Nightfall drapes the steppe in a shroud of indigo, the stars smothered by smoke and the weight of collective grief. A pyre of blackened juniper wood and dried sage rises at the camp's heart, Tovak's head laid atop it like an offering to the hungry dark. The air thrums with the low drone of bone flutes, their hollow notes weaving through the keening wind. Around the pyre, the coalition gathers—Jabliu, Alinkar, Haikam, Orogol, Nipih, Kolopan, and the other minor tribes that joined pacifically after the Kolopan did—their faces painted with ash and ochre, the colors of mourning.

Kuan stands at the pyre's base, clad in a patchwork cloak stitched with crow feathers and wolf teeth. His usual smirk has dissolved into something solemn, almost alien. To his left, a Nedai shaman with milky eyes shakes a gourd rattle filled with pebbles and human molars; to his right, an Orogol elder drags a bow across a horsehair fiddle, the sound like a soul tearing loose. Horohan kneels at the front, her palms pressed to the frozen earth, Khanai coiled beside her. The tiger's breath steams in ragged bursts, her blue eyes reflecting the first flicker of torchlight.

"You owe me a flask of rice wine for this, Tovak," Kuan mutters as he steps forward, sprinkling powdered sulfur over the pyre. "Spirits know I'd rather be drunk than playing nursemaid to your restless ghost." His voice cracks, just once, before he masks it with a theatrical sigh.

The Nedai shaman chants in a guttural tongue, invoking the Skyfather and Earthmother to cleave open the veil. Kuan joins in, his cadence smoother, almost melodic. "A soul unbound, a shadow unchained," he intones, tracing sigils in the air with a raven's wing. "Ride the smoke, find the river, never look back."

Horohan rises abruptly, her movements jagged. She pulls a dagger from her belt and slices her palm, letting blood drip onto the kindling. The coalition holds its breath—a Khatun's blood is a rare sacrifice, a plea for favor from the capricious gods. "May the winds carry you beyond the stars," she growls, her voice raw.

A Jabliu warrior steps forward, placing his bow atop the shroud. Others follow: a Haikam girl leaves a braid of her hair tied with blue thread; an Alinkar elder sets down a clay jar of fermented mare's milk. Last comes Pomogr, his face a mask of fury and futility. He drops a single arrow fletched with eagle feathers onto the pyre. "Save a seat for me in the afterlife, little brother," he rasps.

Kuan nods to the torchbearers. Fire blooms, swift and ravenous, swallowing the pyre in a roar of gold and crimson. The shamans' chanting rises to a fevered pitch as flames lick Tovak's shroud, the fabric curling away to reveal his ashen face. His hair, once braided with clan beads, unravels in the heat, the beads popping like distant gunshots.

The Orogol elder's fiddle wails, a lament for lost sons. A Kolopan widow begins the death ululation, her voice a serrated blade sawing through the night. Horohan does not weep. She watches the fire devour Tovak's remains, her jaw clenched so tight it aches. Khanai presses closer.

"He'll haunt you, you know," Kuan murmurs, appearing at her side. He tosses a handful of crushed juniper berries into the flames; they crackle like spiteful laughter. "The boy didn't want to go."

"Let him haunt me," Horohan says. "I owe him that."

The fire climbs higher, sparks spiraling into the void like inverted stars. Kuan pulls a sliver of mirror from his sleeve—an old trick to catch fragments of escaping souls. For a heartbeat, his reflection wavers, showing not his face but Tovak, grinning, alive. He tucks the mirror away hastily.

A sudden gust tears through the camp, scattering embers. The shamans shout, scrambling to contain the blaze as it leaps toward a nearby yurt. Kuan barks a curse, yanking Horohan back from a falling timber. "Even in death, he's a troublemaker!"

But as the wind dies, the pyre collapses inward, a shower of glowing cinders rising in its wake. The coalition gazes upward, breathless, as the embers swirl into a helix, dancing on some unseen current. Khatan swoops low, his screech splitting the night, and for an instant, the embers coalesce—a rider on a spectral horse, galloping eastward.

The Nedai shaman falls to her knees, weeping. "He is seen! The Skyfather has taken him!"

Kuan snorts, though his eyes glisten. "Have a nice trip."

Horohan turns away, her shadow stretching long and lone toward the horizon where dawn will soon bleed.

...

The council yurt reeks of smoke and fear. A low fire gutters in the central hearth, casting wavering shadows over the faces of the chieftains hunched on felt cushions. Horohan sits cross-legged on a wolf pelt, her dagger driven into the earth before her. Khanai dozes at her side, one ear twitching at every raised voice. Kuan slouches nearby, peeling an apple with a dagger, the blade flashing like a smile in the dim light.

"We retreat to the Tengr foothills," rumbles Chuluun of the Hareki, one of the lower tribes that joined recently. "Regroup, wait for the Khan's return. To face the Yohazatz horde head-on is suicide."

"Retreat?" Pomogr, slams his tankard of airag onto the table, spilling sour mare's milk. "The moment we abandon this camp, the tribes will scatter like frightened hares. Khatun, Naci entrusted this ground to us. We hold it."

"Hold it with what?" snaps Bürgei of the Sulnek, another small tribe, lead by a strong middle aged woman. "Half our warriors are green as spring grass. The other half are still pissing themselves over Tovak's head in a sack."

Kuan flicks an apple peel into the fire. It hisses, curling into a blackened question mark. "Ah, yes. The classic debate: valiant last stand versus tactical cowardice."

Horohan's knuckles whiten on the arrow shaft. "We don't know Noga's numbers. His supply lines. Whether he's brought siege engines or just that lovely decorative armor." She glances at Kuan. "You've roamed farther than any of us. What do you know?"

Kuan leans back, balancing the dagger on his fingertip. "Qaloron Khan's empire stretches from the Jade Straits to the Bitter Lakes, from the Kamoklopr to the Tiger River. Noga commands its talons. He's by far the most dangerous out of all the princes." He pauses, grinning at the groans. "But here's the thorn: Noga doesn't have supply lines. His army lives off the land like locusts. They'll eat our stocks, our goats, and if we're lucky, each other."

Chuluun scowls. "So we let them exhaust themselves? Wait them out?"

"Wait?" Kuan's dagger thunks into the table, quivering an inch from Purtoi's hand. "Do not wait for the enemy at your gate; meet them in their bedchamber. Or was it their privy? Either way, we send scouts. Sabotage their stores. Burn their sheep. War isn't a wrestling match—it's a knife fight in the dark."

Pomogr snorts. "Spies and tricks? These are not the ways of Tepr."

"No," Kuan purrs, "they're the ways of victory. The Yohazatz don't care if you fight honourably. They'll scribble 'brave warrior' on your grave and plant turnips in it."

Horohan's gaze drifts to the yurt's smoke hole, where a sliver of moon glints like a blade. "Naci united these tribes by fighting smarter than our fathers. We honor her by doing the same." She stands. "Pomogr—fortify the palisades. Chuluun—prepare evacuation routes to the mountains, but quietly. We don't sow panic."

Bürgei sneers. "And what of our esteemed strategist here?" She jerks a thumb at Kuan. "Will he hide in the shadows, chuckling while we bleed?"

Kuan laughs. "Oh, I'll be busy. Someone must teach your scouts how to pick locks and lie convincingly. A crash course in espionage, if you will. It happens to be my speciality—not shamanism. I was eagerly waiting for the moment you would need my skills."

The chieftains erupt—Pomogr bellowing about tradition, Chuluun spitting curses, Bürgei muttering about filthy spies. Horohan slams her fist down, silencing them. "Enough. Kuan speaks crudely… but not falsely. I won't gamble our people on pride. We scout. We sabotage. We won't fight until we know our enemy."

Khanai lifts her head, emitting a low growl that shakes the teacups. The chieftains freeze.

"Go," Horohan orders. "Prepare your men. And send me the best liars from your clans. We'll give Noga a welcome worthy of his filth."

As the chiefs disperse, Kuan lingers, poking the fire with a stick. "They'll hate you for this," he murmurs.

Horohan sinks onto her cushion, exhaustion etching lines beside her eyes. "If this fails, Kuan, your ghost will spend eternity listening to me say 'I told you so.'"

He grins, twirling the dagger. "You've helped me enough, Miss Khan. It's about time I pay you back. Also, there is someone I have to make amends to, and I'll never be able to face him if I don't pay him back. I really liked that boy, you know?"

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A tear finally drops from Horohan's eyes. "He will pay for that." She grits her teeth.

Kuan's face darkens, serious for once. "Yes, he will, Miss Khan. I will torture his spirit until he begs for Tovak's mercy."

Outside, the wind moans across the steppe, carrying the distant echo of mourning drums.

The Yohazatz camp sprawls across the snow like a coiled serpent, its scales glinting in the brittle winter light. Soldiers in lacquered armor—crimson and obsidian, etched with tigers—drill in precise formations, their breath pluming in unison. Blacksmiths pound blades near roaring furnaces, the rhythmic clang echoing off the Tengr peaks. Above it all, Noga sits astride his warhorse, a midnight stallion draped in tiger pelts, its mane braided with silver bells. He gazes down from a snow-crusted hill, a freshly killed snow fox dangling from his saddle, its fur still pristine, its throat slit with a single clean stroke.

"Efficiency," he murmurs to no one, stroking the fox's blood-matted tail. "A wasted arrow is a wasted kingdom."

He nudges his horse downhill, the bells chiming faintly. Below, generals bark orders, their voices sharp as axe strikes. Siege engines—towering catapults dragged from the Khan's southern conquests—are being loaded with barrels of naphtha and shrieking iron shards. A group of engineers argue over a mangonel's tension ropes, their fingers blue with cold.

As he passes, soldiers freeze mid-motion, fists pressed to chests in the Yohazatz salute. "Khanzadeh!" they chorus, the title—Prince-born—rolling through the ranks like a war drum. Noga acknowledges them with a flick of his fox-bearing hand, as though blessing peasants with a saint's relic.

Near the command tent, Akun waits atop a Tepr horse, his Alinkar braids clashing violently with the Yohazatz banners. His jaw tightens as Noga approaches. "Prince," he calls, voice straining for deference. "My men know these steppes. Let us scout ahead. We'll gut their sentries, burn their—"

Noga holds up a finger. The silver fox charm on his glove glints. "Ah. A valiant offer. But my hounds don't hunt unless I whistle." His tone is honeyed, almost playful.

Akun's horse shifts restlessly. "We didn't betray our kin to muck out your horse lines. My riders are wolves, not pack mules."

The nearby Yohazatz archers pause, their eyes darting sideways. A smith's hammer hesitates mid-strike. Noga dismounts smoothly, handing the fox to a pageboy with a pat on the head. "Fetch me a pelt, would you? This one's too pretty for broth."

The boy scurries off. Noga turns to Akun, his smile never slipping. "Let me educate you, little wolf. In my father's court, even the tea servers grasp hierarchy. You…" He circles Akun's horse, trailing a finger along its frayed reins. Even on foot, he almost reaches Akun's eyes. "…are a turncoat. A stray. Your worth is measured in the dirt beneath my boots."

Akun's hand twitches. "You need us. Without Alinkar—"

Steel whispers. Noga's sword rests at Akun's throat, its edge kissing the hollow above his collarbone. The prince's voice drops to a velvet murmur. "Without me, you'd be crow food in a ditch. With me, you're a slightly cleaner speck on my boot. Do try to stay grateful."

A snicker ripples through the watching soldiers. One mutters, "Barbarians can't count past three," to muffled guffaws.

Akun's face flushes crimson, but he leans into the blade, defiance blazing. "You'll regret this arrogance. Tepr's winds don't bow to princes."

Noga tilts his head, studying Akun like a flawed but intriguing trinket. "Arrogance?" He sheathes his sword with a dismissive flick. "You have guts, I won't deny that. Be thankful I'm in a particularly good mood. Get down and clean my horse and I'll consider your demand."

For a heartbeat, Akun looks ready to lunge. Then his shoulders sag, the fight leaching out like steam. "Understood," he grinds out.

"Splendid!" Noga claps, the sound cracking like ice. "Now, shoo. The adults have a war to plan."

As Akun gets down from his horse, shoulders hunched, Noga turns to his smirking generals. "Charming fellow. Pity he'll die first."

...

The camp thrums with raucous energy, bonfires licking the night sky as soldiers feast on roasted boar and barley ale, their laughter raw and reckless. But inside Noga's tent—a cocoon of silk and warmth—the world softens. Golden lanterns sway from the ceiling, casting dappled light over embroidered cushions and a low table laden with honeyed figs, spiced wine, and a platter of dumplings shaped like crescent moons. Noga reclines on a pile of furs, his armor shed, replaced by a robe of midnight-blue samite. His three wives orbit him like mismatched constellations.

Bora, the eldest, sharp-tongued and sharper-witted, stitches a torn banner with practiced disdain. Sarangerel, round-cheeked and perpetually hungry, nibbles a dumpling while braiding jade beads into her hair. Altantsetseg, barely nineteen and wide-eyed as a fawn, hums a folk tune as she buffs Noga's sword with a scrap of velvet.

"The Tepr women think I'm a goddess," Sarangerel announces, spraying crumbs. "They've never seen pearls bigger than sheep droppings. One tried to trade me two goats for this necklace!" She gestures to her throat, where a single pearl gleams, milk-white and monstrous.

Bora snorts. "You gave her three goats' worth of silk for a jar of pickled turnips last week. You're the one easily swindled."

"They were good turnips!"

Noga hides a smile in his wine cup. "And you, little hawk?" he asks Altantsetseg. "Have you charmed the savages too?"

She blushes. "The weaver's daughter taught me a knot. For luck." She holds up a braided cord tied around her wrist—crude but earnest.

Bora arches a brow. "Careful, husband. Soon she'll be trading your armor for trinkets."

"Better than you trading insults with the cooks," Noga retorts. "I heard about the dumpling incident."

"They used lard instead of duck fat! Despicable."

Sarangerel gasps, clutching her pearls. "Lard? In our kitchen? Barbaric!"

Noga's laughter rumbles, warm and unguarded. He plucks a fig from the tray, offering it to Altantsetseg. She takes it shyly, her fingers brushing his. "My fierce tigers," he murmurs.

Outside, a drunk soldier bellows a bawdy song. Bora wrinkles her nose. "Ugh. Let's poison the ale tomorrow. For mercy."

"After the battle," Noga says, stretching like a contented cat. "I need them functional till dawn."

Sarangerel leans in, her voice conspiratorial. "The Tepr matrons say their Khatun's tiger is a spirit. That it eats the hearts of traitors."

"Tales," Bora mutters.

Altantsetseg's eyes widen. "Does it really eat humans?!"

Noga tweaks her braid. "Only the ugly ones. You are safe."

She giggles, then sobers. "Will you… kill the tiger? It's our emblem."

The tent stills. Noga's smile fades, his gaze drifting to the sword in her lap. "I'll do what's necessary," he says softly.

Bora breaks the silence with a dramatic sigh. "Enough gloom. Sing, Altán. Something to drown out the barbarians."

The girl obliges, her voice sweet and wavering:

"Fly, my arrow, through the frost,

Find the dawn, no matter the cost…"

Noga listens, his stern mask slipping. When she finishes, he tugs her into the crook of his arm, pressing a kiss to her hair. "You'll make the court musicians weep with envy."

Sarangerel winks at Bora. "You next."

"I'd rather swallow a scorpion."

The night wears on, the tent a fragile island of light. Noga watches his wives bicker and laugh, their voices weaving a spell even he cannot resist. For a moment, he is not a prince or a conqueror.

But dawn looms.

As the fires outside dim, Bora rises, herding the others. "Come, sweeties. Our husband needs rest."

Altantsetseg lingers, pressing the luck-braid into Noga's palm. "Did you dream of Esteemed Brother tonight too?" she whispers.

He clasps her hand, throat tight. "He won't leave my mind for an instant. His spirit will forever haunt me—but my heart doesn't ache as much when I see your faces."

"Please, let me know and I'll summon the shaman right away." She nods, slipping away.

Alone, Noga ties the braid around his hilt. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scents of figs, perfume, and impending bloodshed.

Brother, I'm coming soon, he thinks. And you'll finally forgive me.

...

Dawn cracks the horizon like a bloodied egg, spilling pale light over the Tepr encampment. The Yohazatz vanguard charges, hooves churning snow into slurry, war cries shredding the air—only to falter at the sight of vacant yurts. The tents stand skeletal, flaps billowing in the wind, their emptiness almost mocking. A lone goat, forgotten or deliberately left, bleats plaintively from a tethering post.

General Ahal reins in his horse so hard it nearly rears. "Gone? Gone?!" He dismounts, kicking over a cold firepit. Charred bones and shattered pottery skitter into the snow. "Cowards! Filthy, sniveling—"

"Enough."

Noga's voice slices through the chaos. He rides forward, his stallion's gait unhurried, almost leisurely. His eyes sweep the abandoned camp, lingering on a child's doll half-buried in the snow—a crude thing of sticks and wool. A muscle twitches in his jaw. Then, he laughs.

The sound is rich, resonant, unnerving. His generals exchange glances.

"Interesting," Noga murmurs, dismounting to pluck the doll from the drift. He tucks it into his saddlebag, patting the stallion's neck. "They've spared us the tedium of slaughter."

Ahal spits. "They flee like rats! This is no victory."

"Victory?" Noga arches a brow. "Absolute moron. The goal wasn't to slaughter but to conquer. What we've taken is land. Soil. Grass. The bones of their ancestors." He spreads his arms, the dawn gilding his silhouette. "Tepr is mine. Let them skulk in the shadows—they'll learn the cost of defiance soon enough."

A ragged cheer rises from the ranks, though it lacks conviction. Soldiers mutter, kicking at empty tents, their bloodlust curdling into confusion.

Noga mounts again, his voice swelling. "Scouts! Track them. They can't vanish into mist. And you—" He points to a cluster of engineers. "Dismantle these hovels. Build something worthy of Yohazatz."

As the camp erupts in activity, Ahal sidles closer. "Prince, the men expected plunder. Women, to be precise."

Noga's smile is a blade. "Say that again and I'll have you stomped under a thousand hooves."

Before Ahal can retort, a scout gallops into camp, his horse lathered and wild-eyed. "Khanzadeh! The forests to the west—burned. Every tree. The game trails… stripped. No hares, no deer, nothing."

Silence falls. Even the wind stills.

Noga cocks his head. "Show me."

...

The forest is a graveyard of charcoal and ash. Skeletons of birch and pine claw at the sky, their branches reduced to brittle fingers. The earth reeks of smoke and spite. A Yohazatz scout pokes at a half-melted arrowhead in the soot. "They scorched it all. Wells poisoned too."

Noga kneels, sifting ash through his fingers. His grin returns, wider, fiercer. "The greatest victories are those never fought." He stands, ash swirling around him like a cloak. "I underestimated you, Tepr."

Ahal pales. "We've rations for a week. If the snows linger—"

Noga spins, eyes blazing. "Finally, a foe worth gutting!" He strides to his horse, vaulting into the saddle. "Double the scouts. Triple the patrols."

He rides back to camp, the ash-stained doll burning in his thoughts. That night, as the Yohazatz huddle around meager fires, Noga stands at the edge of the ruined forest, a goblet of wine in hand. He toasts the darkness.

"Well played. But the hunt has only begun."

Somewhere in the blackened trees, a branch snaps. Noga's smile doesn't waver. He leaves the goblet overturned in the snow, a libation for worthy ghosts.

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