The carriage sways like a drunkard as Pezijil's outskirts blur into sun-scorched plains. Dust motes swirl in slatted sunlight, catching on the embroidery of Naci's sleeve as she leans forward, her gaze a whetstone. "Start from the beginning."

Meicong slumps against the cushions, her fingers worrying a frayed thread in her tunic. "Kuan and Yile were two sides of the same coin, once. Both eunuchs of the Eastern Bureau, closer than oath-brothers. A lot… closer." Her throat bobs, eyes fixed on the flute in Fol's lap as if its silence might anchor her. "But Kuan had a hunger Yile couldn't stomach—a need to live, not just scheme. He first came to Tepr years ago, traded silk robes for wolf pelts. The old Orogol shaman he had met in Pezijil took him in, taught him his ways."

Lanau snorts. "A eunuch shaman? Bet that ruffled some feathers."

"The Orogol don't kneel to parts," Meicong snaps. "They kneel to wisdom. The shaman saw Kuan's heart, named him heir, then left for a spiritual journey to the west with his disciples."

Temej lobs a fig at Sartak, who snaps it midair. "So Yile sent you to drag him back? Why? Scared his pet found a better master?"

Meicong's laugh is bitter. "Yile doesn't share. He spun me tales—said Kuan betrayed the Bureau, the plan, us. That he'd gone native, that his loyalty was rotted. I believed him…" She hesitates, fingers brushing the scar on her forearm. "Yile's lies are pretty poisons. Kuan's truths are… blunt. We fought. I stabbed him. Then I realized I'd aimed at the wrong villain."

Naci's dagger taps her knee—a metronome of suspicion. "And now you want to gut Yile before he infects my reign."

"He's a rat in the granary," Meicong says flatly. "Leave him breathing, and he'll chew through your foundations. Empire, tribes, whatever—Yile devours everything."

Lanau tilts her head. "What's in it for you? Revenge? A pat on the head?"

"My sisters." Meicong's voice cracks like dry clay.

Temej grins. "We saw a girl that looks exactly like you. With a scythe and chain. Is she one of you sisters?"

"Meicao," Meicong corrects. "Meibei, Meicao, Meice. Yile turned them against me. Meicao… she'd slit my throat for a sip of his approval. Meibei is a goody-two-shoes. She defended me when the others turned coats. Meice prefers her fists. And liquor." A ghost of a smile flicks across her face. "We were Behani war-children—raised in mountain monasteries, taught to kill and recite sutras before we could write. I don't blame them for being easy to manipulate. We were taught to never question authority." She stiffens, then relents, scratching her ear. "Kuan found us after Behani fell. Fed us, gave us jobs in the imperial city."

Naci's gaze narrows. "Yet you stabbed him."

"I've stabbed many men I respected." Meicong meets her stare. "Doesn't make them wrong."

Naci leans back, the phoenix emblem above her casting a clawed shadow. "Convince me Kuan's worth the trouble."

Meicong pulls a small bone token from her sleeve—a wolf's tooth etched with Orogol runes. "He gave me this. Said it's for 'when the lies choke you.'" She tosses it to Naci. "The shaman's last gift to him. Not the act of a spy."

Temej squints at the token. "Could be a trick."

"It's a vow," Fol says suddenly, his voice rough as uncut stone. All eyes turn to him. He reddens but doesn't look away. "Orogol shamans… they carve teeth for oaths. Unbreakable."

Meicong nods. "Kuan vowed to protect Tepr. Not conquer it. The moment he saw you, he knew you are Tepr's hope. If he's still alive, that means he convinced Horohan."

The carriage lurches, sunlight fracturing through dust-caked windows as Naci's laughter slices the air—sharp, mirthless, a blade honed on disbelief. "You expect me to believe Kuan asked you to gut him like a festival pig?"

Meicong doesn't flinch. She leans into the accusation, her grime-streaked face a map of weary defiance. "He said a shallow wound would buy trust. That Horohan would patch him up, and I'd slink back to Yile with a pretty lie. But Yile's lies fester. I couldn't… breathe in that palace anymore."

Lanau twirls a dagger, its edge catching the light. "So you're here because your lungs got delicate?"

Temej snorts. "Bet Kuan's real thrilled you botched the plan. 'Stab me gently, sister!' — oops, liver's on the floor."

Meicong's gaze flicks to Fol, the only one who doesn't make fun of her. "The fortress was a lie," she admits. "No archers. Yile wants the Moukopl Empire ash, same as you. But he'll salt the earth so nothing grows in its place—not even your Tepr."

Naci's boot taps a slow, dangerous rhythm. "And Kuan?"

"Wants the same ash," Meicong says, "but for better soil. He's in love with this land."

Lanau arches a brow. "Maybe your Kuan killed the shaman and invented this story."

Fol interrupts, voice raw. "The shaman… he'd have seen deceit. Felt it."

Silence swells, thick as storm clouds. Temej clears his throat. "Kalez would've known what happened in Orogol at that time."

Fol flinches as if struck. The flute slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor.

Naci's hand shoots out, gripping his wrist. "Don't worry Fol," she says, steel in her tone. "The blame is mine. Always."

Meicong watches the exchange, her eyes narrowing. "You doubt me? Fine. But Behani war-children don't lie—not unless the Wheel commands it." She yanks her sleeve up, revealing a wrist branded with concentric circles. "Our vows are burned into bone. Lie for malice, and the Wheel grinds your soul to dust. The path to Enlightenment would be sealed for us until the next cycle."

Lanau leans closer, squinting at the scar. "Dramatic. Ever think you just got a bad tattooist?"

"We're taught to endure," Meicong snaps, yanking her sleeve down. "Not scheme. Yile's the spider. Kuan's the… the moth, maybe. Drawn to your flame." She nods at Naci. "And you're the fire that burns both."

Naci studies the wolf tooth, its runes winking in the fading light. Outside, the plains stretch endless, the Northern Wall a smudge on the horizon. "Why trust us? We're strangers, not saints."

"Because Kuan did." Meicong's voice softens, almost imperceptibly. "And because I'm tired of serving men who call betrayal 'loyalty.'"

Temej lobs the last fig at Sartak, who misses, his beak thumping the carriage floor. "So Yile's got a crush on Kuan, Kuan's got a crush on dirt. Got it."

...

The carriage halts abruptly, its wheels skidding on gravel as Naci flings the door open. Outside, the world stretches barren—a sea of snow and thornscrub under a sky bleached of mercy. The sun hangs like a white-hot coin, indifferent to the drama unfolding below.

"Down," Naci commands, her voice slicing through the dry air.

The driver scrambles to obey, sweat glazing his jowls as he stumbles into the snow. Temej leaps down after him. Lanau lingers in the doorway, chilling due to the winter wind. "My mother would think this is a lovely spot for a picnic."

Naci strides toward the driver. "Last chance," she says, too softly. "Who owns your leash?"

The driver's laugh wobbles. "Honored Khan, I swear by the Phoenix Throne—"

Crack.

Naci's hand darts out, seizing his index finger and wrenching it backward. The sound is a dry twig snap. The man's scream scatters a flock of crows from a dead acacia.

"Nine left," Naci murmurs, her face inches from his. "Count with me."

Temej sidles up, rifling through the driver's sash. He pulls free a parchment sealed with crimson wax. "The border pass. Emperor's own sigil. He might be telling the truth."

Meicong leans against the carriage, arms folded. "The seal's a puppet's stamp. Yile licks it, the Emperor applies it."

Crack.

The driver's middle finger joins its sibling, bent at a grotesque angle. He collapses to his knees, sobbing. "You—you bitch!" he spits at Meicong. "That filthy eunuch sent me into a trap!"

Naci tilts her head. "Confession noted." She glances at Meicong. "You armed?"

Meicong tosses her dagger hilt-first to Naci. "Never left my sleeve."

Naci catches it, drags the driver upright by his hair, and presses the blade to his throat. His pulse flutters against the steel like a caged bird. "Prove your loyalty," she says, thrusting the dagger toward Meicong.

For a heartbeat, the world stills. Even the wind holds its breath.

Meicong takes the blade. Meets the driver's bulging eyes. "The Wheel grinds the guilty," she murmurs and plants the dagger in his throat.

He gasps, blood bubbling over his lips, and crumples. The snow turns red.

Naci retrieves the wolf-tooth pendant from her belt and tosses it to Meicong. "Allies. Until I interrogate Kuan."

Meicong catches it, her hand steady. "He'll say your suspicion is what makes you strong." Meicong flips the blade and offers it hilt-first to Lanau. "As a token of trust. Please don't forget to give it back."

Lanau tucks it into her boot.

Naci turns to Meicong. "Can you drive?"

"I never did, but I can learn."

"Nah, forget it. Lanau."

"Ugh, fine." Lanau vaults onto the driver's perch, scowling at the reins.

...

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The Northern Wall Fortress rises from the plains like a clenched fist, its battlements studded with rusted iron spikes and the faded banners of a dozen forgotten campaigns. The gates groan open, hinges screaming like tortured spirits, to reveal General Bo Ha Min—a mountain of lacquered armor and bristling disdain. His beard, oiled into twin spearpoints, quivers as he surveys the carriage. Behind him, a phalanx of soldiers stands rigid, their spears tilted just enough to suggest accidents happen.

"Where is your imperial escort, Khan?" Bo Ha Min's voice drips with a vinegar politeness. His eyes linger on Meicong's tattered robes. "Or did the Blood Lotus pirates grow weary of their hostages?"

Naci steps from the carriage, her spine straight as a spear. Dust swirls around her boots, caught in the fortress's shadow. "The Emperor's seal," she says, unfurling the scroll with a flick of her wrist, "recognizes no escorts but the truth. And the truth is your respect is overdue, General."

Bo Ha Min's jaw tightens. He scans the seal—a crimson phoenix stamped in wax—as though it might burst into flames. "A scrap of paper does not absolve barbarians of suspicion. Lieutenant Jinlü Feng's corpse still rots somewhere, thanks to your pirate friends."

Lanau leans against the carriage, inspecting her nails. "He died defending us to the bitter end. Tragic."

The general's hand twitches toward his sword. Naci steps closer, her voice a low blade. "Question the seal again, and I'll carve your doubts into the Emperor's next missive. Personally."

A beat. The soldiers shift, boots scraping stone. Bo Ha Min bows—a shallow, venomous dip. "My… apologies, Honored Khan. The Northern Wall honors its allies." His smile is a knife wound. "Your horses await."

Liara's whinny slices through the courtyard's tension. The white mare stamps her hooves, her mane a banner of frost in the dusty air. Naci's sternness cracks like thin ice; she strides forward, gloved hand meeting velveteen muzzle. Liara nudges her shoulder, breath warm through the fabric, and Naci murmurs something lost to the wind.

Fol lingers by a dappled gelding. The horse—a gift Naci gave him when he finished second in the horse riding tournament—sniffs his sleeve, searching for treats or absolution. After losing his instrument in this fortress, Fol was also anxious at the idea of never seeing this horse again.

"You broke his dopshul," Naci says, glancing back. "I demand reparation."

Bo Ha Min snorts. "A child's toy? We incinerate contraband. For security."

Fol's jaw clenches. The gelding nickers, uneasy.

"That toy," Naci says, cold as midwinter steel, "was Nipih-crafted. Sacred. You'll replace it."

The general spreads his hands, mock rueful. "Alas, we are soldiers, not minstrels. But perhaps a drum? A nice, sturdy drum?"

Naci turns to Fol, waiting for his reply. The boy shakes his head. "I'm fine. The flute is good enough."

Naci vaults onto Liara's saddle, the mare sidestepping with practiced grace. "The dopshul will be repaid, General. In steel or silver, I care not. But it will."

Meicong jumps behind Lanau and sighs. "I don't get how this is better than cushions."

Bo Ha Min's smile fades. He steps closer, voice a poisoned whisper. "You tread fragile ice, Khan. The North remembers its enemies."

Liara surges forward, her shoulder brushing the general's breastplate. He stumbles back, boots sliding in dung-strewn straw. "And I," Naci says, reining the mare in with a twitch of her fingers, "remember my friends."

The gelding shies as Fol mounts, flute clutched like a lifeline. Temej smiles at him. "Play us something mournful. Match the décor."

Fol hesitates, the bamboo cold against his lips. His first breath into the instrument fractures—a reed-thin warble that cracks midway, sharp as the moment he'd stabbed Kalez in the snow. Lanau opens her mouth to jeer, but stops when Fol's next exhale finds the true note, trembling but whole, bleeding into the wind like a man stitching his own wound without thread.

As they ride through the gates, Temej glances back at the fortress.

Naci doesn't look back. The wind carries the general's curses, the fortress's shadow, and the faint, sweet note of Fol's flute.

...

The campfire licks the night with orange teeth, casting jagged shadows over the steppe. Temej roasts a hare skewered on his dagger, fat dripping into the flames. Lanau lounges against a saddle. Fol sits cross-legged, flute silent in his hands, eyes tracing constellations. Meicong paces the edge of the firelight, while Naci sharpens her saber, the rhythmic shink-shink of steel on stone slicing the silence.

Liara grazes nearby, her coat silvered by moonlight. The mare flicks an ear at Uamopak and Sartak, who gnaw a bone with the fervor of a condemned man's last meal.

Meicong stops mid-pace, her shadow stretching toward Naci like a blade. "Great Khan. Now that you trust me—"

Naci's whetstone halts. "Trust is a river that drowns the incautious. Speak."

Meicong kneels, firelight carving hollows beneath her eyes. "We need to ride faster. Tepr is under attack."

The whetstone resumes. "By whom?"

"The Second Prince of the Yohazatz. Noga, son of Qaloron Khan. His army crossed the desert. They're burning villages, conscripting tribes—raising hell where they tread."

Shink-shink. A spark flies from the blade. "And you waited until now to share this?"

"Would you have believed me earlier?" Meicong's voice hardens. "Or would you have called it a trick?"

Naci stands in one fluid motion, the saber's edge kissing Meicong's throat. "Try now."

Meicong doesn't blink. "I saw Noga's banners myself. He's not raiding. He's conquering. The tribes you did not unite have sworn loyalty."

Naci's grip tightens. "Why?"

"That, I don't know," Meicong rasps. "Noga probably saw the instability in Tepr and saw it as an advantage."

Naci's blade digs deeper. She remembers Puripal. Another Yohazatz prince and her brother's companion. She regrets not taking him hostage when she had the opportunity.

Naci releases Meicong with a shove. "Saddle the horses."

Lanau groans. "Now? The hare's still—"

"Now." Naci stalks to her saddlebag, withdrawing a long, oilcloth bundle. She unwraps it with ritual slowness: the musket. "I'll scatter his bones so wide, the desert will choke on them."

Meicong mounts with Lanau, gaze locked on the east. "Noga's no fool. He'll have scouts. Spies."

Naci swings onto Liara, the mare's snort echoing her rider's fury. "Let him hear us coming."

The campfire dies, smothered by boot heels.

Dawn bleeds pale gold over the Tepr encampment, the air sharp enough to slice through leather. Horohan sits cross-legged beside a sputtering fire, gnawing on a strip of dried goat meat with the enthusiasm of a wolf chewing gravel. Kuan, perched on a frost-rimed log across from her, wrinkles his nose at his own breakfast—a lumpy porridge flecked with dubious herbs. He prods it with a wooden spoon as though expecting it to hiss.

"This," Kuan declares, waving the spoon like a scepter, "is an affront to the culinary arts. Did your cooks mistake the spice pouch for a sack of toenails?"

Horohan's lips twitch. She tears off another leathery bite. "Complaining about breakfast? You're softer than a newborn lamb."

"A lamb," Kuan retorts, "would have the decency to faint before consuming this. You'd think a coalition of tribes could muster a decent meal. Even the Moukopl prison gruel had more—"

A sudden clatter interrupts him. A Kolopan youth tripping over a frozen tent rope faceplants into a snowdrift. Kuan watches, grinning, as the boy scrambles up, cheeks scarlet. "Ah, the grace of our future warriors!" Kuan says. "Truly, Tepr's hopes rest on such nimble feet."

Horohan rolls her eyes. "Keep jeering, and I'll have you train with them."

"Perish the thought. I'd sooner teach Khanai to dance."

As if summoned, the white tiger pads into view, her breath pluming in the cold. She sniffs Kuan's porridge, recoils with a sneeze, and flops down beside Horohan, tail thumping. Kuan mutters, "Even the beast has taste."

Horohan opens her mouth to retort when a horn blares—a jagged, urgent sound that shreds the morning calm. The camp stirs like a kicked anthill. Warriors spill from yurts, blades half-drawn. Across the square, Pomogr nearly upends a boiling kettle as he lurches to his feet.

A rider thunders through, his mount's hooves spraying clods of snow. The stranger's armor gleams dully, plates etched with sinuous, alien patterns—scales? Serpents?—and his face is hidden behind a visor shaped into a snarling wolf's maw. He halts before the firepit, dismounting with a creak of leather and clank of steel. Without a word, he hurls a burlap sack at Horohan's feet. It lands with a wet thud.

Silence falls, brittle as ice.

Horohan rises slowly, her shadow stretching long across the snow. "Open it," she orders, voice flat.

A young Jabliu warrior steps forward, knife in hand. The sack splits with a rasp, revealing a head.

Tovak's head.

Frost clings to his lashes, his skin waxen and blue at the edges. The eyes—wide, clouded—stare into nothing. A crust of blood rims his nostrils, his mouth frozen in a grimace that could be fury or terror.

The messenger's voice booms from behind his wolfish visor, deep and resonant as a war drum. "Prince Noga of Yohazatz sends his regards. Your envoy's corpse rots in the steppes. His skull is a promise: the Khan of Khans comes. Lay down your arms, kneel, and your tribes may yet keep their tongues. Resist…" A gauntleted hand drifts to the hilt of his curved sword. "...and we will sow your fields with salt and your children's bones."

Kuan shakes his head. "Could've just sent a letter."

Horohan doesn't blink. Her fingers flex, brushing the dagger at her belt. "Tell your prince," she says, each word a shard of flint, "that Tepr doesn't kneel. We'll greet his conquest with spears."

The messenger tilts his head, visor glinting. "Weak, poor and foolish. Not taking my head to send it back proves your lack of wits." He swings onto his saddle, gaze sweeping the stunned crowd. "We'll meet again. When the crows feast on your body."

He spurs his horse, galloping past the gates. A bowstring twangs. An arrow skims his shoulder, tearing a gash in his cloak. He doesn't flinch, vanishing into the glare of the rising sun.

Kuan grimaces. "Well. This is a predicament."

Pomogr strides forward, face ashen. "Khatun—we must rally the clans! Send riders to Naci in Moukopl lands—"

Horohan holds up a hand, silencing him. She crouches, brushing snow from Tovak's hair. Her thumb lingers on his brow, smearing a fleck of ice. "Burn the body," she murmurs. "All of it. The Alinkar rites demand fire." She stands, turning to the gathered warriors. Her voice lifts, sharp and clear. "The Yohazatz think us fractured. Weak. We'll show them how wrong they are."

The Nedai camp hums like a disturbed hornet's nest, warriors sharpening blades and murmuring beneath their breath as Noga strides through the chaos. His tent—a sprawling monstrosity of black felt and gold-threaded tapestries—looms at the center, flanked by standards bearing the tigers of Yohazatz. Inside, the air reeks of incense. Maps sprawl across a low table, weighted by daggers and a half-eaten pomegranate bleeding onto the parchment. Five generals cluster around it, their postures rigid, eyes darting like sparrows before a storm.

Noga sweeps aside the tent flap, sunlight glinting off the silver filigree of his armor. He inhales deeply, as though savoring the stench of unease. "Gentlemen," he purrs, tossing a blood-crusted gauntlet onto the table. "Let us discuss how to gut this Tepr coalition before lunch."

General Borchu—a bull-necked man with a beard braided into iron rings—clears his throat. "The hills are treacherous this season. If we split our forces to flank their eastern—"

"Flank?" Noga interrupts, tilting his head like a falcon eyeing prey. He plucks a grape from a platter, rolls it between his fingers. "Flanking is for shepherds herding sheep. We are wolves. We strike here." He stabs the map, the dagger quivering in the wood. "Straight through their heart. Crush their spirit before their scouts finish pissing."

General Altan, wiry and sharp-faced, leans forward. "Respectfully, Prince, the terrain favors their archers. A frontal assault risks—"

Noga's laughter slices through the tent, bright and venomous. "Risk?" He pops the grape into his mouth, chews slowly. "Risk is the spice of conquest, Altan. Without it, victory tastes like stale bread." He licks juice from his thumb, then gestures to Borchu. "But since you crave caution… let us settle this as men."

Silence thickens. The generals exchange glances. Borchu frowns.

Noga's grin widens. He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a forearm corded with muscle and scarred from wrist to elbow. "Arm wrestling. If you win, we flank. If I win…" His gaze flicks to the dagger in the map. "We do as I say."

Altan snorts. "Childish games have no place in war."

"Games," Noga murmurs, "are how boys learn to be men. But very well." He leans back, fingers drumming the table. "If you fear my strength, Altan, perhaps you'd prefer knitting with the camp wives? I hear they make lovely scarves."

Borchu slams his fist on the table, rattling the daggers. "Enough! I'll wrestle you."

The tent erupts in jeers and half-hearted cheers. Noga's eyes gleam as he motions Borchu to the table. They lock hands, elbows planted. Borchu's biceps bulge; Noga's remain relaxed, veins snaking like rivers under marble.

"Begin," Noga whispers.

Borchu heaves, face purpling. The table groans. Noga's arm doesn't budge. He hums a folk tune, gaze drifting to the tent's ceiling as though bored. Borchu snarls, sweat dripping onto the map.

"Disappointing," Noga sighs. With a flick of his wrist, he slams Borchu's hand down. The crack of bone echoes.

Borchu howls, clutching his wrist. Noga rises, stretching lazily. "And so we strike the gates. Any other objections?"

Altan steps forward, jaw clenched. "This is folly. You're gambling lives on pride."

Noga tilts his head. "Pride? No. Certainty." In one fluid motion, he snatches the dagger from the map and rams it through Altan's eye. The general crumples, blood pooling around his skull like a macabre halo.

The remaining generals freeze. Noga wipes the blade on Altan's cloak, then tucks it back into his belt. "I'll lead the vanguard myself. Borchu and Altan's men are mine now." He kicks Altan's corpse, his voice softening to a velvet menace. "Any man who questions me again will feed the crows before the battle."

General Ahal—young, with a face still soft from youth—swallows audibly. "And… the Nedai prisoners? The ones who resisted?"

Noga pauses, tilting his head as though noticing Ahal for the first time. He strolls to the tent's entrance, flings open the flap. Outside, a line of Nedai warriors kneel in the snow, bound and gagged. Noga nods to his captain.

A drumroll shudders the air. Axes rise. Fall.

He turns back, smiling as the thud of heads hitting snow punctuates his words. "Warriors deserve a warrior's death."

The surviving generals bow, fists to chests, eyes locked on the ground. Noga plucks another grape, bites into it. Juice dribbles down his chin like liquid ruby. "We'll see each other in the sky."

As the generals scatter, Noga sinks into his gilded chair, humming that same folk tune. "I'm doing it for you, older brother."

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