Puripal paces near the tall, latticed window overlooking the recovering city, his movements tight, controlled, yet humming with a restless energy. Dukar stands near the low table, tracing the rim of an untouched teacup with a calloused finger.

"Are you sad about Jinhuang?" Puripal's voice slices the silence, sharp as a shard of obsidian.

"Yes," Dukar responds, "I think I haven't done anything wrong. Yet I lost her sympathy for reasons I don't really understand. She asked me why I was not upset..."

"Why?" Puripal stops pacing, turning to face Dukar. His usual mask of sardonic control is fractured, revealing raw edges beneath. "Why were you… upset? With me."

Dukar doesn't look up immediately. His finger stills on the porcelain. "Upset?" he rumbles, the word low and heavy. "I wasn't upset with you, Puripal. Not truly. I was… worried. About what would happen between you and Naci. About the city. About the cost." He finally meets Puripal's gaze, his dark eyes weary but clear.

Puripal scoffs, a brittle sound. "No. Before that. When I… dealt with the Moukopl. When I spoke to the mob. When Kan…" He gestures vaguely, unable to articulate the messy, brutal efficiency of his reign's bloody dawn. "That look on your face. That… coldness. That was more than worry. That was disgust."

Dukar exhales slowly, a long breath that seems to deflate him slightly. He looks away again, this time towards the discarded map sprawled on the table, its edges curling, marked with troop movements and scorch marks. He thinks.

"I didn't know why," Dukar admits, his voice rough. "Not then. Now… I think I understand." He lifts his head, his gaze locking back onto Puripal's, holding it with a startling intensity. "It wasn't disgust at you. Not at what you felt you had to do. It was… at myself. My own blindness. My own failure."

Puripal stares, uncomprehending. "Failure?"

"I was naive," Dukar states, the admission stark and unadorned. "Naive to think the path you chose, the path we both stepped onto, could be walked without wading through rivers of blood. I saw the goal – breaking the wheel, building something new, freeing the steppe – but I closed my eyes to the jagged stones beneath our boots. I wasn't ready. For the sheer, ugly weight of it. The cost laid bare." He takes a step closer. "My anger… it was anger at my own unpreparedness. My own softness, perhaps. A personal fault. Not yours. I'm sorry."

The word hangs in the air – sorry. An apology Puripal never expected, least of all framed this way. He flinches as if struck. "You're lying," he whispers, the accusation lacking its usual venom.

Dukar shakes his head slowly, firmly. "I don't lie to you, Puripal. I understand the stakes now. Truly understand. The Moukopl won't yield to pretty words or noble intentions. They grind bones to make their mortar. What you did…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully, "...was a terrible hammer blow. But perhaps a necessary one against an anvil of empire. My fault was not seeing how heavy the hammer needed to be."

Puripal doesn't move. The carefully constructed walls around his heart, built of ambition, calculation, and a lifetime of poison-tipped lessons, shudder. The raw honesty in Dukar's voice, the acceptance devoid of judgment, the sheer burden of his apology… it's too much. A tremor starts in his hands, then his shoulders. His breath hitches, a ragged, ugly sound. Then, the dam breaks.

He doesn't sob quietly. It's a sudden, violent eruption – great, heaving gasps that wrack his slender frame. Tears, hot and unchecked, stream down his face, carving paths through the carefully maintained facade. He presses a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, but it's useless. The weight of isolation, the fear of Dukar's rejection, the crushing loneliness at the pinnacle of his stolen power – it all floods out in a torrent of raw, unguarded grief.

"I… I don't…" he chokes out between gasps, shoulders shaking. "Dukar… I don't deserve… Stars above, I don't deserve you." The words are muffled, thick with tears and snot. "After all I've done… the blood… the lies… you still… why?"

Dukar closes the distance between them in two strides. He doesn't offer platitudes. He doesn't try to shush him. He simply gathers Puripal into his arms, pulling the trembling prince against his broad chest. He holds him tightly, anchoring him as the storm of emotion rages, one large hand cradling the back of Puripal's head, fingers tangling in the dark silk of his hair. Puripal clings to him, fingers digging into the tough leather of Dukar's jerkin, his face buried against the solid warmth, his body shuddering with each ragged breath.

"You don't need to say that," Dukar murmurs, his voice a low rumble against Puripal's ear. "Just… next time. Next time something like… that… must happen," he pulls back slightly, just enough to look Puripal in his tear-swollen, vulnerable eyes, "tell me. Warn me. Give me the details. All of them. Even the ugly ones. Don't… don't leave me standing in the plaza, surprised like an idiot."

Puripal stares up at him, confusion warring with desperate hope through the tears. "I… I concealed it," he admits, his voice small, broken. "I was afraid… afraid you'd look at me like that again. Afraid you'd see… see the monster and turn away."

Dukar's thumb brushes away a tear track on Puripal's cheek. "I'd have found out anyway, Prince. I am with you all the time. Secrets rot trust faster than blood stains silk. The most important thing… the only important thing between us… is honesty. Even when it's ugly. Especially then."

Puripal's breath hitches again, but the sobs lessen, replaced by a profound, trembling vulnerability. He searches Dukar's face, finding no lie, no recoil, only the steady, unwavering strength he has always anchored himself to. The dam breaks again, but softer this time – tears of release, of a burden shared, of a terrifying loneliness momentarily dispelled. He leans his forehead against Dukar's chest, taking shuddering breaths that slowly, gradually, begin to steady.

Dukar holds him, patient, solid. The afternoon light deepens, painting the room in warm amber. He tilts Puripal's chin up gently. Their eyes meet

Dukar's lips brush Puripal's, a question, a reassurance. Puripal responds tentatively at first, then with a surge of desperate need, his arms tightening around Dukar's neck. It deepens, a merging of breath and sorrow. Dukar's kiss is an anchor, a vow whispered against his lips: I'm here. The promise stands.

When they finally part, breathless, Puripal's tears have stopped, though his eyes still glisten. He looks up at Dukar, a tremulous, genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in days. "Could you…" he whispers, his voice rough but clear, "…do something for me?"

Dukar doesn't answer with words. He simply nods, a single, deep incline of his head, his gaze holding Puripal's, filled with a heat that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fierce, protective love he's just reaffirmed. A slow, answering smile spreads across Puripal's face, transforming it from shattered to radiant.

...

The rising sun paints the Qixi-Lo gates in molten gold. Before the Jade Gate, chaos blooms into orderly departure. Hundreds of Tepr warriors, liberated and revitalized by Borak's strategic tavern deployment, check girths on rested horses. Pack camels groan under mountains of waterskins, dried meat, and sacks of grain – a bounty meticulously extracted from Puripal's strained coffers as "travel provisions."

In the eye of this storm, Dukar stands like a monolith of reluctant resignation. Jinhuang, already perched atop a sturdy, patient pony, the same she'd ridden into the city, fidgets with her reins. Dukar's finger, thick as a tent peg, jabs the air near her nose.

"Letters," he growls, the word a command etched in stone. "To your mother. At least twice a year. Detailed. Tell her… tell her about the eagles. The wind. The…" He struggles, searching for acceptable Tepr phenomena. "...the fermented mare's milk. Anything. Twice a year." His glare shifts to Naci, who leans casually against Liara, gnawing on a strip of jerky. "You! Ensure it happens. Swear it on your honor, or whatever tattered shreds remain."

Naci waves the jerky dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, brother. Letters. Twice. On my honor, tattered or otherwise." She winks conspiratorially at Jinhuang, whose lips twitch in suppressed amusement. Naci digs into a pouch at her belt, pulling out a smaller, greasy packet. "Here, little storm. Dried apricots stuffed with honeyed goat cheese. Uncle Dukar's farewell gift. He's too shy to give it himself." She tosses it up. Jinhuang catches it, the scent of sweetness cutting through the dust.

Dukar's scowl deepens, etching canyons on his brow. "I am not shy. I am practical. Sweets rot teeth." He watches Jinhuang eagerly tear into the packet, a flicker of something almost soft vanishing beneath his customary granite expression.

Naci vaults effortlessly onto Liara's back. "Ready for the big leagues, niece? Or still clinging to your grass-nibbler?"

Jinhuang squares her shoulders, gripping her pony's mane. "This 'grass-nibbler' carried me across half the desert, Auntie. Respect the steed."

"Fair point," Naci concedes, a grin spreading. "Respect the steed. We'll find you something with fire in its belly soon enough."

Arban, tightening a saddle strap nearby, pauses. He eyes Dukar, still rooted near the gate. "Dukar," he calls. "The wind blows home. Why anchor yourself in this stone cage? Come with us. Tepr needs you."

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Dukar doesn't turn fully, his gaze fixed on the distant palace spires. "My path winds differently for now, Arban. But the wind carries echoes. We'll meet again."

Just then, Borak ambles over, his freckled face beaming. He holds out two familiar, now decidedly flaccid, leather pouches towards Naci. "Khan! Your diplomatic investment returns. Mostly."

Naci takes the pouches, weighing them in one hand. They jingle weakly, a pathetic whisper compared to their former clinking chorus. Her eyebrows shoot up. "Borak! Did you buy every tavern in Qixi-Lo? Or perhaps invest in a palace renovation? These feel lighter than a gnat's conscience!"

Borak chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Feeding three hundred hungry warriors, Khan, is a feat worthy of the Epic of Demoz! Ale flows like rivers, mutton vanishes like smoke! And the quality demanded! No watered-down swill for the heroes of the Salt Pit! Only the finest Qixi-Lo vintage, aged approximately… three days. It adds up!"

Naci shakes her head, a mock sigh escaping her lips. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses the lighter of the two pouches towards Pomogr, who stands nearby inspecting a camel's load. "Your share, oh master of coin. Try not to weep."

Pomogr catches the pouch. His weathered face, usually as expressive as sun-baked clay, undergoes a remarkable transformation. His eyes widen. His jaw drops. He hefts the pouch once, twice, feeling its grievous lack of substance. A low, guttural moan escapes him, rising swiftly into a theatrical wail that echoes off the gatehouse. "Woe! Betrayal! The lifeblood of a poor man, siphoned away by ale...!" He clutches the pouch to his chest like a dying child. "The weight! The terrible, hollow lightness! It screams of deprivation!"

Naci stares at him, incredulous. "Pomogr, are you actually crying? Over a bit of silver? Spirits save us, you sound like a weaned calf!"

"Bit of silver?!" Pomogr wails, tears now welling in his eyes. "Easy for you to say, Naci, born swaddled in Jabliu wolf pelts! You rich children, raised on cream and conquest, you will never understand the gnawing hunger in the belly of a poor man! The cold nights counting pebbles because coppers are too precious to spend! The struggle!"

Fol, adjusting a saddle nearby, pauses. He looks at Pomogr, then at Naci, then shrugs his shoulders. "Nedai had sheep," he rumbles. "Many sheep."

Naci points a finger at Fol. "Exactly! Pomogr, you were a chieftain's son! Nedai wasn't rolling in gold, but you weren't counting pebbles! Stop this tragic performance!"

Pomogr draws himself up, sniffing dramatically. "The Nedai were the poorest tribe in Tepr! Our wealth was measured in dust and stubbornness! Ask anyone! Followed only, perhaps," he gestures vaguely towards Fol, "by the Nipih, who measure wealth in how many rocks they can carry before collapsing."

Fol considers this, then nods slowly. "True. But I don't mind being poor. That way the Khan won't need my money."

Naci throws her hands up. "Hopeless! Utterly hopeless! Fine, Pomogr, clutch your hollow pouch and weep. Borak, next time, buy cheaper ale. Fol… keep not missing money. Jinhuang," she turns, her voice shifting to brisk command, "secure your apricots. We ride!" She nudges Liara forward, the great mare stepping out with a snort, leading the vast, rumbling caravan towards the beckoning dunes. Jinhuang waves a sticky hand at Dukar. Ta who appears behind him waves back with a smile.

...

Weak afternoon light slants through high, narrow windows, dust motes dancing like dying embers above the massive bed where Prince Noga lies. Sweat plasters grey-streaked hair to his temples; his once-powerful frame is a wasted landscape beneath silk sheets. The stump of his left arm is a monstrous, bandaged bulge. His right hand twitches feebly. Sarangerel sits vigil in a hard-backed chair, her own face gaunt, eyes hollowed from days of silent weeping, her knuckles white where they grip the armrests.

A rasp, dry as dead leaves scraping stone. Noga's eyelids flutter. Sarangerel gasps, leaning forward. "Noga? My lion? Can you hear me?"

A physician exits the room in a hurry to share the news. Noga's good eye opens slowly, the pupil dilated, swimming with pain and confusion before focusing weakly on her face. A ghost of a smile touches his cracked lips. "Sara…" The word is a breath, barely audible. "Water…"

She fumbles, hands trembling, lifting a cup with a spout to his lips. He sips, coughs weakly, then sips again. His gaze drifts around the opulent room – the tapestries of conquest, the ivory-inlaid weapons on the walls – before settling back on her. Shame flickers in his sunken eyes. "I am… sorry. For this." His gaze flicks towards the bandaged ruin of his arm. "For… failing."

Sarangerel clutches his remaining hand. "Hush, my heart. You live. That is victory enough." Tears spill freely now, tracing paths through the dust on her cheeks. "The physicians… they fought the rot. You are strong. You will heal."

Noga's eye closes for a moment, gathering strength. When it opens, the confusion is replaced by a terrible clarity. "Father?" he rasps. "I must… speak with him…" He struggles to push himself up, a tremor wracking his frame.

Sarangerel's breath hitches. The moment she has dreaded. Her grip on his hand tightens painfully. "Noga…" Her voice breaks. "The Khan… your father…" She swallows convulsively, unable to force the words past the lump in her throat. She shakes her head, fresh tears welling. The denial is written in the utter desolation of her expression.

Noga stares at her. The clarity in his eye hardens, then shatters into something utterly devoid of surprise. A bleak, bone-deep understanding settles over his ravaged features. He sinks back onto the pillows, a low sigh escaping him, more of release than sorrow. "Ah." The syllable hangs heavy in the silent room.

Sarangerel rushes to fill the void, her voice trembling with desperate urgency. "Puripal and Nemeh… they hold the regency. For now. Until you are strong again. Until you can take your rightful place! You must, Noga! Puripal… I know it in my bones… he moved against the Khan! He is a regicide! A snake coiled in silk! You must rise! You must—"

Noga cuts her off, not with words, but with a sound. A low, rasping chuckle that bubbles up from his ruined chest, devoid of any humor. "Puripal?" he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the distant ceiling. "Whatever he did… he had his reasons. Good reasons, likely." He turns his head slightly, his good eye finding hers, holding a terrifying emptiness. "It doesn't matter, Sara. Not to me. Not anymore. The throne… the Khanate… it's ash in my mouth. Let the pup have it. I just…" His voice trails off, a whisper lost in the vast room. "…want to find a quiet hill. Learn… learn how to call an eagle. Before the end."

Sarangerel recoils as if struck. "Noga! No! The pain… the fever… it speaks, not you!" She clutches his shoulders, shaking him gently, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. "You are the Storm! The Khan of Khans! You must get well! You must—"

Knock. Knock.

The sound is soft, precise, cutting through Sarangerel's pleas. The heavy door swings open without waiting for an answer.

Puripal stands framed in the entrance, immaculate in dark, high-collared silk. No trace of the previous day's vulnerability remains; his face is a mask of polite concern, sharpened by an unnerving stillness in his eyes. Dukar looms half a step behind him, a silent, watchful shadow, his expression unreadable stone.

"Brother," Puripal says, his voice smooth as poured oil, stepping into the room. "The physicians sent word. We came at once." He approaches the bed, his movements fluid. "The city rejoices at your return to us."

Sarangerel scrambles to her feet, placing herself protectively between Puripal and the bed, her tear-streaked face twisted with defiance. "He needs rest! He is weak!"

Puripal ignores her, his gaze fixed on Noga. "Rest is vital, of course, sister. But strength returns with purpose." He stops beside the bed, looking down at his broken elder brother. "We have held the throne warm for you, Noga. The Lion Seat awaits its true master. The moment you are able, the regency ends. The Khanship is yours."

Noga meets Puripal's gaze. There's no anger, no accusation, only a profound, weary knowing. A ghost of that bleak chuckle rasps in his throat. "Lies, little brother. Smooth as always." He shifts slightly, wincing. "But unnecessary. Take it. The crown. The bloodstained chair. The scheming captains. It's yours. You were always… better suited. For the ruthlessness it demands." He closes his eye for a moment, a flicker of something almost peaceful crossing his face. "Me? I think… eagles. On a quiet steppe. With… both arms." He lifts his remaining hand weakly, then lets it fall. "Use the other one."

He drifts then, his breathing shallower, a faint smile touching his lips as if already seeing the vast, empty sky. Freedom…

Sarangerel watches, horrified, as Puripal leans closer, his expression softening into something almost tender. "Eagles are demanding masters, brother," he murmurs, his voice low, intimate. His right hand rests gently on Noga's good shoulder. "Perhaps start with… something smaller?"

Noga's eye opens. Not with surprise, but with a sudden, sharp awareness. Not of Puripal's words, but of the cold, hard pressure against the pulse point just below his jaw. Puripal's left hand, hidden until that moment, presses the needle-point tip of a slim, blackened steel dagger against his throat. The touch is precise, intimate, lethal.

Sarangerel sees it a heartbeat later. A strangled scream tears from her throat. "NO!" She lunges forward, claws outstretched for Puripal's face.

Dukar moves like lightning. One massive arm snakes around her waist, hauling her back off her feet. The other locks across her throat in a brutal chokehold, silencing her scream into a desperate gurgle. Her eyes bulge, wide with terror and betrayal, fixed on Noga.

Noga doesn't struggle. His gaze locks onto Sarangerel's frantic, choking face. His remaining hand comes up, not to fight the blade, but to clamp weakly over Puripal's hand on the dagger's hilt. His voice is a wet, bubbling rasp, thick with blood already welling around the steel point.

"Keep… her… safe," he gasps, his eyes burning into Puripal's. A command. A plea. The last order of a broken Khan.

Puripal meets his gaze, his own eyes cold, resolved. He gives the barest nod. "She will be."

Noga's grip tightens on Puripal's hand. He doesn't push it away. He pulls it down and in, with the last vestige of his terrible strength. A sickening, wet crunch echoes in the chamber as the blade punches deep into his throat, severing cartilage, arteries, windpipe. Blood erupts, a dark, arterial fountain soaking the silk sheets, Puripal's immaculate sleeve, spraying Sarangerel's horrified face.

Noga's body arches once, violently, a silent scream etched on his face. His eye holds Puripal's for a final, agonizing second. Then the light vanishes. His body sags back, the dreadful gurgling ceasing, replaced by the awful, final silence of voided lungs.

Puripal holds the dagger embedded for a moment longer, feeling the last tremor of life fade beneath his hand. He slowly withdraws the blade, the sound obscenely wet. He looks down at his brother's ruined throat, at the crimson tide spreading across the bed. His expression is serene. Calm. Utterly devoid of triumph or remorse. He turns his head slightly, meeting Dukar's eyes over Sarangerel's shoulder. He offers a small, chilling smile.

Dukar's face remains impassive. He feels Sarangerel go limp in his arms, her struggles ceasing, choked off by horror as much as his grip. Her wide, tear-filled eyes are still fixed on Noga's body, glazing over. With a motion as swift and economical as drawing a bowstring, Dukar shifts his grip. One large hand cups the back of her skull. The other remains braced under her jaw. A sharp, brutal twist. A single, sickening crack like dry kindling snapping.

Sarangerel's body goes utterly slack. Dukar lowers her gently to the floor beside the bed, her lifeless eyes still staring sightlessly at her dead husband. He straightens, wiping his hands methodically on his trousers.

Puripal steps back from the carnage on the bed, flicking dark droplets from his dagger onto the priceless rug. He looks at Noga's still form, then at Sarangerel's crumpled body. He nods once, satisfied. The deed is done. The Storm is quelled. The throne is irrevocably his. The silence returns, deeper now, filled only by the slow drip of blood onto stone and the settling dust in the fading light.

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.