried horsemeat before reaching Qixi-Lo. The food here is good, though. But I couldn't find any good books."

"Behold!" Naci's voice billows. "My niece, scholar and striker of men twice her size. She longs for tales, not tyranny." She places Jinhuang on her feet—then, swift as sleight of hand, slips a curved throwing knife from her sleeve and presses it, hilt‑first, into the girl's startled hand. "Lesson one: a good story is sharper with a point."

Jinhuang studies the blade, pupils dilating with mingled fear and awe. "Auntie, Uncle doesn't allow weapons inside."

Naci winks. "That's why yours is small."

...

The heavy bronze doors to the throne room groan inward, revealing a cavernous space of oppressive grandeur. Sunlight streams through high, narrow windows, illuminating swirling dust motes dancing above a floor of polished obsidian veined with gold. At the far end, atop a dais carved from a single, immense block of jade veined with crimson, sits the Yohazatz throne – currently occupied by a simmering tension. Puripal stands near its base, fingers steepled, his back rigid. Facing him, radiating belligerent energy, is Prince Nemeh, his face flushed, a hand resting possessively on the throne's armrest.

"–utterly reckless!" Nemeh snarls, his voice echoing. "Slaughtering the Moukopl legion? Turning the plaza into a charnel house? It bought you a day's silence, brother, not loyalty! The generals whisper–"

The doors' groan cuts him off. Two pairs of eyes snap towards the entrance: Puripal's coldly assessing, Nemeh's widening in surprise and contempt. Naci strides in, flanked by Dukar, Fol, and Pomogr. Jinhuang trails slightly behind, wide-eyed, still processing her aunt's whirlwind affection. The Tepr Khan ignores the opulence, her gaze sweeping the room like a general assessing a battlefield, finally settling on the princes. Dust clings to her hair, her leathers are scuffed, but her posture radiates undeniable authority.

Nemeh recovers first, a sneer twisting his lips. He throws his arms wide in mock welcome. "Well, well! The Tepr dogs finally found the kennel! Did you trail our broken brother's stench all the way from beyond the Kamoklopr? Expecting scraps?"

Naci offers a smile. She executes a shallow, perfectly calculated bow – respectful enough in form, utterly insolent in spirit. "Prince Puripal. Naci Khan of the United Tribes of Tepr. Forgive the intrusion. The… aroma outside was somewhat overwhelming. We sought fresher air." Her tone is amicable, yet the steel beneath is unmistakable.

Puripal's eyes flicker. He ignores Nemeh's sputtering. "Sister," he says, his voice smooth as oiled silk, inclining his head towards Naci with surprising formality. "It would be my pleasure to discuss with you." He makes a subtle gesture towards the door, clearly meant for Nemeh.

Nemeh plants his feet. "I am Regent too," he declares, puffing out his chest. "You cannot dismiss me from my own throne room!"

Puripal sighs. "Very well, brother." He turns back to the guests. "The throne room is for posturing. Negotiation requires comfort. If you would follow me?" He sweeps past Nemeh without a second glance, heading towards a discreet archway flanked by snarling snow leopard statues.

Nemeh glares at their retreating backs, then slumps onto the throne, muttering darkly about "upstart savages."

...

Puripal's private quarters are a study in elegance – low divans heaped with silk cushions, intricate tapestries depicting scholars and conquests, the air scented with sandalwood and mint. Naci immediately gravitates towards the largest couch, collapsing onto it with an audible groan, stretching her legs out and crossing her boots on a priceless Qixi-Lo embroidered footstool. She sighs dramatically, rolling her shoulders.

Puripal watches her, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching towards his hairline. He turns to Dukar, gesturing at Naci's sprawled form. "This is the storm that shattered the Tiger? How do you endure her, brother? Is there no decorum in Tepr?"

Dukar merely grunts, finding a spot by the window, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Fol and Pomogr take up positions near the door, silent sentinels. Jinhuang hovers uncertainly near Dukar, watching the interplay with wide eyes.

Puripal moves to a low, lacquered table bearing an ornate porcelain tea set. With meticulous, almost ritualistic care, he begins preparing tea, the delicate clink of porcelain the only sound. He heats water in a small brazier, measures fragrant leaves, pours with precise, graceful movements. The tension in the room thickens. Finally, he pours two cups. He picks up his own, raises it slightly in a silent toast, and takes a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes meet Naci's over the rim of the cup.

"Not poisoned, sister-in-law," he states mildly, setting his cup down. "A waste of good camellia, and frankly, beneath us."

Naci chuckles. She leans forward and picks up the other cup, mirroring his sip. The fragrant steam curls around her face. "Wouldn't dream of accusing you, brother-in-law," she replies, her grin sharp. "And for the record? Stabbing you in the heart would be terribly messy. And ruin this lovely couch." She pats the silk cushion beside her.

Puripal smiles. "A shared understanding of aesthetics. How refreshing. Now," he settles onto a cushion opposite her, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "You chased my broken brother across a frozen hell. You invaded my city. You brawled with my Dukar in the plaza. What does the Khan of Tepr truly want? Beyond theatrical entrances and testing my upholstery?"

Naci sets her cup down. The playful glint vanishes from her eyes, replaced by the flinty gaze of a Khan. "Three things. Prince Noga's head. Three thousand silvers from his treasury – call it war reparations for the tribes he crushed. And a binding non-aggression pact between Tepr and Yohazatz. Signed, sealed, delivered. Then I take my people," she nods towards the door, "and the wind blows home."

Puripal steeples his fingers again, his gaze thoughtful. "Ambitious terms. How do you propose to… pressure me into such concessions?"

Naci leans back, tapping a finger against her teacup. "Your city reeks of siege and revolt. Blood stains your stones, fear chokes your alleys. Your troops? They saw a massacre. Morale isn't high; it's buried under those Moukopl heads." She meets his eyes squarely. "I walked in with three hundred. But hundreds more of my tribesmen are currently wandering your streets, well-rested, well-armed, and very, very motivated. Taking this city? With the state it's in?" She shrugs. "Less a battle, more an… administrative change. Messy, though. I'd prefer the silver."

A flicker of irritation crosses Puripal's face, swiftly replaced by calculation. He sighs, a sound of genuine, if weary, concession. "You are… formidable, sister. A force of nature wrapped in dusty leather. Underestimating you is a fatal pastime." He takes another sip of tea. "But why merely non-aggression? We share a greater enemy. The Moukopl boot presses on both our necks. Why not an alliance? Strength united?"

Naci shakes her head. "We wear similar furs, Puripal. Speak tongues that share roots back to Demoz himself. We are steppe, through and through. The Moukopl? They are… other. Stone-city dwellers. Bureaucrats with swords. An alliance? It would tangle us in their wars, their politics. Mangle what makes us strong. Tepr fights its battles. Yohazatz fights yours. We don't need to be lovers; just neighbors who don't burn each other's yurts."

Puripal considers this, swirling the tea in his cup. The silence stretches, thick with implication. Then, he nods slowly. "A pragmatic view. Perhaps too narrow, but pragmatic." He sets the cup down with finality. "Counteroffer. Noga stays. His head is politically inconvenient, and frankly, useless to you now. The silver… Qixi-Lo bleeds. Repairs cost coin. I need those funds."

Naci's eyes narrow dangerously, but Puripal raises a hand, forestalling her protest. "However… you are right about the Moukopl. Scattered, we are kindling for their forge. We need… not an alliance, but a confederation. A secret council. Tepr, Yohazatz, and other strong tribes – the Borjigin, perhaps the Uriankhai remnants. You with your own Tepr chieftains and advisors. We meet. Every two years. We share intelligence. Plan. We prepare. Not for petty raids, but for the day the Moukopl overextend, or fracture. We ensure our survival when their empire inevitably stumbles." His eyes burn with cold, ambitious fire.

Naci stares at him. The audacity of the plan, its sheer scale, resonates. It speaks to the ambition that drives her own dream of Tepr's strength. The vision of a united steppe front, invisible to the Moukopl, is intoxicating. She taps her finger again, slower this time. "Not a coalition, a confederation… Like our ancestors..." she muses. The idea takes root. "It has… merit." A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face. "Alright, brother-in-law. You tempt me. The Confederation stands. But," she leans forward, "I still want something to take home. Something valuable."

Puripal follows her gaze, puzzled. "Name it."

"My niece," Naci states, pointing at Jinhuang. "She comes with me to Tepr."

Dukar explodes from his position by the window. "No! Absolutely not! She stays with me!" He steps towards Jinhuang.

But before Dukar can reach her, Jinhuang steps forward. Her small chin lifts. Her eyes, still shadowed by recent horrors, meet Naci's fierce gaze, then flick to Puripal's calculating one, and finally settle on Dukar's anguished face. The silence in the opulent room is absolute. Then, clear and firm, cutting through the tension like a knife, her young voice rings out:

"I'll go."

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