The Tun Zol mansion looms like a brooding sentinel over Pezijil's eastern quarter, its black-lacquered gates carved with the dragons of Moukopl military tradition. Servants in dove-gray robes bow so deeply their foreheads nearly graze the flagstones as Dukar's mismatched entourage shuffles into the courtyard. The scent of sandalwood incense battles with the musk of unwashed adventurers. A withered lady of the house, Kai Lang, materializes from the shadows, her silver-streaked hair coiled into a knot. Her gaze slices first to Jinhuang, slouching beside a potted peony.

"Dust in your hair, grass stains on your knees, and the stench of a latrine on your clothes," Kai Lang snaps, flicking her daughter's shoulder with a fan. "If your father saw you now, he'd disown you twice."

Jinhuang bats the fan away. "Good. Let him crawl back from whatever hole he's rotting in to try."

San Lian, still reeking of rice wine but marginally vertical, grunts. "She's your daughter, Kai Lang. Stubborn as a mule, sharp as a dagger."

"And you," Kai Lang whirls on him, "reek of failure and bad decisions. Sit. Before you topple into the koi pond again." She turns to Puripal and Ta. "And who are you people?"

"They are with me, Madam Kai Lang," Dukar replies. "I hope you don't mind."

Kai Lang sighs, "don't call me madam, brother-in-law. Older sister is just fine. And your companions can stay for as long as you do."

Dukar bows slightly, "thank you, sister."

The group is herded into a receiving chamber where faded tapestries depict Moukopl's conquests—spears glinting, horses mid-gallop, enemies trampled underhoof. Servants glide in with a tea set. Puripal sinks onto a cushion with the grace of a cat claiming a throne, Ta flopping beside him to poke at a jade figurine of the war god.

Kai Lang pours tea with lethal precision. "Your father's brother," she declares, nodding at Dukar, "has agreed to honor our household. He'll act as your proper uncle henceforth."

Jinhuang nearly spits her tea. "I'd rather adopt the koi."

Dukar, perched awkwardly on a too-small stool, clutches his teacup like it might sprout fangs. "I could teach you a few things. Horse riding, perhaps—"

"I hate horses," Jinhuang interrupts.

Puripal swirls his tea, amused. "Next you'll say you hate fermented mare's milk."

Ta snickers into his sleeve. "Horses are nice. Are you scared of them?"

"I'd sooner drink bathwater, and no, I am not scared of them," Jinhuang retorts.

San Lian slams his cup down, sloshing amber liquid onto the lacquered table. "Enough squabbling. Boy—" he jabs a finger at Dukar, "—either teach her something useful or stop pretending you've got spine. Girl—" the finger swings to Jinhuang, "—stop acting like a spooked colt."

A beat of silence. Then Jinhuang lunges.

Her fist arcs toward Dukar's nose—a test masked as temper. He ducks and grabs her wrist. They freeze, nose-to-nose, Jinhuang's braid brushing his shoulder.

"You want a lesson in fighting?" Dukar mutters.

He twists, using her momentum to flip her onto a silk cushion. She rolls upright, eyes blazing, and kicks a low table at him. Porcelain shatters. Ta whoops.

"Disarm this," Jinhuang hisses, snatching a fruit knife from the wreckage.

Dukar sidesteps her slash, yanking a curtain cord from the wall. "First rule: Never bring a knife to a rope fight."

The cord whips out, tangling her ankles. She crashes into a screen painted with cranes, sending it toppling onto Puripal, who sighs as delicate paper rains around him.

San Lian watches, sipping tea, as Jinhuang grabs a bronze incense burner and hurls it. Dukar deflects it with a cushion, sending it smashing into a vase of peonies. Petals flutter like wounded butterflies.

"The peonies," Kai Lang says icily, "were offerings for your grandmother."

Jinhuang freezes mid-lunge. Guilt flashes across her face—swift, then buried. "...I'll replant them."

Dukar lowers the cushion. "Next lesson: How to apologize without sounding constipated."

Jinhuang's fist flies toward Dukar's jaw the moment the word constipated leaves his lips—a hook punch favored by brawlers, all shoulder torque and misplaced fury. Dukar pivots on his heel, his trained body flowing into a block that redirects her strike past his ear. Gravel crunches under their boots as they spiral into the open yard.

"You talk too much," Jinhuang snarls, feinting a front kick before whipping a spinning back kick toward his ribs, brutal and direct.

Dukar slides left, forearm rising in a parry that deflects the blow. "And you couldn't be more obvious." His heel hooks her standing leg in a sweep, but she leaps back, landing in a crouch that kicks up dust.

The servants scatter, clutching brooms and tea trays. Kai Lang watches from the veranda, her fan fluttering like a trapped moth. Puripal leans against a pillar, nibbling a stolen lychee, while Ta perches on the koi pond's edge, tossing pebbles at disgruntled fish.

Jinhuang lunges again, a flurry of elbow strikes aimed at Dukar's throat. He weaves through them, his movements fluid as steppe grass bending under wind, until he catches her wrist in a lock. She hisses, twisting her body to break free—a move San Lian recognizes as Bazhin's signature escape.

"Predictable," Dukar mutters. He releases her only to trap her other arm against her spine, forcing her onto tiptoes. "These simple tricks won't work on me."

"Shut up," she spits, driving her heel toward his instep. He sidesteps, and she stumbles, catching herself on a stone lantern.

Jinhuang seizes the moment to snatch a bamboo rake propped against the wall. She swings it in a wide arc, all show and no subtlety. Dukar ducks, the rake whistling over his head, and retaliates with a jumping kick that cracks the wooden shaft in two.

Puripal claps, lychee juice dripping down his wrist. "Marvelous! Do you take requests?"

"Quiet, peacock," Jinhuang growls, hurling the broken handle at Dukar. He catches it midair, twirling it like a riding crop.

She vaults onto the koi pond's rim, balancing on the moss-slick stones. Dukar follows, his steps deliberate as a heron stalking prey. Jinhuang feints a leap, then drops low, sweeping her leg in a ground kick aimed at his ankles. He hops, but she pivots, her other leg snapping up in a side thrust kick that grazes his ribs.

Ta whoops. "That's my girl! Make him bleed!"

Dukar's jaw tightens. He steps into her guard, trapping her kicking leg against his hip, and drives a palm strike toward her chest—a technique meant to stagger, not maim. She blocks, but the force sends her reeling into the pond's shallow edge. Water soaks her trousers as she scrambles up, murder in her eyes.

"Enough!" Kai Lang's fan cracks like a whip. "You'll kill the fish!"

Jinhuang ignores her, charging at Dukar with a guttural cry. He sidesteps, snaking an arm around her throat in a chokehold. She stomps his foot, elbows his gut, but he adjusts his grip, applying pressure just shy of suffocation.

"Yield," he murmurs.

"Rot in—urk—"

He tightens his hold, steering her thrashing body downward until her knees hit gravel. Her fingers claw at his arm, nails drawing blood, but he doesn't flinch. Slowly, inexorably, he forces her forehead toward the earth.

"Say it," he growls.

"I… apologize," she chokes, the words scraping her throat raw. "To my mother. To—" a shuddering breath, "—to you."

He releases her. She collapses forward, coughing, her braid unraveling into a dark spill across the stones. The courtyard holds its breath.

Puripal smiles. "Well. That was… impressive."

Ta grins. "Knew you were decent, brother, but damn. Ever consider cage fighting? I'd bet on you."

Dukar rubs his bruised ribs, suddenly sheepish. "I, uh… had a good teacher."

San Lian limps forward, his wine-stained robe flapping. "Gujel?" he rasps. "He taught you that lock?"

Dukar shakes his head. "My father taught me tactics. But the fighting?" He glances at the horizon, where the Tengr Mountains pierce the sky. "My mother. She'd pin me in the dirt every time I got cocky. Said strength without control is just noise."

Kai Lang's fan stills. "A Tepr woman?"

"A warrior," Dukar corrects, soft but firm. "She made my sister and me spar every dawn. Broke my nose once—I was twelve, thought I could take her."

Puripal approaches, "then why do you always act so meek? Always pretending to be weak to better fool your enemies?"

Dukar shakes his head, "It's nothing that smart. It's just that when we were kids, I often fought with my sister. I would hurt her pretty badly. It was not entirely my fault. My sister is insane, as you saw. She would never give up until one of her limbs was broken. Of course, I was a boy and five years older than her, so I was much stronger, but I couldn't control my temper. You saw how she is!" He laughs, "She was always provoking me, and when we started fighting, she threw hands too. She never cried or appeared hurt to my parents, but they would notice quickly, and then I was heavily punished. With the years, I learned to not react as much to provocation and just ignore it because it would put me in more trouble than I needed. As for you," he turns to Jinhuang, "you kept reminding me of her so I got carried away. I'm glad she didn't take you to Tepr. I don't think the world could handle the two of you in the same place."

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Jinhuang stares at his palm, then smacks it away and stands on her own. "Still hate you."

"Noted."

San Lian barks a laugh, the sound rusty as an old blade. "Gujel married a Tepr hellcat and laid another hellcat? No wonder he fled." His laughter dies as he meets Dukar's gaze.

Dukar's throat bobs. "I still feel bad for all of you." He bends his knees and bows to Jinhuang, San Lian and Kai Lang, his head touching the earth. "Allow me to apologize properly on his behalf."

The silence that follows is thick. Puripal and Ta follow in his steps and bow.

"I personally witnessed Lord Bazhin's final moments," Puripal says. "He was a noble hero who died to allow his Prince to escape. He shall be remembered in Moukopl history."

Kai Lang sighs, "thank you. So, you two are?"

"I am Puripal of Qixi-Lo,the fourth son of Qaloron Khan, the man who killed your husband and father. And this is my younger brother, the bastard Ta." Puripal explains.

"Nice to meet you!" Ta exclaims.

Kai Lang gasps, but Puripal continues before she can retort. "But don't worry, sister-in-law. Dukar and I are not aiming to torture you. I simply wish for my father to pay for his crimes. I am also a victim of his ruthless rule and would like to put an end to his tyranny. With the help of everyone here, we can ensure that Bazhin is the last hero that falls to his blade."

"And how are you planning to do that?" San Lian coughs.

"Quite simple." Puripal smiles. "We just need to have an audience with the Moukopl Crown Prince. You see, after a series of circumstances, the prince is indebted to Dukar right here. Even still, getting an audience is difficult, which is why we planned to disguise Dukar as the late General Bazhin, all in order to infiltrate the imperial city. With your help, we can make it possible."

San Lian stares at Kai Lang who sighs. "Under any other circumstances," she says, "I would have reported you for spying, but considering all of brother Dukar's efforts, I cannot think of him as ill-intentioned. Do what you must, but keep me and Jinhuang away from politics."

Dukar and Puripal thank her as she turns away.

...

The courtyard of the mansion hums with the dissonant symphony of clanking armor and muffled curses. Moonlight slicks the cobblestones as San Lian circles Dukar, his cane tapping a judgmental rhythm. Dukar stands encased in a suit of Moukopl lamellar armor—smaller than Bazhin's monstrous plates but still hanging off his frame like a child playing dress-up. The pauldrons slump, the breastplate gaps at his ribs, and the helmet tilts drunkenly over one eye.

"Stand like you've got a spine," San Lian growls, whacking Dukar's thigh with his cane.

Dukar stiffens, shoulders snapping back. The movement sends a greave clattering to the stones. Somewhere in the shadows, a stifled snort floats from behind a peony bush.

San Lian's cane freezes mid-swing. "Girl. Either join us or stop breathing so loud. You're worse than an asthmatic ox."

Jinhuang slinks into the moonlight, arms crossed. "Just checking if he's defaced any more ancestral heirlooms."

Dukar adjusts his helmet, its visor wobbling. "I'm cultivating imperial gravitas."

"You look like a pantry shelf after an earthquake."

San Lian ignores them, stalking around Dukar. "Moukopl generals don't fidget. They glower. They make men piss themselves with a glance." He demonstrates—a withering stare honed through decades of battlefield command.

Dukar attempts to mimic it. His face contorts into something between indigestion and existential dread.

"Gods," Jinhuang mutters. "Even the koi look more threatening."

Ta, lounging on the veranda with a pilfered jar of plum wine, calls out: "This is even funnier than last time."

San Lian massages his temples. "Walk. Bazhin's stride could shake fortresses."

Dukar takes a step. The armor shrieks. Another step. A chainmail sleeve unravels, scattering rings across the courtyard.

"No," San Lian barks. "Stomp. Like you're crushing rebel skulls."

Dukar obliges, marching stiff-legged. The earth trembles. A decorative clay pot topples from a pillar. Jinhuang watches it shatter, lips twitching.

"Better," San Lian grunts. "Now the voice. Recite the Edict of Subjugation."

Dukar clears his throat. "By decree of the Jade Throne, all tribes west of the Yehe River shall… uh…"

"Bend or be bent," San Lian hisses. "Project, boy! You're addressing traitors, not haggling for turnips!"

"BEND OR BE BENT!" Dukar bellows, voice ricocheting off the mansion walls. A flock of crows erupts from the roof, squawking.

Jinhuang claps slowly. "Congratulations. You've terrified the birds."

San Lian's cane slashes the air. "Again. And stop smiling. Bazhin hadn't smiled since his father left him."

Dukar's face hardens. He paces, armor groaning, voice dropping to a volcanic rumble. "The empire's mercy ends where defiance begins."

Puripal glances up. "Hm. Almost convincing."

"Almost?"

"Your toes are curled inward. Moukopl generals stand like they're about to kick the world."

Jinhuang snorts. "Maybe he's shy."

Dukar whirls on her, finger jabbing—a near-perfect mimicry of San Lian's ire. "You. Since you're so keen on commentary, help. Attack me."

She arches a brow. "In that tin suit? You'll drown in your own sweat before I land a hit."

"Now," San Lian commands.

Jinhuang strikes without warning—a chop aimed at his exposed neck. Dukar deflects with a vambrace, the iron clang echoing like a war gong. She presses, driving him back with hammer fists that dent his breastplate.

"Stop blocking," San Lian snaps. "Counter."

Dukar roars, surging forward. His gauntleted fist halts a hair's breadth from Jinhuang's nose. She freezes, breath quick, eyes wide.

"Moukopl generals," Dukar intones, voice layered with borrowed menace, "don't ask for obedience."

...

By the fourth night, the armor fits better. A blacksmith smuggled in by Puripal has cinched the plates with leather straps, replaced the tiger visor with a snarling dragon, and etched Dukar's (false) battle honors along the greaves. He paces the courtyard like a caged wolf, voice booming edicts, while San Lian drills him on imperial courtesies—the precise angle of a general's bow, the way to clutch a wine cup like it's a prisoner's throat.

Jinhuang watches from the roof, legs dangling over the eaves. When Dukar retires, sweat-soaked and hoarse, she drops silently behind him.

"Teach me the throat strike."

He turns. Moonlight etches the new scars on her knuckles. "The what?"

"The move you used last time. Where you—" she mimes a palm heel thrust, "—crush the windpipe."

"That's not… a real technique."

She steps closer. "Teach me."

He hesitates, then sighs. "Wrist here. Pivot from the hips."

Their shadows merge on the stones—a twisted puppet show of strikes and parries. When her thumb strays too close to his eye, he pins her arm, their faces inches apart.

"Don't even try," he mutters. "Or I'll make you kiss the earth again."

She wrenches free. "You're not half bad, uncle. I might learn a thing or two from you."

...

The imperial gates rise like fangs from the smog-choked horizon, their iron spikes crusted with the rust of a thousand traitors' blood. Dukar sits astride a stolen Moukopl charger, the beast's barding embossed with dragons that match the ones on his refurbished armor. Every plate sits flush against his body now, the smith's adjustments having transformed clattering tin into a second skin. Behind his visor, sweat carves rivers through the ash paste darkening his fair complexion.

San Lian rides at his left, back straightened by some remembered ghost of military rigor.

Puripal, disguised as a minor clerk in drab linens, adjusts the fake mole on his cheek.

The gate captain steps forward, his nasal helm adorned with peacock feathers—a lieutenant's mark. "State your business!"

San Lian dismounts with a grunt, producing the forged scroll. "General Tun Zol Bazhin, returned alive from the Kamoklopr campaign." He unfurls the document with a flourish, the jade seal catching sunlight.

The captain squints at Dukar. "The general's been left for dead for months. They sang the funerals at the—"

Dukar's armored fist slams the chariot's flank. The horse rears, iron-shod hooves stopping a hair's breadth from the captain's face. "Dead men," he booms, "don't ride."

The soldiers freeze.

Then the captain laughs—a shrill, relieved sound. "Gods' bones! It's truly him!" He bows so low his peacock plume sweeps dirt. "Welcome home, General!"

As the gates groan open, Ta—swaddled in a too-large footman's tunic—murmurs, "I can't believe this stupid plan is working."

...

The imperial city unfolds like a lotus. Towering pagodas pierce the sky, their tiled roofs crawling with carven demons meant to ward off spirits. San Lian leads them down the Avenue of Subjugated Kings, past statues of kneeling warlords with their stone eyes gouged out.

"Left here," San Lian mutters.

"There's nothing here," Puripal says.

"Right, then."

"I can hear women," Ta giggles. "Reminds me of home."

"Straight," San Lian snaps.

They reach a dead end.

Dukar's gauntlets creak around his reins. "You said you knew this place."

"I did! Before they moved the… the…" San Lian gestures wildly at a newly gilded torture pavilion. "Damn imperial vanity."

A procession of silk palanquins rounds the corner, their bearers' feet whispering against flagstones. From the lead carriage drifts a voice like oiled knives.

"—if the Eastern Bureau's agents were half as competent as their tailors, perhaps the rice riots wouldn't have—"

"Ah, but competence requires vision," interrupts a lower, warmer tone. "A quality as foreign to your bureau as humility to a wench."

San Lian pales. "Down! Down!"

They press against a phoenix-shaped rainspout as the palanquins pass. In the first rides Eunuch Sima of the Western Bureau, his fingers draped over a sable fur throw. Opposite him perches Eunuch Yile of the Eastern Bureau, face corpse-white, a fan over his lips.

"Not these two," San Lian breathes. "If they see me, I'm dead!"

Puripal's eyes gleam. "Who are these?"

"The emperor's favorites. Eunuchs that administer the empire. The Western Bureau controls inward and the Eastern Bureau controls outward. They both tortured me when Gujel left with all the Moukopl secrets."

The eunuchs' palanquins halt, suspended in perfect alignment.

"Your assassinations in the imperial city won't go unpunished forever," Sima croons. "The moment I get undeniable proof of your wrongdoings, you are done."

Yile's fan snaps open, painted with cherry blossoms. "Yet your own agents couldn't intercept a single one of them. Did you train them to trip on their own intestines?"

"A lesson learned from your bureau's mastery of self-sabotage, no doubt." Sima spits.

Ta muffles a snort in Dukar's cloak.

The insult hangs, fragrant as rotting jasmine. Then Yile laughs—a sound like breaking glass. "Oh, Sima. When they finally cut out your tongue, do request it preserved. Such vigor deserves immortality."

Their palanquins glide apart, the bearers' pace unchanged.

"Gods," Ta whispers. "Do they fuck like that too?"

San Lian clamps a hand over his mouth. "Those two turned the previous Grand Chancellor into a footstool. Literally."

As the eunuchs vanish around a jade archway, Puripal exhales. "Charming fellows."

...

The Crown Prince's palace glimmers like a mirage, its jade-tiled roofs dripping gold filigree. A dozen stone scholars kneel eternally along the entrance path. Yile's orchid-painted palanquin rests by the vermilion doors.

San Lian grips Dukar's vambrace. "That viper Yile is already inside. One wrong word and you're done."

Dukar adjusts his visor. "You and Ta stay here."

The guards cross their halberds. "The prince entertains no petitioners."

"General Tun Zol Bazhin," Dukar booms, "is no petitioner."

The halberds waver. A captain emerges, his face scarred by old fire. "The general died at Kamoklopr."

"And yet," Puripal purrs, materializing from the shadows with a scroll, "His August Majesty's seal says otherwise. Would you question heaven's ink?"

The captain hesitates, then bows.

Inside, the air reeks of clove smoke. The Crown Prince lounges on a dais shaped like a blooming lotus. Yile perches nearby, sipping tea.

Yile is interrupted when Dukar's armor clanks into the chamber.

The prince rises, silk whispering. "Bazhin? Is that you—"

Dukar removes his helmet.

"Not Bazhin," Dukar says. "Dukar, Prince. I saved you from the Yohazatz prisons. Do you remember?" he meets the prince's widening gaze.

The prince's painted lips part. For a heartbeat, the only sound is Yile's ragged breath. Then the prince laughs—a sound like wind chimes in a storm.

"Marvelous! A wolf in dragon's scales!" He floats down the dais steps, bare feet on the marble floor. "And what shall this debt buy, Dukar? I should mention I'm already helping your sister."

Yile stands still. "Your Highness—"

"A moment, sweet Yile," the prince murmurs. "Our guest intrigues me."

Puripal's gaze slices to the prince, cold as winter steel. Yile notices, his thin lips curling. "The bastard glares like a starved hound. Shall I have his eyes, Magnificence?"

"This bastard," Puripal purrs, "is Qaloron Khan's fourth son. The hostage you dragged through the sands in chains. Remember how I smiled as your men whipped me? A prince's courtesy."

The prince's painted brows lift. "Ah, the pretty one! Forgive our… zeal. War is such messy theater."

"Indeed." Puripal's smile sharpens. "Which is why you'll recall Dukar's mercy required my permission. As does the news that Prince Noga's horde now marches on Tepr."

Dukar stiffens, armor creaking. Invasion? He searches Puripal's face—a mask of calm—and wonders if this is gambit or betrayal.

Yile slams his goblet down, irritated to the greatest extent that these newcomers revealed information he had kept for another opportunity.

"Noga seeks to carve Tepr into a Yohazatz province. His army is the Khan's largest. Strike the heartlands now and he will bow to your might."

The prince tilts his head. "And why would his son desire this?"

"Place me on Yohazatz's throne, and our empires become… siblings." Puripal's tone drips honeyed venom. "No more raids. No more wasted gold on border forts. Just a world split like a melon between two worthy hands."

The prince drifts to a caged nightingale, its song desperate. "A pretty dream. But Qaloron's cubs are vipers. Why trust you won't bite?"

Puripal unsheathes a dagger, offering it hilt-first. "Because Noga murdered our first brother, and my third brother is a weakling. I alone stand as legitimate heir."

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