The command yurt hums with the low thrum of strategy, a stark contrast to the deceptive stillness outside. Lamplight glows on maps weighted with arrowheads, casting long, dancing shadows. Horohan stands over the largest hide map, tracing a path with a calloused finger. Khanai lies beside her chair, blue eyes reflecting the flames. Her low, rumbling purr vibrates the felt floor.

Pomogr, massive arms crossed over his barrel chest, radiates fierce satisfaction. "Flawless, Khatun!" he booms, the sound startling Khatan hanging nearby. "Like trapping a wolf in a ravine! Noga rode straight into the painted nightmare. The liars played their part well, weeping over goat bones and charred felt. Our plan," he jabs a thick finger towards the map, towards the spot marking the decoy ruin, "is iron. Unbreakable."

Horohan doesn't look up. Her finger rests on the valley where the real Nedai settlement thrives, hidden, then shifts northwest, tapping the location of the fake ruin. "Too close, Pomogr," she murmurs, her voice low and taut. "Noga is no fool. His scouts range wide. If one stumbles too far south, if the wind shifts wrong..." She shakes her head.

The yurt flap parts with a theatrical rustle. Kuan slips in, shaking snowflakes from his dark hair like a wet fox emerging from a stream. Khanai's purr cuts off instantly, replaced by a deep, resonant growl that vibrates the teacups on the low table. Her massive head lifts, blue eyes fixed on the newcomer with predatory assessment.

Kuan clicks his tongue, utterly unfazed. "Now, now, Khanai, darling. Is that any way to greet the architect of your mistress's latest triumph?" He flashes a grin at Horohan, ignoring the tiger's continued low rumble. "Akun," he announces with relish, "is currently attempting to chew through his bonds using only the power of righteous indignation. Quite the spectacle. I believe he wept actual tears of fury. Very salty. Very satisfying."

Horohan finally looks up, a flicker of exasperation crossing her stern features. "Kuan. Do not torment him unduly. He is a traitor, not a toy."

"Torment? Perish the thought!" Kuan flutters a hand, feigning offense. "He remains disappointingly intact. Unlike his dignity." He saunters towards the map table, peering over Pomogr's shoulder. "And our esteemed guest, Batu? The Nedai chieftain currently contemplating the profound error of his life choices? What does the mighty Khatun decree for the man who traded ancestral bonds for Yohazatz baubles?"

Horohan's gaze hardens. "He remains our prisoner. Under guard. His fate," she states with finality, "is for Naci to decide upon her return. It is up to her family to judge him."

Before Kuan can offer another quip, a respectful cough sounds from the entrance. Two figures stand silhouetted against the grey afternoon light: Tseren and Gani, Naci's parents. Tseren, still Jabliu chieftain, carries the weathered dignity of command, though his shoulders stoop slightly. Gani, beside him, possesses Naci's fury, her hands clasped tightly before her.

Horohan's stern expression melts into genuine warmth, a transformation as startling as sun breaking through storm clouds. "In-laws!" She steps swiftly around the table, her movements shedding the weight of command. "Be welcome! Come in, out of the cold." She gestures towards thick felt cushions near the central stove. "Tea! Sweets!" she calls towards the entrance flap, her voice losing its battlefield edge, becoming hospitable, almost gentle.

Gani's anxious expression eases as she enters, her eyes scanning Horohan with maternal appraisal. "Child," she murmurs, accepting the offered seat with a grateful sigh. "You look like a well-strung bow." She accepts a steaming cup of butter tea from a warrior, her gaze lingering on Horohan. "Such loyalty. Such diligence you show for our daughter and clan. It warms an old woman's heart." She sighs again, deeper this time, a sound heavy with fond exasperation. "Unlike that troublesome daughter of mine." She sips her tea, shaking her head, but the pride beneath the complaint is unmistakable.

Horohan's lips twitch in suppressed amusement. "Naci's... energy... is the wind that fills our sails, Mother Gani. Even when it threatens to capsize us." She offers a plate of dried apricots dusted with sugar. "But tell me, what brings you through the camp? Not just to scold Naci in absentia, I hope?"

Tseren clears his throat, his weathered face serious. He places his untouched tea cup down carefully. "Horohan," he begins, his voice the low rumble of distant thunder. "We come... concerning Batu."

Horohan's posture shifts subtly, the welcoming host replaced by the attentive leader. "Batu," Horohan repeats, her tone neutral, "I was just saying to my advisors that I left him to your mercy."

Tseren meets her gaze, his own steady. "I know his betrayal cuts deep. It stains the salt we shared. But... he is bound. He is contained. Might I... might I speak with him?"

Silence falls. Pomogr shifts, his expression thunderous. Kuan watches with sharp, curious eyes, like a cat observing a fascinating mouse. Horohan considers Tseren's request, her gaze thoughtful. She knows the depth of the old friendship, the shared history that predates alliances and enmities. She also knows the cold reality of Batu's choice.

After a short moment, Horohan nods, once. "Old bonds hold their own weight, Father. Speak with him as much as you'd like."

As Tseren rises, gratitude and sorrow warring in his eyes, Gani reaches out and squeezes Horohan's hand.

Horohan leads Tseren and Gani through the bustling heart of the settlement, the air thick with woodsmoke and roasting meat. Khanai pads silently beside Horohan, a low, constant rumble vibrating from her chest, her blue eyes scanning the surroundings. Tseren walks with the heavy tread of a man approaching a tomb, Gani's hand a small anchor on his arm, her face etched with concern.

Inside the dim, guarded yurt, the atmosphere curdles. Batu, slumped against a pole, jerks upright as the flap opens, his bruised face transforming with desperate hope as he recognizes Tseren. "Old friend!" he croaks, the words thick with relief and shame. "Tseren! You see? You see how they treat—"

His plea dies as his eyes land on Horohan standing behind Tseren, her expression unreadable, Khanai a looming shadow at her side. Akun, who moments before had been hurling venomous curses at the felt walls falls utterly, unnaturally silent. He shrinks back against his bonds, his furious bluster evaporating like spit on hot iron. His gaze drops to the dirt floor, refusing to meet Horohan's eyes, his earlier defiance replaced by a sullen, almost cowering stillness.

Horohan's gaze sweeps over them, lingering on Akun. "Take Akun to the empty supply yurt on the western edge. Bind him securely there. Batu remains."

The Tepr warriors move with efficient brutality. They haul Akun upright, ignoring his choked gasp of protest, his renewed struggle feeble now, devoid of its earlier fire. He stumbles as they shove him towards the entrance, his eyes darting once, furtively, towards Horohan before snapping away again. He is pushed out into the cold air without ceremony.

Horohan turns to Tseren and Gani. "Speak with him," she says, her tone softening marginally. "The guards remain outside." She gives Batu one last, inscrutable look before turning and following Akun's path, Khanai following.

The journey to the isolated supply yurt is made in heavy silence, broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot and Akun's ragged breathing. The warriors secure him inside the cold, bare structure, chaining him to a central support post with thick, unyielding ropes. Horohan dismisses them with a curt nod. "Go. Warm yourselves. Eat." The warriors obey, melting into the gathering dusk.

The flap falls closed. Silence descends, profound and suffocating. The only light comes from a small, high smoke hole, casting long, distorted shadows. Horohan stands just inside the entrance, a statue carved from obsidian. Khanai settles near the flap, her watchful blue eyes fixed on Akun.

Finally, Horohan speaks, her voice low, resonating in the stillness. "All that noise. All that fire. And now... silence. Why does the storm die when the lightning finally stands before it, Akun?"

Akun flinches but doesn't look up. His voice, when it comes, is a raw scrape, stripped of its earlier bravado. "What is there to say to you, Khatun?"

Horohan takes a single step forward. The air crackles. "You broke the oath."

Akun's head snaps up, his eyes blazing with sudden, desperate fury. "I broke oaths? What of your part of the oath? What of the face I and Temej knew? We rode together! Hunted together! Swore blood-brother oaths under the Eternal Sky! We thought you a brother! And then?" He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh.

Horohan stares at him, genuine confusion flickering beneath her stoic mask. "Temej accepts me as I am. We stand together. Did you think he was dead? I killed him? He's just with Naci on a trip to the capital now. He will be back shortly and you can see for yourself." Her voice holds a note of bewildered pain. "You... you were my brother too. In spirit, if not by blood we shared as children. What changed? Was the bond we forged as warriors, as companions, truly so fragile it shattered because you learned my body differed from what you assumed?"

Akun jerks against his chains, the metal biting into his wrists. "You think it was just... surprise? We shared everything! Trust! Laughter! I knew everything! And then... you were just... gone. As if the years meant nothing. As if the brotherhood was ash." He looks away again, his jaw working, struggling to contain something deeper, hotter than anger. "You walked away from everything we were. You murdered your father. And you expected... what? Understanding? Blessings?" He shakes his head violently. "It felt like... like the ultimate betrayal. A life built on sand."

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Horohan watches him, the pieces shifting, falling into a pattern she hadn't fully seen before. The venom wasn't just political. It was personal. Deeply, poisonously personal. Rooted not in tribal loyalty alone, but in a wound she hadn't known she'd inflicted.

"Brotherhood," Horohan says quietly, the word heavy in the cold air. "That was real, Akun. It wasn't a lie. My heart knew you and Temej as kin long before all of that happened." She takes another step closer, her gaze intense. "You turned your back on that brotherhood. You spat on the blood we spilled together. You fought against me with the Kolopan, that's fine. It was a fair war. But then you called Noga Khanzadeh while plotting the ruin of everything Temej and I are currently protecting. That is the betrayal that stains the Sky, Akun. Not mine. Yours."

Akun meets her gaze then, finally. His eyes are wide, filled with a turbulent storm of rage, shame, and something else – a raw, unhealed hurt that looks perilously close to grief. He opens his mouth, perhaps to deny, perhaps to scream, but no sound emerges. He just stares at her, chained and silent, the weight of her words and the ghosts of their shared past hanging between them like frozen blades, in the yurt where only the tiger's watchful eyes bear witness to the wreckage of a bond mistaken for one thing, twisted into another, and ultimately shattered on the unforgiving rocks of pride and perceived betrayal. Horohan leaves the yurt, and the silence returns, heavier now, filled with the unsaid and the irreparably broken.

...

The heavy felt of Noga's yurt muffles the vast, hungry silence of the camp outside. Inside, warmth pools like liquid gold, radiating from a large iron stove glowing cherry-red in the centre. Flickering oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the intricate, colourful tapestries lining the walls. The air is thick with the comforting, incongruous scents of simmering mutton broth, expensive Yohazatz incense — a cloying blend of sandalwood and something vaguely medicinal — and the underlying, ever-present aroma of well-oiled leather.

Noga sits cross-legged on a mound of thick furs, his posture relaxed. He's shed his outer armor, wearing only a silk tunic over soft leather trousers. He watches his wives with an expression that borders, for him, on domestic tranquility. Bora, her silver-streaked dark hair braided tightly for sleep, meticulously darns a tear in a padded gambeson, her needle flashing in the lamplight. Sarangerel, cheeks still slightly flushed from the stove's heat, hums a tuneless melody as she carefully arranges honey-drizzled millet cakes on a lacquered tray, occasionally popping a stray crumb into her mouth. Altantsetseg, the youngest, sits curled near Noga's feet.

"…and then," Sarangerel says, "the grey mare, the one with the star, she nudged the water bucket right over! Soaked poor Urtnasan's boots completely! He hopped around like a singed marmot!" She giggles, a bright, bubbling sound.

Bora snorts without looking up. "Urtnasan's boots were overdue for a washing. Smelled like something died in them three summers past. Probably did."

Altantsetseg glances up, her large eyes serious. "Marmots don't hop when singed, Sarán. They squeal. Very high-pitched. Like this." She emits a surprisingly accurate, sharp squeak.

Sarangerel claps her hands. "Yes! Exactly! Though Urtnasan's voice is deeper. More like a… a stepped-on badger?"

Noga picks up a small whetstone and absently runs it along the edge of an eating knife already sharp enough to shave with. The rhythmic shink-shink is a counterpoint to the domestic sounds. "The grey mare," he remarks, his voice a low rumble in the warm space. "Stubborn creature. But clever." He pauses, the stone stilling. "The Nedai women. You tended them?"

The shift is subtle, but the air in the yurt seems to cool a degree. Bora sets her darning aside, folding her hands in her lap. "We did, husband. Cleaned their wounds, gave them warm broth, clean clothes. Altán found salve for the burns." She glances at the youngest wife.

Altantsetseg nods vigorously. "The salve with the yellow root and beeswax. Good for burns and scrapes. The one with the sword cut on her shoulder…" She wrinkles her nose. "It was deep, but clean. I packed it with the salve and clean linen. It should knit, if fever doesn't take her."

"The others?" Noga asks, his gaze fixed on the knife's edge, reflecting the lamplight in a thin, cold line.

Sarangerel's smile fades. She wipes her fingers delicately on a cloth. "Oh, poor souls. Bruises, mostly. From falling, or being pushed. Scratches. But…" She hesitates, looking to Bora.

"The bodies heal swiftly enough," Bora says, her voice practical but lacking its usual bite. "It's the souls that are flayed raw, husband. Seeing their homes burn, their kin…" She shakes her head slightly. "That kind of wound takes seasons to scar over. If it ever truly does. They huddle together like startled chicks, jumping at shadows."

Noga makes a noncommittal sound, a low hum in his throat. "Did they speak? Beyond their grief?"

"Bits and pieces," Sarangerel offers, eager to share. "When the broth warmed them a little. Talked of their families, mostly. The old one, the mother, she wept for her son and husband taken. The younger ones… they spoke of their lives before."

Noga nods slowly, the whetstone resuming its soft shink-shink. "And where was that?" The word drips icy contempt.

Bora shrugs. "Where one expects. The valley. Good water source, they said. Sheltered from the north wind."

"Mm," Sarangerel adds, picking up another cake but merely turning it in her fingers now. "They talked about gathering berries in the summer. And mushrooms! Oh, the big, fat ones that grow near the old pine stumps after rain. Said they dried them for winter stews." She sighs wistfully. "Sounds lovely. We never had forests near the high plains."

Shink.

The whetstone stops dead.

Noga's head lifts slowly, almost imperceptibly. His eyes, usually chips of obsidian, seem to absorb all the lamplight, turning fathomless and dark. He doesn't look at Sarangerel. He stares at the tapestry opposite, depicting a stylized wolf hunt amidst towering, snow-capped firs. "Forests?" His voice is dangerously soft, devoid of inflection. "The Nedai spoke of gathering mushrooms… near pine stumps?"

Sarangerel, oblivious, nods. "Yes! Near the forest edge, they said. Said the children loved playing in the dappled shade, hunting for bird nests. Though," she frowns slightly, "they also complained about the wolves being bolder near the trees in deep winter. Always a trade-off, isn't it?"

Bora's sharp eyes flick from Sarangerel's innocent face to Noga's terrifyingly still profile. She feels the shift in the air, thick as felt, colder than the frozen steppe outside. "Sarán," she says, her voice unusually tight, "the Nedai grazing lands are open steppe. Rolling hills. Scrub. No forests. Not for a hundred li."

Altantsetseg looks up from her dagger, her brow furrowed in confusion. "But… they said it. The woman with the burnt hands, she talked about collecting resin from the pines for torches." She looks between Bora and Noga, sensing the sudden tension but not its source. "Is… is that wrong?"

Noga places the knife and whetstone down on the furs beside him with infinite, deliberate care. The soft thud sounds unnaturally loud. The only forests in Tepr… His mind races, cold and precise. The vast, dark expanse clawing at the eastern foothills of the Tengr, deep within Alinkar territory. A prize fought over for generations. A landmark. And the frozen, ancient woods far to the north, marking the edge of the known world, inhabited by spirits and outcasts, not Nedai herders. Not places for children to play.

A pleasant mask settles over Noga's face as he turns towards Sarangerel, a smile touching his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. "Fascinating," he murmurs, his voice a warm purr. "Children playing in dappled shade? How… idyllic. Tell me, my little songbird, did they mention which forest? The name? Or perhaps… the direction of the sunrise over the trees?" He leans forward slightly, the lamplight catching the newly-tied luck-braid on his discarded sword belt, making the red threads glow like fresh blood against the black leather.

...

The pre-dawn air bites like a wolf's kiss, sharp and utterly devoid of mercy. Noga rides alone, a shadow swallowed by the vaster shadow of the sleeping steppe. His midnight stallion moves with muffled tread across the frozen crust, breath pluming like spectral banners in the torchlight he carries. The journey back to the Nedai settlement feels short this time too.

He dismounts at the valley's edge, tethering the stallion to a skeletal, fire-blackened shrub that might once have been green. He strides forward, the frozen ash crunching under his boots like shattered bones.

"Very well, playwright," Noga murmurs to the silent ruins, his voice a low rasp that scatters no birds, for there are none. "Let us inspect the props."

He stops before the largest pyre, the one where the 'mother' had clutched a blackened limb. He thrusts the torch close. The pile is artfully chaotic, a macabre sculpture of charred shapes. He hooks a boot under what appears to be a protruding leg bone, blackened and brittle. A sharp tug. It comes free with a dry crack.

It's not a leg bone.

It's the femur of a large ox, snapped and blackened. Attached to it, not a human foot, but the unmistakable, fused remnants of a cloven hoof.

Noga stares at it, dangling grotesquely from his grip. A slow, mirthless smile stretches his lips, devoid of warmth, lit only by the guttering torch. He drops the limb. It shatters on the frozen ground.

The eastern horizon begins to bleed a pale, sickly grey, leaching colour into the world. Noga moves systematically. He kicks at another pile near a collapsed yurt frame. Instead of the dense, sickening resistance of compacted human remains, the pile shifts loosely. Under a thin layer of ash and strategically placed, badly charred cow parts, it's just packed earth and snow. A mound. He kicks harder. Frozen clods of dirt and snow scatter, revealing the pathetic core: a few scorched skulls — bovine — some ribs, a pelvis – all livestock, artfully arranged on a pyramid of frozen mud to mimic a heap of bodies.

He turns to the nearest yurt skeleton, its lattice ribs jabbing accusingly at the paling sky. Ducking through the broken entrance, he swings the torch. The interior is bare. Utterly barren. No scorched remnants of rugs, beds, cooking pots, or the detritus of lives lived. Just ash-covered frozen earth. He stomps hard on the floor near the centre. A hollow, resonant thump answers, not the solid thud of packed earth beneath a lived-in ger. "Empty," he states, the word hanging in the frigid air. "A shell. A painted backdrop for tragedy." He sniffs deeply. "No one lived here. No one died here."

The first true rays of dawn, weak and watery, spear over the distant Tengr peaks, painting the scene in hues of grey and dirty gold. It illuminates the sheer, insulting shoddiness of the deception. The carefully constructed horror show now looks exactly like what it is: a cheap, cruel trick. Noga's rage is a cold, hard stone in his chest. He'd been led by the nose, chasing phantoms while the real prey laughed just over the hill.

He turns to leave, the torch sputtering its last in the growing light. The humiliation burns cleaner than any fire.

Thwack!

An arrow buries itself into the loose, ashy soil of the nearest "corpse pyramid" mere inches from his left cheek. The fletching quivers, a stark black and white intrusion against the grey.

Noga freezes. Not in fear, but in the absolute, predatory stillness of a wolf scenting the hunt. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head, following the arrow's trajectory back towards the valley rim where he'd left his horse.

Silhouetted against the bloody dawn sky, atop the ridge, like figures etched in obsidian, are riders. Six, maybe seven. Tepr patterns on their furs. Short, powerful composite bows already drawn again, arrows nocked, aimed unerringly at his heart.

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