The heavy felt flap of the chief's yurt falls shut behind Gani, Tseren, and the bundled child, Dukar, plunging them into the smoky, lamplit warmth. The familiar scent of stewed mutton, cured leather, and damp wool hangs thick. Tarun, hunched over a worn map of grazing disputes, looks up. His weathered face registers shock, then profound relief, then utter bewilderment as his gaze sweeps over his daughter and the ragged, trembling figures flanking her.

"Gani!" Tarun breathes, pushing himself up. The relief is palpable, a physical unclenching of shoulders held taut for days. "You returned! ..." His eyes dart to Tseren, who stands rigid as a post, clutching Dukar like a shield, his face a mask of terrified confusion under layers of grime. The man's eyes flicker wildly between the imposing chieftain and Gani's impassive profile. Please, Sky Above, don't betray me, his silent scream seems to echo in the sudden quiet.

Gani strides forward, radiating a chilling calm that feels more dangerous than her previous fury. She stops before her father's low table, ignoring the steaming bowl of tea Lukür silently places nearby. Her voice, when it cuts the thick air, is clear, deliberate, and utterly absurd.

"Father. I have contemplated the vastness under the Eternal Sky during my journey. The winds carried wisdom." She gestures dismissively behind her, not even glancing at Tseren. "I found this. A man. And his spawn. Lost. Forgotten. Pitiable. His mind… gone. Swept clean by the steppe winds or some malady. He remembers nothing. Not his kin, not his tongue, not even how to properly swaddle a whelp." She pauses, letting the sheer ludicrousness hang. Tseren shifts nervously, understanding only the tone, not the words, but sensing the precariousness of his position. He offers a weak, desperate smile that looks more like a rictus.

Tarun blinks. "He… he has amnesia?" His voice is thick with disbelief. He squints at Tseren, taking in the man's threadbare, non-descript clothes, his hollow cheeks, the way he trembles despite the yurt's warmth. "Where… where did he come from? What is his name?"

Gani waves a hand, a gesture of supreme indifference. "The Void? Who knows? He drifts like thistle-down. His name? He mumbled something once… 'Tseren'. Perhaps. It matters little." She takes a deliberate step closer to her father, her dark eyes locking onto his. "Seeing his helplessness, the child's sickness… it moved me, Father. Deeply. A revelation bloomed under the cold stars." Another pause, pregnant with impending madness. "I have decided. I shall marry him."

Silence.

Not the quiet of contemplation, but the stunned, airless silence that follows a lightning strike inside a tent. Tarun's jaw drops. Lukür, hovering near the hearth, freezes mid-pour, tea sloshing over the rim of the cup unnoticed. Tseren's eyes bulge, darting frantically from Gani to Tarun. Is this a trap?

Tarun makes a sound like a teakettle boiling over. "M-Marry? Him? Gani! Have the desert winds baked your wits? He's… he's…" Words fail him. He gestures vaguely at Tseren, who flinches as if expecting a blow. "He's a foundling! A mute ghost! Look at him! He can barely stand!"

"Exactly," Gani states, her voice flat, deadly serious. "Perfect. No troublesome family. No inconvenient traditions. No demands. Just… vacancy. Ideal for a chieftain's consort." She leans forward, planting her hands on the table, her gaze intense. "Think, Father! Your problem is solved. Name him heir. Place the chieftain's burden upon his conveniently empty shoulders. Let him nod sagely at councils while I ride the wind and settle the grazing disputes. You can retire, content, knowing the title rests securely between his… capable hands." She almost says 'trembling' but stops herself.

Tarun stares at her, his face cycling through crimson, ashen grey, and finally a sort of purple apoplexy. He lets out a strangled laugh that dissolves into a coughing fit. "Name him…? Gani! By the Four Winds! I would sooner name Lukür's favourite yak heir! Marry him? Fine! Marry a rock! Marry whom you will! But marriage does not magically bestow competence, let alone the right to lead the Jabliu!" He runs a hand over his face, groaning. "You wish to lead? Earn it! Prove yourself! Do not saddle me with… with this… this walking question mark!" He jabs a finger accusingly at Tseren.

Tseren, catching the tone and the pointing finger, whimpers softly, clutching Dukar tighter. The child, disturbed by the tension and the sudden noise, emits a frail, reedy cough.

Gani doesn't flinch. Her father's spluttering outrage, his sheer, flabbergasted disbelief, is precisely the reaction she craved. The prank is perfection. A tiny, almost imperceptible spark of wicked amusement ignites deep within her eyes, though her face remains carved from stone. She straightens up, radiating an aura of wounded dignity mixed with impatience.

"Very well, Father," she says, her voice dripping with mock resignation. "Your lack of vision is… noted. As ever." She turns abruptly, grabbing Tseren's bony elbow with a grip like iron, making him yelp. "Come, 'Tseren'. The chieftain's wisdom is boundless, but his hospitality towards sick children seems… lacking." She throws a final, scathing glance at Tarun, who is still gaping like a landed fish. "The child needs the shaman's touch. Unlike some, I understand duty." She practically drags the bewildered, terrified Tseren towards the entrance.

...

The biting wind whips across the snow-dusted steppe as Gani guides Salkhi at a brisk trot towards the healer's yurt, perched like a solitary grey mushroom on a wind-scoured knoll. Tseren, standing precariously behind her on the ancient gelding, clutches the bundled form of Dukar with white-knuckled desperation. The silence, thick as felt since leaving Tarun's yurt, finally shatters.

Gani twists slightly in her saddle, her voice slicing through the cold air in the tones of Moukopl. "Back there, worm," she begins, her tone conversational yet edged like a skinning knife, "I told my esteemed father I found you wandering, mind wiped cleaner than a feast platter. A pitiful, amnesiac wraith clutching a sick whelp. And then," she pauses, a flicker of dark amusement in her obsidian eyes, "I announced I'd decided to marry you."

The gelding stumbles on a frozen tussock. Tseren lets out a choked sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob, nearly losing his grip on Dukar. His amber eyes, wide with abject terror, lock onto Gani's profile. "M-M-Marry? Me?" he stammers, the Moukopl words thick with disbelief. "But… why? Why spin such a… such a mad tale?" His mind reels, picturing the chieftain's purple-faced apoplexy anew. "What kind of cursed steppe have I stumbled onto?"

Gani snorts, a puff of white vapor escaping her lips. "Why? Because his face was a tapestry woven from shock, outrage, and sheer, glorious stupidity. It amused me. Deeply." She spurs Salkhi forward slightly, forcing Tseren to kick the lagging gelding. "Consider it your rent for continued breath, Carrion Bird."

Tseren swallows hard, the cold air burning his throat. He looks down at the fever-flushed face of his son – Dukar, he must remember his new name – peeking from the blankets. Gratitude, a fragile, unfamiliar warmth, blooms amidst the terror. "Still… you saved him. You brought us here. Even if… even if it's for your own reasons… thank you."

Gani doesn't turn. "Don't flatter yourself. Saving a whelp from stupidity is like pulling a lamb from a mud pit. Basic decency. My amusement is the true reward." She flicks a dismissive hand. "Same difference."

He falls silent, absorbing the bleak landscape, the absurdity of his situation, the terrifying enigma that is Gani. The weak winter sun breaks through the scudding clouds, catching his upturned face as he glances skyward, perhaps seeking divine intervention. The light strikes his eyes – not the common dark brown of the Moukopl lowlands, but a startling, luminous amber, like sunlight through forest leaves. They seem almost to ignite, holding an inner fire incongruous with his cowed posture.

Gani, catching the sudden blaze in her peripheral vision, reins Salkhi in slightly. She turns fully now, studying him with a hunter's assessing gaze, her earlier mockery momentarily suspended. "Your eyes," she states, her voice losing some of its customary bite, replaced by genuine curiosity. "Like river stones kissed by fire. Not a common hue for a son of the mud-brick empire. Where did you steal those?"

Tseren flushes, unused to such direct, unvarnished scrutiny. "They… they are my mother's," he mumbles. "She… she claimed our line descended… directly… from Demoz." He says the name with a mixture of reverence and defensive pride, bracing himself for her inevitable scorn.

Gani stares at him. Then, a sound erupts from her – not the harsh bark of before, but a rich, rolling peal of genuine laughter that echoes across the empty steppe, startling a flock of snow finches into flight. "Demoz!" she chokes out between gasps, wiping imaginary tears. "The Great Stallion who sired the world? Oh, worm, every flea-bitten goatherd from the Tengr to the Sky's Edges claims Demoz spilled his seed near their grandmother's yurt! His conquests were legendary, his appetites… prolific. Claiming descent from him is like claiming the sky is blue – obvious, unremarkable, and utterly useless!" She shakes her head, still chuckling, though her eyes hold a glint of something else – perhaps a grudging acknowledgment of the audacity. "Still… amber eyes are rare. Maybe your mud-brick ancestor did catch the Great Conqueror's eye for an afternoon. Stranger things have blown on the wind."

Tseren's flush deepens, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. Yet, her laughter, however mocking, feels less hostile than her usual contempt. He risks another question, his voice tentative. "The name… Tseren. You called me Tseren. When I was a child, my mother revealed my hidden name to me. How… how did you know it?"

Gani's laughter subsides. She regards him, her expression unreadable for a moment. The wind whistles through the dry grasses. "Know?" she finally says, her voice dropping, losing its sharp edge, becoming almost thoughtful. "I didn't know, worm. I saw." She gestures vaguely at his face. "Names are not just sounds. They are… shadows. Echoes. On the steppe, a true name holds power. It reveals the spirit beneath the skin, or conceals it. I looked at you, a broken thing dragging a broken child through the dust, and 'Tseren'… it fit. Like a worn glove on a familiar hand. Perhaps your spirit whispered it. Perhaps the wind carried it. Or perhaps," she adds, the familiar sarcasm creeping back, "I just plucked a pretty sound from the air. But it stuck. Because it was yours. A law of the steppe, felt in the bones."

Tseren stares at her, dumbfounded. The idea – that names held magic, that she had somehow seen his true name – feels both terrifying and profoundly comforting. Before he can form a coherent thought, Gani raises a hand, her eyes narrowing as the shaman's yurt comes into clear view, smoke curling lazily from its smoke-hole. "Enough. Seal your lips, Tseren. Not a squeak. Not in Moukopl, not in gibberish. You are mute. Understood?"

He nods mutely, the command reinforcing the precariousness of their charade. They dismount near the low entrance. Gani pushes aside the heavy felt flap, revealing the dim, herb-scented interior. Old Ulagan, the shaman, is a wizened figure hunched over a mortar and pestle, his eyes like chips of obsidian set deep in a face like cracked leather. He looks up, unsurprised, as if expecting their arrival.

Gani strides in, her voice shifting to the rhythmic cadence of Jabliu, respectful yet commanding. "Wise Ulagan. This one," she gestures dismissively at Tseren hovering fearfully in the doorway, clutching Dukar, "is Tseren. Found wandering, empty as a gourd. The child, Dukar, burns with fever. The Carrion Bird here couldn't pour water down a well, so I brought them."

Ulagan sets aside his mortar. His gaze, ancient and unsettlingly perceptive, sweeps over Tseren, lingering for a heartbeat on his wide eyes, then settles on the child. He doesn't speak. He simply holds out gnarled hands, imperious. Tseren, understanding the gesture, stumbles forward and carefully places the bundled Dukar into the shaman's arms.

Ulagan unwraps the blankets with surprising gentleness. He places a leathery palm on the child's forehead, then chest. He murmurs something low and guttural, a sound like stones tumbling in a dry riverbed. He fetches a small clay pot of pungent salve, a whistle carved from a snow eagle's bone, and a feather that glimmers with iridescent blues and greens. The ritual begins – silent, precise, steeped in the deep, untamed magic of the steppe. Tseren watches, trembling, hope warring with terror, while Gani observes the shaman's work with the detached interest of a strategist assessing a new weapon. The only sounds are the crackle of the hearth, the whistle's faint, mournful note, and Dukar's shallow, rasping breaths.

...

The shaman's yurt exhales the scent of crushed dreamroot and dried snow-vole bones as Ulagan finishes his silent ministrations. Dukar's breathing, while still shallow, has lost its desperate rasp, settling into the rhythm of exhausted sleep. The ancient shaman presses a small, greased leather pouch into Tseren's trembling hands, filled with a pungent, gritty paste. Before Tseren can fumble with the pouch or offer a wordless bow, Gani snatches it from him with the swiftness of a falcon taking prey.

"Give it here, Carrion Bird," she commands, her voice slicing the herb-thick air. She turns to Ulagan, her tone dripping with pragmatic scorn. "Wise Ulagan, your skill is a beacon. But entrusting medicine to this one?" She jerks a thumb towards Tseren, who flinches. "He'd likely try to eat it, or rub it on his blisters. Better I manage the whelp's dosing. His skull houses only dust and echoes."

Ulagan's obsidian-chip eyes crinkle at the corners. A dry, rustling sound escapes his throat – less a laugh, more stones grinding together. He looks from Gani's fierce, impatient face to Tseren's bewildered terror. "The wind carries many truths, Daughter of Tarun," he rasps, his voice like parched earth cracking. "And sometimes, the loudest truths are not the deepest. You understand each other… perfectly." The emphasis on the last word holds a universe of unspoken observation.

Gani barks a laugh, sharp and genuine this time. "Ha! I know, right! Many thanks, Old Man." She turns, shoving the medicine pouch into her belt and practically hauling Tseren and the bundled Dukar back out into the biting wind.

The weak sun struggles lower as they approach the bustling heart of the camp. Before they reach the relative sanctuary of Gani's intended destination, two whirlwinds of fur and braids detach from a group near the horse lines and hurtle towards them. Lura, twelve summers old and fierce as a young lynx, and Tali, seventeen.

"Big Sis!" Lura gasps, breathless. "They say you brought a husband! A mute ghost-husband!" Her gaze, sharp and assessing, rakes over Tseren's ragged form, lingering on the sleeping child. Tali clutches her sister's sleeve, peeking out with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Gani stops, planting her feet. She surveys her sisters, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "Ah, the camp gossips chirp swiftly. Yes. This," she gestures grandly at Tseren, who stands frozen, feeling like a specimen pinned for dissection, "is Tseren. My chosen."

Lura frowns. "But… Father says he's… empty? Like a dropped waterskin? And he looks…" She searches for a diplomatic word, failing. "Sickly."

"Precisely!" Gani declares, her voice ringing with perverse pride. She launches into a litany, counting off flaws on her calloused fingers. "Let us enumerate Tseren's virtues! One: Mind like a sieve after a sandstorm. Remembers nothing! Convenient! Two: Strength of a newborn lamb. Couldn't wrestle a sleepy marmot. Three: Utterly useless with children – nearly killed his own spawn through sheer incompetence." Tseren flinches at each point, understanding the tone if not the words. "Four: Possesses the survival instincts of a concussed grouse. Five: Likely snores like a bear choking on honey. Six: Probably steals the last scrap of marrow from the stew pot. Seven: Undoubtedly leaves his boots where people trip over them!" She invents flaws with relish, her eyes gleaming.

Lura and Tali exchange horrified glances. "But Sis," Tali whispers, her small voice trembling, "why… why would you choose him?"

Gani leans down conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that carries perfectly to Tseren's ears, though he comprehends none of the Jabliu words. "Because, little fawns," she hisses, her smile razor-sharp, "a buffoon who is nothing is the perfect husband. He will stand where I place him. Smile when I poke him. Nod when I command. Bear the title of consort, while I," she taps her temple, "hold the reins. He is a scarecrow in fine robes, easily manipulated, utterly controllable. The ideal puppet upon which to hang… my ambitions." She straightens, radiating satisfaction.

Lura pales. Tali's eyes fill with tears, not of sadness, but of sheer, primal fear at the terrifying calculus of her sister's mind. The casual, chilling brilliance of the scheme steals their breath.

Gani ignores their stunned silence. "Now, practicalities. Is there a yurt fit for… storage? Doesn't need to be grand. Just something to stash this baggage for a few nights until we erect a proper cage for him."

Lura, still wide-eyed, manages a shaky nod. "Old Man Berek's rice storage yurt? It's empty since he moved the sacks. It smells… grainy. And there are mice." She brightens slightly, a spark of mischief replacing fear. "He can guard the rice! But tell him," she adds, her voice hardening with a child's imitation of adult severity, "if one grain is missing when we check… we cut out his tongue!" She makes a sharp, scissoring motion with her fingers.

Tseren, catching the gesture and the sudden shift in the little girl's tone, gulps audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing like a cork in a stormy sea.

Tali, momentarily distracted from her fear, peers up at Tseren. "His eyes are pretty," she murmurs. "Like… like amber in firelight."

Gani snorts. "Pretty? Hah! They're just… unusual. Like mud with sunlight shining through it. Says he descends from Demoz himself!" She throws her head back and laughs, the sound harsh and mocking.

Lura joins in, the tension momentarily broken by the sheer absurdity. "Demoz! The Great! Did he ride here on a cloud, then?" Their laughter, young and bright, rings out, a stark contrast to Tseren's bewildered misery and Gani's dark amusement.

They lead the way to a smaller, slightly lopsided yurt near the edge of the camp. It reeks faintly of old grain and dust. Gani pushes aside the flap, revealing a dim interior stacked with empty sacks and dust motes dancing in the weak light filtering through the smoke hole. "Home," Gani announces to Tseren in Moukopl, her gesture encompassing the sparse, unwelcoming space. "The height of Jabliu hospitality for mute, amnesiac baggage. Don't get comfortable. It's temporary."

She steps inside, gesturing for him to place Dukar on a relatively clear patch of felt-covered ground. She tosses the medicine pouch onto a nearby sack. "I'll return. The whelp needs dosing. Don't let him die before then. Would spoil my plans." Her tone is matter-of-fact, devoid of warmth, yet the underlying command is clear: Keep him alive.

She turns to leave, then pauses at the entrance, fixing Tseren with a stare that could freeze magma. "One more thing, Carrion Bird. This silence? It ends soon. You will learn to speak Jabliu. To understand it. Quickly." A cruel smile touches her lips. "And I will be your teacher. Pray to whatever spirits, you worm. Pray hard. For I am the worst teacher you will ever know. I have the patience of a starved wolf and the temper of a lightning strike." She lets the threat hang, thick and suffocating, in the dusty air. "Fail to learn, and you'll wish the Moukopl had found you first."

Without another word, she ducks out, leaving Tseren alone in the grainy gloom with his sleeping son. Gratitude for Dukar's improving state wars with a cold, creeping dread that sinks deeper than the desert frost. He looks down at the child – Dukar, he must remember – then around the sparse, alien yurt. The medicine pouch mocks him from the sack. He sinks to his knees beside his son, the weight of his new name, his stolen past, and his terrifying, impossible future pressing down. Outside, the wind moans, a sound that feels less like weather and more like the laughter of cruel gods.

...

The harsh lessons carve themselves into Tseren's days like wind-scars on sandstone. Dawn finds him tongue-tied and sweating under Gani's relentless barrage of Jabliu verbs, her corrections as sharp as whip-cracks. "Not 'khuur' like a sick dog, worm! 'Khur' – feel it in your throat! Like gravel rolling downhill!" Dukar, meanwhile, blossoms like a hardy steppe flower under the sun of freedom. His childish laughter rings out as he chases other children, his Jabliu phrases tumbling out imperfectly but understood, his small frame growing lean and swift under the vast sky. He learns to mimic the whistled signals of the herdsmen, his eyes wide as he watches the rituals from a safe distance.

Tseren remains a ghost haunting the edges of Jabliu life. He tends the horses with clumsy reverence, fetches water under watchful eyes, and endures the curious, sometimes suspicious, stares of the tribe. His silence, enforced by ignorance and fear, breeds whispers. Where did this hollow man and his son spring from? The mystery festers.

Tarun's patience, worn thin by administrative headaches and his daughter's impossible charade, finally snaps. He corners Gani near the horse lines one crisp morning, the scent of frost and dung sharp in the air. His face is a thundercloud gathering over the steppe.

"Enough, Gani!" His voice, usually weary, crackles with rare anger. "This… pantomime! It insults the tribe's intelligence and my own! That man," he jabs a finger towards Tseren, who is awkwardly attempting to mend a saddle blanket nearby, flinching at the gesture, "is no wind-blown amnesiac. Is he some Moukopl deserter you've bought to play your mute slave? Or worse – a criminal banished from his own tribe? Did he kill a man? Steal a wife? Abandon a family? The questions buzz like flies, daughter! Find out where he hails from, or by the Four Winds, I will banish him and the boy back to the emptiness you found them in!"

Gani throws back her head and laughs, a sound like shattering ice. "A Moukopl slave? Oh, Father, your imagination! As if I'd waste good coin on such useless flesh! A criminal? Possibly. He looks the type to faint at the sight of blood." She meets his furious gaze, her own obsidian eyes gleaming with defiant amusement. "But very well. The tribe demands origins? Origins they shall have. Consider it… an errand." She turns, her voice ringing across the paddock. "Tseren! Dukar! Pack your meagre scraps! We ride at dawn. A journey. Several days."

Tseren's amber eyes widen in fresh terror. Dukar, sensing the tension but excited by the prospect of travel, scrambles towards his father. There is no choice. Only the whirlwind's command.

...

The Nedai encampment sprawls across a sheltered valley, its yurts a constellation of grey felt against the dun earth. The air hums with industry – blacksmiths hammering, weavers at their looms under canopies, the rich scent of fermenting mare's milk mingling with woodsmoke. As Gani, Tseren, and Dukar ride in, a figure detaches from a group near the chieftain's grand yurt and strides towards them. Batu.

He is tall for a Nedai, broad-shouldered, with a handsome face currently lit by a mixture of delight and deep, familiar yearning. His eyes, dark as polished river stones, fix solely on Gani, warming with an intensity that makes Tseren instinctively shrink back. "Gani!" Batu calls, his voice warm and resonant. "The winds bring fierce blessings! What summons you across the high pastures?"

Gani dismounts with her usual fluid grace, ignoring the warmth in his voice. "Business, Batu. Requiring Nedai… hospitality." She gestures dismissively behind her. "This is Tseren. My husband."

The word hits Batu like a physical blow. The warmth in his eyes snuffs out, replaced by shock, then a dawning, icy disbelief. He stares at Tseren, taking in the man's worn clothes, his nervous posture, the way he clutches Dukar's hand. "Husband?" Batu echoes, the word tasting like ash. "This… man?"

"This one, indeed," Gani confirms, her tone breezy, utterly oblivious, or perhaps deliberately cruel, to the devastation she's wrought. "Seems my father's tribe finds his origins… nebulous. Suspicious, even. Whispers of Moukopl spies or wife-killers. Tedious." She steps closer to Batu, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though it still carries. "We need an alibi, Batu. A Nedai tale. Something poignant. Believable."

Batu's jaw tightens. He looks from Gani's expectant face to Tseren's terrified one. The love he's nurtured since childhood wars with a bitter sense of betrayal and the undeniable force of Gani's will. He cannot refuse her. Not directly. The conflict plays out in the rigid set of his shoulders, the white knuckles gripping his belt knife. Finally, he exhales, a sharp, defeated sound. "A tale..." he mutters, his voice strained. "Very well." He forces his gaze to Tseren, his eyes hard. "He was… is… Nedai. A distant cousin. Quiet man. Lived on the western margins. His wife…" Batu searches for tragedy, finding it easily in his own heart. "...died. Of a wasting sickness. Then he got spirited away and forgotten."

Gani claps her hands once, a sharp, triumphant sound. "Perfect! Poignant and conveniently untraceable! 'Died of sadness' – Batu, you have a poet's touch in tragedy! My father will weep into his kumis." She beams, utterly satisfied with the fabrication. "Now," she turns, spotting a group of Nedai women watching curiously, Dukar already edging towards their children. "Dukar! Go with them. Learn how Nedai women actually cook." She pushes the boy gently towards the women. "Tseren, Batu. You two." She points a finger between them, her smile turning dangerously bright. "Become friends. You have much in common now. Shared histories and all that." Her tone leaves no room for refusal. It's an order wrapped in absurdity.

She strides off towards the women, leaving the two men standing in the bustling camp like abandoned cairns. Batu stares at Tseren, his expression a mask of barely contained hostility and profound hurt. Tseren stares back, trembling, understanding only that this powerful, angry Nedai is now somehow tied to his fabricated past, and that Gani's command hangs over them like a sword.

Batu takes a step closer. Tseren flinches. Batu's voice, when it comes, is low, cold, and laced with a bitterness that chills the air more than the mountain wind. "So. 'Tseren'. Cousin." He practically spits the word. "How exactly did you manage to bind that storm to you?" He gestures towards Gani's retreating back with a mixture of awe and loathing.

The silence between Batu and Tseren hangs thick as felt, charged with resentment and bewildered terror. Batu's gaze, dark and wounded, feels like physical pressure. Tseren desperately scrabbles through the meager Jabliu phrases Gani had drilled into him. A joke. Something light. Defuse the storm. He clears his throat, a sound like pebbles rattling in a dry gourd.

"Why... why does eagle fly... crooked?" Tseren stammers, mangling the rhythm. He pauses, brow furrowed, then delivers the punchline with agonizing slowness: "Because... he ate... the... bent... squirrel!" He beams, utterly missing the intended absurdity and many layers of pun – the punchline should have been "Because the squirrel didn't pay!" The mispronunciation renders it nonsensical gibberish.

Batu stares. Then, a snort escapes him, involuntary, born of sheer disbelief. It blossoms into a short, sharp bark of laughter. "By the Sky, man," Batu chuckles, shaking his head, some of the hostility momentarily diffused by the sheer, staggering ineptitude. "You truly are an idiot." He claps Tseren heavily on the shoulder, making him stagger. "Come, 'Cousin'. Let's get out of this wind. Perhaps a game will pass the time until the whirlwind returns." He gestures towards his personal yurt, a larger, finer structure.

Tseren follows, head down, the word "shakh" meaning nothing to him. Inside, the yurt is warm, rich with the scent of cedar and cured leather. Batu gestures to a low table where a beautifully carved wooden board sits, its squares alternating bone and dark wood. Intricately shaped pieces – horses, towers, a crowned figure – stand arrayed. Batu begins setting them up with practiced ease.

Tseren's eyes widen. Recognition flashes across his face, erasing some of the fear. " Xiangqi!" he blurts out in clear Moukopl.

Batu freezes, a bone rook poised mid-air. His head snaps up. His eyes, dark and suddenly sharp as flint, lock onto Tseren's. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. " Xiangqi, is it?" Batu replies smoothly, flawlessly, in the same Moukopl tongue. He leans forward, the friendly facade evaporating. "We can speak Moukopl, if it suits you..."

Tseren pales, shrinking back. He shakes his head violently, muttering fragmented Jabliu denials. "No... no understand... Tseren... amnesia..." The lie is pathetic, transparent.

Batu laughs, a cold, humorless sound. "Suit yourself, 'Cousin'. Actions speak louder, eh? Sit. Play. Let's see what your hands remember, if your tongue refuses." He gestures at the board.

The first game is annihilation. Batu, confident, opens aggressively. Tseren, hunched, timid, moves pieces with trembling fingers. Batu scoffs at his apparent hesitancy. Then, with three swift, brutal moves – a knight sacrifice luring Batu's queen into a pin, a bishop sliding unseen to deliver check, a pawn advance sealing the king's escape – it's over. Batu stares at the board, his king trapped in the center, his queen captured. He hadn't even developed half his pieces. "What?"

The second game lasts marginally longer. Batu focuses, playing defensively. Tseren, still looking stressed, maneuvers his pieces with deceptive clumsiness, setting up a complex fork that simultaneously threatens Batu's queen and rook. Checkmate in seven moves. Batu's knuckles whiten on the edge of the table.

The third game sees Batu sweating. He tries tricky openings, feints. Tseren dismantles them with serene, terrifying efficiency, sacrificing a bishop to expose Batu's king, then swarming with pawns and knights. Checkmate in nine. Batu pushes back from the table, running a hand through his hair.

"Again," Batu growls, resetting the pieces with violent precision. "This time... handicap." He points at Tseren, then sweeps his hand, removing Tseren's queen from the board before the game begins. Tseren blinks, nods meekly.

He wins in twelve moves, using his rooks and bishops with surgical precision.

Batu removes a rook. Tseren wins.

Batu removes a bishop. Tseren wins, utilizing his knights like raiding parties.

Fury and disbelief war on Batu's face. He's Nedai's champion, unbeaten for seasons! This trembling wraith plays like a Grandmaster of the Imperial Academy! For the final game, Batu leaves Tseren with only his king, one rook, two knights, and two pawns. A force barely fit for raiding a chicken coop.

"Now, Cousin," Batu sneers, setting up his full, pristine army. "Let us see the genius of the amnesiac."

Tseren hunches further, radiating despair. He moves his pawns slowly, deliberately. Batu advances, confident, crushing Tseren's isolated pawns, cornering his knights. But Tseren's king dances, his lone rook harries, his knights make desperate, seemingly futile sallies. Batu grows impatient, overextends his queen chasing a knight. Tseren's remaining pawn, unnoticed, scuttles down the board like a determined beetle. It reaches the final rank.

Batu's head snaps up. "No!" he roars, slamming his fist on the table, making the pieces jump. "You cannot do that!" He flounders, knowing the rule but desperate. "Against the rules!" It's a blatant, childish lie born of sheer panic at the impending, impossible humiliation.

Tseren stares, then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the steppe, he picks up the newly promoted queen. Without a word, he places it back amongst the captured pieces. He is left with his king, rook, and two knights against Batu's near-full force, minus the queen he'd recklessly endangered.

The end is swift and brutal. Tseren's rook pins Batu's exposed king. A knight leaps in, delivering check. Batu's king flees, stumbling into the path of Tseren's second knight. Checkmate.

Absolute silence. Batu stares at the board, his face a mask of utter devastation. His full army, save the lost queen, surrounds his king, impotent. He has been checkmated by a force that should have been crushed in the opening moves. Not just beaten. Obliterated. Humiliated. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The carefully constructed fiction of the grieving Nedai cousin, the condescending dismissal of Gani's "husband," lies in ruins around him, replaced by the terrifying, undeniable reality of the man sitting opposite.

Slowly, Batu lifts his gaze. All pretense, all resentment towards Gani's choice, is burned away by the white-hot fire of pure, unadulterated shock and burgeoning, desperate curiosity. His voice, when it finally emerges, is a hoarse rasp, stripped bare.

"Who," he breathes, leaning forward, eyes boring into Tseren's terrified ones, "are you?" The question hangs in the cedar-scented air, heavier than any sword. The game is over.

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.