The heavy felt flap of Batu's yurt sweeps aside, admitting Gani and Dukar into the cedar-scented warmth. The scene that greets them is utterly alien. Batu leans forward across the board, not with hostility, but rapt attention, a cup of steaming mare's milk tea forgotten in his hand. Opposite him, Tseren – Tseren – gestures animatedly, his amber eyes blazing with an intensity Gani hasn't witnessed yet. His Moukopl flows, not in hesitant fragments, but in confident, passionate torrents.

"...so the supply lines were stretched thinner than a starving man's hope," Tseren is saying, his voice resonant, almost commanding. "General Wu insisted on a frontal assault at dawn, but I saw the ravine to the south, choked with boulders the scouts dismissed as impassable. I took two regiments of light infantry, men who could climb like mountain goats in the dark..." He mimes scaling an invisible cliff face, his expression fierce, focused, utterly transformed from the trembling wraith Gani knows.

Gani stops dead, her obsidian eyes narrowing to slits. Dukar tugs her hand, yawning. Batu looks up, his face breaking into a wide, incredulous grin as he sees her.

"Ah, the whirlwind returns!" Batu booms, switching effortlessly back to Jabliu. "And just in time! Your 'husband', Gani... he spins tales of war like a master bard! Did you know he commanded armies?" He shakes his head, still laughing. "Truly, Gani, when you pick a stray, you pick one with hidden fangs! Though," he adds, a sly glint in his eye, "the empire must weep, losing such a mind."

Gani's eyebrow arches, a dangerous counterpoint to Batu's amusement. She strides forward, her gaze fixed on Tseren, whose passionate demeanor evaporates like mist under a desert sun the moment her eyes lock onto his. His shoulders slump, the fire in his eyes doused, replaced by familiar, cowed apprehension. He shrinks back into his seat, fiddling with an empty teacup.

"Important general?" Gani scoffs, her voice dripping with glacial sarcasm. She stops beside the table, looking down at the suddenly timid Tseren. "If he was so vital, Batu, the Moukopl wouldn't have lost him like a dropped coin in the grass. More likely he commanded the latrine diggers and got lost on the way to the midden heap. A big loss? Hardly. The empire probably sighs in relief." She flicks a dismissive hand towards Tseren.

Dukar, however, puffs out his small chest, indignant on his father's behalf. "Father is great!" he declares in clear Jabliu, glaring at Gani with surprising ferocity for one so small and sleepy. "Greatest general! He beat lots!" He points emphatically at the board.

Gani looks down at the boy, then back at the cowering Tseren. A slow, utterly false smile spreads across her face. She crouches slightly, meeting Dukar's eyes. "Is that so, little hawk?" she croons, her voice sugary sweet. "The greatest? Well! Imagine that! Truly, the winds blow wonders onto our steppe." She pats Dukar's head with exaggerated reverence, her eyes glittering with dark amusement over his head.

The camaraderie, momentarily fractured by Gani's arrival, tentatively rebuilds. Batu prods Tseren for another anecdote, switching back to Moukopl. Tseren, stealing nervous glances at Gani, offers a halting story about a flooded camp, his confidence returning in flickers whenever her attention seems elsewhere. Batu roars with laughter. Gani observes, silent and watchful as a vulture, sipping tea Batu offers.

The light outside fades to deep violet. Dukar's yawns become frequent, his head drooping against Gani's leg. "Enough," Gani states, rising abruptly. "We should go home."

Batu waves a dismissive hand. "Nonsense! The steppes are dark. Stay. We have spare yurts, clean and quiet." He gestures expansively.

Tseren, emboldened by tea and camaraderie, ventures timidly in Jabliu, "No... rush? Is safe?" He looks pleadingly at Batu, clearly dreading the journey back under Gani's sole command.

Gani's eyes narrow. She wants to refuse, to drag them back into the cold immediately. But Dukar leans heavily against her, his eyes fluttering shut. The small weight, the trusting slump of his body, stays her hand. She lets out a sharp, irritated breath. "Fine," she snaps. "One night. The spare yurt. Lead on, Batu."

Batu grins, triumphant, and escorts them to a smaller, but well-appointed yurt nearby. Inside, thick felt rugs cover the ground, and piles of heavy furs lie neatly folded. Batu bids them a cheerful, slightly tipsy goodnight, clapping Tseren on the back again. "Rest well, General!" he chuckles, vanishing into the night.

The felt flap falls shut. Warmth, silence, and the immediate, terrifying proximity of Gani envelop Tseren. She turns to him, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the single oil lamp. Dukar is already crawling towards a pile of furs, asleep almost before he lands.

Gani plants her feet, hands on her hips, surveying the single, open space. "Right, Carrion Bird," she announces in a low, dangerous Moukopl whisper. "Ground rules. For your continued survival and my peace of mind." She points a finger like a dagger at the center of the yurt. "That," she declares, "is the Great Wall of Gani. You will not cross it. Ever. Not with a toe, not with a stray hair, not even with your gaze lingering too long in its sacred direction."

She points to a spot near Dukar, far from the furs she clearly intends to claim. "You sleep there. On that side of the Wall. You will construct a fortress of furs between you and the Wall. A high fortress. Impenetrable. Think of it as your last stand."

Tseren nods frantically, already gathering furs like a man building a barricade against a sandstorm.

"Breathing," Gani continues, pacing slowly like a judge pronouncing sentence. "You will do it quietly. No snoring like a dying boar. No whistling through your nose like a faulty kettle. If I hear anything louder than a sleeping butterfly, I will stuff your own socks down your throat. Understood?"

Tseren nods again, piling furs higher.

"Movement. Once you are in your fortress, you become a statue. A particularly uninteresting statue. No tossing, no turning, no sighing dramatically like a lovelorn poet. If I sense so much as a twitch that disturbs the sanctity of my side of the Wall..." She draws her hunting knife, the lamplight glinting coldly on the blade. She doesn't point it at him; she simply polishes it thoughtfully on her sleeve. "...I may decide to test the sharpness. Purely for maintenance purposes, you understand."

Tseren freezes mid-fur-stack, eyes wide as saucers fixed on the knife. He manages another jerky nod.

Gani settles into her own furs with a sigh of satisfaction, pulling a thick blanket up to her chin. The yurt is silent except for Dukar's soft breathing and the crackle of the firepot. She watches the top of Tseren's head for a moment, the ridiculousness of the fur fortress. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touches her lips.

...

The predawn stillness shatters like thin ice under a hoof. Gani jolts awake to a rising tide of urgent shouts, the metallic clang of weapons being readied, and the panicked whinnies of horses outside the Nedai yurt.

Gani is a shadow moving in the gloom. She throws on her heavy riding leathers, buckles her knife belt with lethal efficiency, and pushes aside the yurt flap before Tseren has even fully emerged from his cocoon. The scene that greets her is one of controlled chaos. Nedai warriors, breath pluming white in the frigid air, check saddle girths and test bowstrings. Their faces are grim, purposeful. Batu, already clad in his lamellar armor, the rising sun glinting coldly off the bronze scales, spots her and strides over, his expression tight.

"Gani," he begins, his voice low but carrying over the din. "Bad news rode in with the night. Your father's messenger arrived just before daybreak. The Alinkar. They raided Jabliu grazing lands just after midnight."

Gani's blood freezes, then erupts into volcanic fury. Her eyes blaze. "What?" The word is a whip-crack. "And you let me sleep? Batu! Every breath I took here while my people bled is a betrayal!"

Batu meets her fury with weary resolve. "Would you have ridden blind into the night, Gani? Through territory that might still hold Alinkar scouts? The messenger said it was swift. Few casualties. They drove off some horses, cut a few ropes... a show of strength, not a slaughter."

"A humiliation!" Gani snarls, stepping closer, her presence radiating heat despite the cold. "Urumol's signature! The Alinkar heir testing our borders, our resolve! They spit on the alliance! This isn't the end; it's the first arrow in a volley! We answer it. Now. With steel!" Her hand rests on her knife hilt.

Behind her, Tseren stumbles out of the yurt, hastily pulling on his worn jacket, Dukar clinging to his leg, wide-eyed. He catches fragments – "Alinkar," "raid," "Urumol," "answer." His brow furrows. The trembling refugee vanishes, replaced by a man assessing a threat. "Counterattack?" he asks in hesitant, newly-learned Tepr, his gaze fixed on Gani.

Gani whirls on him, her fury finding a temporary target. "You stay with the whelp! This is Jabliu steel-work, not Moukopl parade drills! I'll go alone if I must!"

Tseren doesn't flinch. He meets her glare, his amber eyes clear, focused. "Numbers?" he asks Batu directly, his words rough but understandable. "How many raiders?"

Batu glances at Gani, then back to Tseren. "Messenger said less than fifty. A probing strike. Fast horses."

Tseren nods once, a sharp, decisive movement. "Map," he states, not a request, but a commander's expectation. "Tepr. Jabliu lands. Alinkar approach routes. Show me."

Batu stares at him, then at Gani, who looks ready to throttle the suddenly assertive 'Carrion Bird'. Batu sighs, a long-suffering exhalation. "This way," he mutters, gesturing towards his father's grand council yurt. "Try not to get us both skewered by your wife's glare, 'Cousin'."

Inside the chieftain's yurt, the air is thick with tension and the smell of stale kumis. Batu's father, Chul, a bear of a man with a thick grey braid and eyes like chips of flint, stands over a large, hide map spread on a low table. He looks up as they enter, his gaze lingering on Gani with a mixture of respect and concern. "Daughter of Tarun. The wind blows ill."

"Chieftain Chul," Gani acknowledges curtly, her eyes already scanning the map.

Batu steps forward. "Father, this is Tseren. Gani's... husband." He hesitates, the lie feeling flimsier than ever. He catches himself before mentioning generals. "He... he was a great warrior, before the winds stole his memory. He wishes to see the map. Thinks he might... offer perspective." The last word is laced with desperate hope.

Chul's flinty eyes sweep over Tseren's nondescript appearance, lingering on the haunted look that partially returned under the chieftain's scrutiny. He grunts, noncommittal, but gestures towards the map.

Tseren approaches, his movements losing their earlier timidity. He leans over the intricately drawn hide, tracing lines with a calloused finger. His brow furrows. He points to a cluster of symbols near the Jabliu grazing lands marked on the map. "Why... Moukopl?" he asks, confused, looking up at Batu.

Gani's hand shoots out, gripping Tseren's forearm with bone-crushing pressure. Her glare is pure venom. Shut up, you idiot! it screams silently. Explaining that the scattered tribes of Tepr, bound by oral tradition and wary of imperial control, never developed their own script and thus borrowed the Moukopl for practical purposes was not a conversation for this moment. Tseren flinches, understanding the warning, swallowing his question.

He refocuses on the map with unnerving intensity. "Show me... where raid happened. Exactly." Batu points to a valley near the Whispering Ridge. Tseren nods. "Alinkar camp... here?" He points to a location deep in traditional Alinkar territory, marked with their symbol – a stylized eagle.

"Likely," Chul rumbles, surprised by the man's sudden focus. "Their main winter camp is there."

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Tseren's finger traces the route between the Alinkar camp and the raided valley. "Terrain? Here... and here?" He taps two points: a narrow pass and a stretch of open steppe marked with wavy lines. "Soft ground? Marsh? Rocky?"

"Pass is narrow, rocky," Batu supplies, caught up despite himself. "The open stretch after... hard-packed earth mostly, but dips towards a seasonal stream bed, sandy there."

Tseren studies the map, his eyes darting, calculating. He mutters under his breath in rapid Moukopl, numbers and tactical terms slipping out – "flank speed," "feigned retreat," "choke point." Gani watches him, her fury momentarily banked by dawning, incredulous recognition. This wasn't the trembling fool.

Finally, Tseren straightens. He looks directly at Chul, then Batu, and finally meets Gani's still-simmering gaze. There's no boast in his expression, only cold, absolute certainty. It's the look Batu saw across the Shah board.

"Ten riders," Tseren states, his voice devoid of its usual tremor. "Give me ten good riders. Fast horses. Light bows. I make Alinkar pay. Double." He taps the map decisively on the narrow pass marked earlier. "Before sunset. Their shame... burns brighter."

Silence crashes down in the yurt. Chul stares, his flinty eyes wide. Batu's jaw hangs slightly open. The handful of Nedai elders present exchange stunned glances. Gani simply looks at Tseren, her eyes narrowed, unreadable, but the fury replaced by a sharp, calculating intensity. The Carrion Bird had just spread wings none of them knew he possessed, and declared he could bring down an eagle with a feather.

The absurdity of the amnesiac beggar promising vengeance with a handful of men was eclipsed only by the terrifying, unwavering conviction in his amber eyes.

...

The wind whips across the frozen steppe like a thousand tiny knives. Gani rides beside Tseren, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack ice. Ahead, the low hump of the Alinkar winter camp nestles in a shallow valley, barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom. Ten riders – a laughable number against a tribe – move like ghosts across the brittle grass.

For three days, Tseren has spoken like a man possessed by the cold logic of war. He pointed out folds in the land invisible to Gani, dictated the precise timing of their approach based on the moon's wane, and outlined the choreography of chaos they would unleash. "The southern approach, shielded by that ridge. The sentries change when the constellation of the Broken Spear touches the tallest pine. We strike the horse lines first, then the grain stores. Fire is our eleventh rider." His voice, usually soft, held the chilling certainty of a dropped stone.

Gani had listened, grudgingly impressed despite herself. "You move like a man who knows the dance of death. How are you so familiar with our type of warfare?" she'd asked the previous night, her tone sharp.

He'd flinched, a shadow crossing his face in the firelight. "My whole life I fought against the Yohazatz... it writes itself on your bones. This... this is just copying." He gestured vaguely at the darkness. "The strategies of better men I watched die."

An idiot savant of slaughter, Gani thinks now, watching his profile etched against the grey light. Brilliant with blades and terrain, clueless about which berries won't kill you. The contradiction is both infuriating and fascinating. He navigates war like a master bard reciting an epic, yet stumbles over the simplest greeting.

"Now," Tseren whispers, the word slicing through the wind. It's not a shout, but it carries the weight of command. Ten riders become ten streaks of shadow, descending the slope with terrifying silence. Their hooves, muffled by felt wraps, whisper over the frozen ground. The Alinkar camp sleeps, unsuspecting, nestled in its false security.

Chaos erupts with the suddenness of a lightning strike. Torches dipped in precious fat flare to life, arcing through the air. They land among the tightly packed horses, igniting manes and tails. Panicked whinnies tear the air. Another volley finds the piled grain sacks beside the main storage yurt. Fire, greedy and orange, leaps skyward, devouring dried barley and oats, casting monstrous, dancing shadows.

Gani moves with lethal grace, her curved blade a silver flicker in the inferno's glow. She cuts tether lines, driving terrified horses deeper into the camp, multiplying the panic. Alinkar warriors stumble from yurts, bleary-eyed, grasping for weapons, only to be trampled or engulfed by the stampede they once owned. The air thickens with smoke, screams, and the sickening smell of burning hair and grain.

But Gani's eyes scan the turmoil, not for random targets, but for one face. She spots the large command yurt, its entrance flap thrown open. A burly figure emerges, buckling on a lamellar vest, his face a mask of fury illuminated by the flames. Urumol, The heir of Alinkar.

"URUMOL!" Gani's voice rings out, clear and sharp as a bell over the cacophony. She reins her horse in sharply before the burning grain store, the heat blistering her face. "Look upon me! The daughter of Tarun stands before your burning shame! Does it scorch your pride as it scorches your winter's bread?"

Urumol's head snaps towards her. Recognition, then contempt, twists his features. He mounts a warhorse held by a trembling youth. "Gani!" he roars, his voice thick with disdain. "The bitch who plays at war! Did your father tire of your nagging and send you out to die? Or do you seek a husband among the ashes? I have men who might take pity on a shrew!"

Gani's laugh is cold, a shard of ice in the heat. "I seek only the head of the dog who raids Jabliu herds under a moonless sky! Dismount, Urumol! Or are Alinkar war-chiefs only brave when stealing sheep and insulting women from horseback?"

The challenge hangs in the smoke-choked air. Urumol's face purples. Tradition demands answer. He barks an order, and warriors nearby pause, forming a ragged circle. With a grunt of pure rage, he swings down from his horse, hefting a heavy lance tipped with cruel, hooked steel. "I'll carve the insolence from your tongue, girl!"

Gani is already on the ground, her own lighter, curved sword gleaming. She discards her heavy riding coat, standing defiant in her leathers. "Girl? You'll find this 'girl' bites back, cuckhold!"

They circle each other within the ring of firelight and watching eyes – Alinkar warriors momentarily distracted from the spreading chaos. Urumol is a bull, powerful and direct. Gani is the viper, coiled and ready. He thrusts with the lance, a killing blow meant to impale. Gani sways aside with impossible grace, the lance-point whistling past her ribs. Her blade flicks out, scoring a shallow line across his forearm.

"First blood to the 'bitch'," she taunts, dancing back.

Urumol bellows, charging again, using the lance's length to keep her at bay. Gani parries, the impact jarring her arm, but she uses his momentum, ducking under a wild swing and slashing at his leg. Lamellar turns the blow, but it staggers him.

Tseren watches from the edge of the chaos, his heart hammering against his ribs. Not the plan. Not the plan! Panic wars with admiration. She's magnificent, reckless, and about to get them all killed. The Alinkar warriors, drawn by the duel, are regrouping, weapons turning from fighting fires to facing the ten interlopers. They outnumber them twenty to one now.

"Gani!" Tseren shouts, his voice raw. "We must go! Now!"

Gani ignores him, locked in her deadly dance. Urumol feints high, then sweeps the lance low, aiming to break her legs. She leaps, the hooked tip tearing through her boot leather but missing flesh. She lands, rolls, and comes up inside his guard, her sword point pricking the vulnerable spot beneath his arm where the lamellar gaps.

He freezes, breath ragged. Rage and disbelief war in his eyes. Around them, the circle of Alinkar warriors tightens, spears lowering.

Tseren sees the trap closing. He sees Gani's fierce, triumphant glare locked on Urumol, oblivious to the spears at her back. Idiot! Brilliant, beautiful idiot! Desperation ignites a cold spark in his mind. He remembers the Yohazatz, their terrifying war-drums, their use of noise as a weapon.

He grabs the nearest rider, Batu, pointing frantically at the terrified, milling horses still trapped near the burning command yurt. "The drums!" Tseren hisses, his eyes wide with sudden, mad inspiration. "By the chief's yurt! Grab them! Beat them! Now! Like the sky is falling! Scream! All of you! Scream like demons!"

It's a gambit spun from pure desperation, a child's trick played with deadly stakes. But as the first frantic, discordant boom of a captured Alinkar war-drum shatters the night, followed by the inhuman shrieks of nine riders, the tightening ring of warriors flinches. Heads snap towards the new, terrifying sound erupting from the heart of their own burning camp. For a heartbeat, confusion reigns supreme. Is it a fresh attack? Spirits of the fire? The distraction is born of chaos, perfect and terrible. Tseren meets Gani's eyes across the smoke, his own wide with a silent plea: Run, you impossible woman! Run! The frozen moment hangs, balanced on the edge of a blade, as the drum's mad rhythm pounds against the roar of the flames.

Tseren doesn't hesitate. He's already moving, a streak of desperate motion through the smoke and confusion. He crashes into the momentary gap in the warrior circle, his shoulder connecting solidly with Gani's side just as Urumol, startled by the noise, jerks his lance arm instinctively. The blade meant to skewer Gani's ribs scrapes harmlessly against Tseren's leather armor with a sickening screech. Tseren's arms lock around Gani's waist, hauling her backwards with surprising strength.

"Unhand me, you lumbering ox!" Gani snarls, twisting like a wildcat, her sword still pointed at Urumol. Her boot connects sharply with Tseren's shin. "I had him! I had him pinned!"

Urumol, recovering from the shock, throws back his head and roars with laughter, the sound thick with contempt. "Look! The Jabliu she-wolf flees! Run, little girl! Run back to your father's skirts before real warriors show you steel!"

Tseren ignores Gani's struggles and insults, half-dragging, half-carrying her towards where Batu is still hammering the drum with panicked fervor, his eyes squeezed shut. "Mount!" Tseren gasps, shoving Gani towards her snorting horse. "Batu! Stop drumming! Mount! Now!" His voice, usually soft, cracks like a whip. The other riders, their screams dying into ragged gasps, scramble for their mounts.

As Gani is thrust into her saddle, still spitting curses at both Tseren and the jeering Urumol, the Alinkar war-chief's triumphant laughter abruptly chokes off. His gaze sweeps beyond the immediate duel circle, taking in the full, horrifying scope of the predawn raid. The horse lines are a charnel house of panicked, burning animals; the precious grain stores are towering pyres, illuminating the devastation with hellish light; thick, greasy smoke chokes the valley. Warriors scramble uselessly, some beating at flames with cloaks, others trying to corral terrified mounts, many still staring dumbfounded at the source of the demonic noise.

A figure emerges from the smoke near the command yurt, older, heavier, but radiating an authority that instantly stills the nearest warriors. Chaganak, Urumol's father and Chieftain of the Alinkar. His face, illuminated by the burning grain, is not angry. It is carved from ice. He strides directly to his son, who still stands, lance half-lowered, amidst the chaos his arrogance invited.

The crack of Chaganak's open palm against Urumol's cheek echoes louder than the drum had. Urumol staggers, a livid mark blooming on his skin, his earlier bluster replaced by stunned silence. Chaganak's voice, low and deadly, cuts through the moans of the wounded and the crackle of flames. "You let ten riders turn winter to ash? You engaged one of them in a personal duel while your camp burned?" He leans closer, his breath frosting in the cold air. "One more raid. One more foolish provocation against the Jabliu that brings fire to our doorstep, and you will find yourself herding goats on the desolate slopes of the Tengr, Urumol. You will be nothing. Do you understand? Nothing."

Urumol's fists clench until the knuckles are white. Rage boils in his eyes, a tempest barely contained. His jaw works, but no sound emerges. He meets his father's glacial stare, the unspoken fury between them thicker than the smoke. He gives a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. The shame is a living thing, coiling around him tighter than any rope.

...

The ride back to the Jabliu summer grazing grounds is swift and tense, the rising sun painting the steppe in hues of blood and gold. The stolen Alinkar horses, laden with sacks bulging strangely, trot behind the riders. Gani rides stiffly, refusing to look at Tseren, her fury at being pulled from the duel warring with the undeniable success of their mission. Tseren is silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon, occasionally wincing as he shifts in the saddle – a reminder of Gani's boot and the lance scrape.

They crest a rise, and the Jabliu settlement sprawls below. The signs of Urumol's recent raid are still visible – scorch marks on a few yurts, a hastily repaired corral, the lingering scent of smoke beneath the usual smells of dung fires and cooking. But life pulses strongly. Children chase dogs, women scrape hides, men mend tack. The air hums with the resilient energy of a people healing.

Tarun stands outside his large yurt, his face drawn with worry that melts into profound relief as he spots his daughter. He strides forward as they dismount. "Gani! By the spirits, child, when Anlei came back from Nedai…" He pulls her into a rough embrace, his voice thick.

Gani returns the embrace briefly, then pulls back, her usual fire returning, tempered by the sight of her unharmed people. "We are whole, Father. And the Alinkar…" A fierce grin touches her lips. "They will think twice before stealing our sheep again. And..." She gestures vaguely towards the laden horses.

Tseren steps forward then, his movements deliberate. He ignores the curious glances of the gathering tribespeople. He walks past Gani and Tarun, pushing aside the heavy felt flap of the chieftain's yurt and stepping into the dim, smoky interior. He moves to the center, where the fire pit smolders, casting long, dancing shadows. Then, without ceremony, he drops to both knees before Tarun, who has followed him inside, Gani at his shoulder.

Tseren raises his hands, palms up, empty. His voice, when it comes, is low, steady, devoid of its usual hesitant uncertainty. "Honored Chieftain Tarun. The Alinkar send… apology gifts." He pauses, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of the camp outside.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, he reaches into the large sack slung across his back. His hands emerge holding not gold or fine cloth, but weapons. A beautifully crafted Alinkar bow, its horn tips gleaming. A curved sword with an ivory hilt. He lays them carefully on the felt floor before Tarun. Then another sack, this one smaller, heavier. He upends it.

A cascade of smaller, grimmer treasures spills onto the rich carpets: silver armbands, carved bone amulets, a necklace of wolf teeth – loot taken from fallen warriors or plundered yurts. But scattered among them, stark and horrifying in the firelight, lie other things. Dozens of them. Pale, curved crescents. Stubby, ragged cylinders. Ears. And fingers. Still bearing the dirt and dried blood of the frozen steppe. A brutal, visceral accounting.

A choked gasp escapes Gani. Tarun's face, moments before relieved, turns ashen, his eyes fixed on the grotesque offering. The air in the yurt thickens, charged with revulsion and a terrible, dawning comprehension.

Tseren remains kneeling, head slightly bowed, his hands now resting on his thighs. The low firelight catches his eyes as he finally lifts his gaze to meet Tarun's. Gone is the timid foundling, the baffled strategist, even the desperate rescuer. In their place, reflected in the flickering orange glow, burns a cold, ancient fire. A fire that speaks of steppes drenched in blood, of vengeance taken without flinching, of a darkness buried deep beneath the guise of a fool. It is a look that freezes the breath in Tarun's lungs and sends an unfamiliar chill down Gani's spine. The idiot savant of slaughter has revealed the true currency he understands. The silence that follows is heavier than stone.

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