Horohan stands at the edge of the makeshift Tepr settlement just before the break of dawn. The cold is so fierce that her breath crystallizes in the air, drifting away like soft ghosts of exhalation. Snowdrifts, tall as a warrior and twice as treacherous, loom in clumps around the camp's perimeter. She squints against the pale, frozen sky, her focus pinned on the horizon—specifically the southeast, where the sun will rise and, perhaps, where news of Naci might come.
Wind nips at her cheeks, already raw from weeks of relentless winter. She doesn't flinch. A single thought drills into her mind: Naci may not return before the new year.
She draws in a measured breath, letting the frigid air burn her lungs. The bright hush of morning amplifies every subtle sound: the brittle crunch of snow beneath her boots, the distant crackle of a dying fire within the camp. Worry etches itself onto her features, a tension that briefly pulls her lips into a tight line. She closes her eyes, trying to quell the surge of unease flooding her veins.
Just behind her, from somewhere in the dimness of predawn shadows, a man approaches. He stops at a respectful distance, clearing his throat. "Khatun," he murmurs, voice soft as if wary of disturbing the stillness.
Horohan nods but doesn't turn around. She can smell the faint tang of lamp oil clinging to his fur cloak.
"Any sign from the scouts?" she asks, voice carrying low over the hush.
"None, Khatun," he answers. "Kelik's birds haven't brought new messages either."
She exhales in a curt sigh. "Very well. Maintain the perimeter. If we see anything—anyone—approaching, I want to know immediately."
The warrior nods, though she doesn't look. Soon, his footsteps fade into the thick snow. Horohan reopens her eyes, hardened resolve joining the swirl of anxiety. The tension throbs in the back of her mind, an ache that no warmth can soothe.
Slowly, she pivots toward the heart of the camp, her silhouette cutting a dark figure against the wide stretch of white. Faint lantern lights sway in the breeze, marking the boundary to the Kolopan district—once their enemies, now subdued under the Tepr alliance. She steps forward.
Rows of yurts, newly erected or hastily patched, cluster like huddled animals bracing for the cold. The snow muffles her approach, and when she passes the first Kolopan family, only the soft crunch of her footfalls announces her presence.
From a narrow alley between yurts, a child darts out, chasing another with a mischievous grin. Their laughter rings out with unexpected brightness. Steam rises in lazy curls from a large clay pot by a communal fire, where an older woman stirs some stew. The savory aroma curls around Horohan's nostrils.
A Kolopan man, perhaps the woman's husband, glances in Horohan's direction. Fear flashes in his eyes for a moment. The memory of conquest is still raw—blood on the snow, steel blades gleaming. But then he inclines his head politely and returns his attention to their meal. Horohan notes his apprehension, glimpses the subtle bruise on his arm, yet sees no outright hostility. He stirs the pot with care, the wooden ladle making gentle ripples.
"Good morning, Khatun," someone calls from behind a yurt—a young Kolopan warrior with faint scars running across his cheek. His voice is cordial, though cautious. "You're out early."
She halts, turning to face him. The warrior's posture is upright but not confrontational. A sign of acceptance, or at least resignation. Snow dusts his braids; frost clings to the trimmed fur on his collar.
"The morning is the best time to see what stirs," Horohan replies. Her breath is visible between them, a fleeting white cloud. "No one should be caught unprepared."
He nods, but behind his compliance, there's a flicker of hope—relieved to no longer be at the wrong end of Horohan's blade.
An awkward beat passes before she dips her head in acknowledgment and moves on. The warrior exhales, shoulders easing, and then disappears behind the yurt.
Horohan's path winds through a narrow avenue formed by patched leather walls and freshly trampled snow. Children scamper, squealing when a gust of wind sends snow spiraling in their faces.
A young Kolopan girl bumps into Horohan, nearly toppling backward. Horohan steadies her with a gloved hand. The girl flinches, eyes wide, uncertain if punishment will follow. Horohan simply helps her regain balance and gives a brief, tight-lipped smile. "Careful," she murmurs, as gently as her gruff voice allows.
The girl nods and scampers off, a swirl of colorful fabric disappearing into a cluster of yurts. Horohan watches her go, some tension easing from her brow.
Drifting steam from communal soup pots mingles with the faint hush of falling snow. Every now and then, a Kolopan voice calls out, "Add more salt," or "Cover that pot!" The scents of boiling cabbage and dried venison waft through the chilly air.
Horohan pauses near a newly repaired yurt. She notes the spidery lines where the hide has been stitched, the fresh cords straining to hold the structure together. Scrapes of soot still mark the edges.
She inhales, letting the calmness burrow into her. Though tranquility settles over the district, it feels precarious—like ice on a half-frozen river. One misstep, and all can collapse.
Even so, she draws strength from the sight of Kolopan elders sharing meals with other Tepr warriors, the latter still wearing battered armor but freely accepting it.
A hush—like a collective pause—makes her aware that people are watching. They're gauging her expression, her body language. She meets a few gazes, each time receiving timid nods in return.
A swirl of brisk wind darts between the yurts, sending a flurry of white across her boots. It's almost as if the land itself warns that something looms just beyond. She exhales, turning away from a group of Kolopan women who'd paused their hushed conversation to bow respectfully.
"Let's make this peace last," she murmurs, voice nearly lost in the wind. Then she presses on, boots crunching fresh snow, resolved to stand guard over a fragile calm—knowing full well that winter never leaves without one final storm.
...
Laughter reverberates across the snowy clearing just outside the Kolopan district of the camp. The brilliant glare of late-morning sun reflects off ice and white drifts, illuminating groups of Tepr warriors who gather for a round of winter games. Horohan stands at the center, wearing a small grin that softens her usual edge. Despite her guarded demeanor, she encourages the warriors to toss aside enmity for a while, as this was Naci's idea when the coalition was recently unified.
A makeshift archery range stretches along one side: half-buried logs and straw-filled sacks serve as targets. Leaning on a tall spear, Horohan watches two Kolopan youths draw their bows. When each arrow zips forward, stinging the cold air, it slices into the straw with a dull thump. A modest cheer rises from spectators.
Nearby, a circle of stones marks a throwing range. Several men test their aim by hurling smooth river rocks at wooden slabs. One Orogol boy flings his stone too hard, cracking the slab straight in half. The sight elicits excited hollers, as well as groans from whoever needs to re-build the target.
Further along, grunts and cheers erupt where wrestlers tumble over snow compacted by many stomping feet. A wide-shouldered Jabliu woman named Shutaijin, who claims to have taught everything in terms of combat to the one and only Naci Khan, lifts her opponent bodily and slams him onto his back—snow flies like spray from a wave. The man grunts from the impact, but grins through a grimace. A group of Kolopan spectators roars with approval.
Horohan ambles between the mini-arenas, offering nods of encouragement. Through the swirl of activity, she spots a familiar shape—Khanai, her white tiger, limping slightly as she moves along a line of wooden targets. A faint scar mars her shoulder, and a slight limp betrays the pain she still endures. The beast pauses, her nostrils flaring as she sniffs the battered wood, then suddenly pounces with restrained power. One target topples with a crash, splintering under her enormous paw. Despite her injuries, Khanai's movements are deliberate, showcasing her gradual recovery. Several onlookers jerk back, eyes wide, but can't help chuckling at the tiger's display of casual destruction.
"Mind your aim!" Horohan calls, half-joking, half-warning. "We don't need more targets destroyed by accident."
But Khanai, tail swishing in slow arcs, continues to swat at the leaning plank. There's a moment of tension as a Kolopan archer sets his arrow, uncertain if the tiger might turn feral. Instead, Khanai rubs her cheek against the wood, leaving claw marks behind. The archer exhales in relief.
A sudden shriek draws every eye. Pomogr stands with arms flailing, struggling to keep a grip on his bow. Khatan—Horohan's eagle—has chosen Pomogr's broad shoulder as a perfect perch. Its razor-sharp talons clamp onto the thickness of his winter cloak, and Pomogr hisses in pain where a talon pricks through the fur.
"Spirits of Tepr!" Pomogr exclaims, nearly dropping his bow into the snow. The bird screeches, flapping its wings in annoyance.
"D-don't move," Horohan calls with dry amusement, stepping closer. "He's just curious."
Pomogr attempts a strained grin. "Curiosity? This vulture is about to pluck out my eyeballs if I so much as breathe wrong!"
Khatan croaks again, ruffling feathers as though offended by the accusation. A ripple of laughter passes through the assembled warriors.
...
Later, a fresh fire crackles in a communal pit near the games, its heat battling the biting cold. Horohan, Kuan, Pomogr, and Tovak sprawl around it, winded from the excitement. Steam rises from a battered kettle of herbal tea that a Kolopan elder set out.
Kuan sits cross-legged, robes brushed free of excess snow. His dark hair is tied back haphazardly, and he watches Khanai—who snoozes behind Horohan—with a narrowed eye. "That cat," he drawls, flicking imaginary dust from his shoulder, "clearly likes Pomogr more than me. Must be the odor of fresh meat."
Pomogr snorts, glancing at the tiger. "Tigers have taste, evidently." He massages the faint sting where Khatan's talons punctured his cloak. "Then again, maybe she just sensed your scumminess."
Kuan feigns a dramatic gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "Scumminess? I am an esteemed spirit channeler. I swear, if she refuses to acknowledge my superior being, I might just put a little hex on her furry whiskers. Imagine that: a cat that can't whisk." His eyes glimmer with mischief, though whether he's joking remains deliberately unclear.
Tovak shakes his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. "Could you blame Khanai? She probably sees you as competition." He glances at Horohan for support.
Horohan's expression is caught between amusement and mild disapproval. "Kuan, if you so much as murmur a curse in Khanai's direction, I might have to see if your bones are hex-proof."
Kuan raises both palms in surrender, adopting an innocent grin. "Well, well, so protective, my Lady Khan. You wound me deeply."
Across the fire, Pomogr chuckles. "And what about me, huh? Your eagle nearly took my head off." He shakes the ragged tear in his cloak. "It's not my fault I smell better than your average Orogol."
"You?" Tovak scoffs. "You were shrieking like a stuck goat. I'm surprised you didn't scare half the Kolopan kids into tears."
"You're one to speak, kid,'" Pomogr shoots back, rolling his eyes. "The only thing you did during the war was being a terrified envoy. I actually thought we would find you back with your pants full of your own feces. Some of us actually want a day's rest without facing an entire legion of angry archers or—" He jerks a thumb at the eagle. "—angry chickens."
A burst of laughter escapes Horohan. She dips her head in mock gratitude. "I see. Tovak, apparently you're stealing all the fun from the rest of us."
Tovak holds up his hands defensively. "Listen, I never asked to nearly drown in half-frozen rivers or bargain with shamans who'd love to see my head on a pike. You're the one who points me where to go, Khatun."
Horohan arches an eyebrow. "True. But you keep coming back alive, so I might as well keep sending you."
He groans, shaking his head in exaggerated defeat. "Yes, Khatun. Perfect logic."
Nearby, Khatan rustles its wings, letting out a sharp cry. Horohan mock-scolds Pomogr, wagging a finger. "Now, that was disrespect. Khatan is a proud eagle—he demands absolute reverence."
"Or else he'll shred our ears off," Pomogr mutters.
...
Kuan sips from a tin cup, growing quiet. His gaze drifts over the wrestlers grappling in the distance, then at a set of tall poles—once used to mount clan banners—now resting in the snow. "Not many tribes left outside your grasp, Lady Khan," he says, tone oddly subdued. "The Hai, Xipe, Hanan... but these are tiny ones. Nedai is the real one that matters. Without them, the unification remains incomplete."
Horohan nods thoughtfully. "Nedai stands with us. They always have. Naci and I owe them much." Her eyes flick to Tovak, who stares at the flames. "Chieftain Batu and his wife Tuya gave us shelter once, risked their own necks to keep us safe. They promised to join our cause if their men were back from Moukopl's army."
Tovak, folding his arms against the chill, ventures a small smile. "They sound generous."
Pomogr shifts uneasily. "So many of our men were taken into the Moukopl armies, forced to fight since the last draft. They still haven't returned."
A heavy silence settles, broken only by the pop of embers. Pomogr inhales through his teeth, a hiss that betrays anger. "Those damned Alinkar bastards had a better arrangement with Moukopl. They never had to—"
Horohan's gaze whips over to him, sharp as a blade. "Don't pin this all on Alinkar 'bastards.' It was Urumol who made that deal," she says, each word deliberate.
Pomogr's mouth opens, then shuts. His cheeks redden. "I meant—" He can't quite find a proper rebuttal.
Kuan's lazy voice cuts in before the tension builds. "Ah, our dear late Urumol, always forging convenient pacts." He quirks an eyebrow when Horohan's glower slides his way. "What? You think I orchestrated all that? I'm but a humble servant of the spirits, Lady Khan. I had no influence over your father's politics."
The way he smirks while sipping from a clay cup suggests he enjoys stoking the embers. Horohan stares him down, recalling rumors of Kuan's manipulations in the old days—how he whispered counsel to more than one clan leader.
"Are you denying you had any hand in it?" she presses quietly, fingers tapping the hilt of her dagger.
Kuan sets his cup aside, feigning the same wide-eyed innocence. "Let's just say that I pointed out… opportunities. Urumol took them or left them as he saw fit. If that leaves Nedai men rotting in faraway battlefields, blame the empire's hunger for soldiers, not me."
The conversation hangs. No one misses the unspoken edge: Kuan seldom claims responsibility, yet seldom denies it with conviction. He shrugs, adjusting his robe.
Horohan exhales, raking a hand through her hair. "Enough. I don't plan to repeat my father's mistakes. Chieftain Batu gave me and Naci more kindness than we deserved." She clutches the edge of her cloak as a gust of cold wind sweeps in. "We owe them. And I refuse to appear like conquerors pounding on their door."
A crease deepens on Kuan's forehead. The firelight casts shadows across his face, suddenly grave. "Don't assume too much. I haven't seen Nedai's shaman since the final Alinkar–Jabliu feud. No one knows where he's gone—or what new deals might have been struck in the dark. I'd tread carefully, Lady Khan."
A hush settles, the kind that draws the warmth from the air. Horohan's jaw tenses. She stares into the embers, as though searching for answers within their glow. "What do you think?"
Kuan shrugs one shoulder. "I don't know. But everything is fluid in Tepr these days. When deals are made under threat of violence, allegiances snap like old bones." He sounds neither alarmist nor reassuring—simply matter-of-fact.
Horohan sighs, fists tightening on her lap. Her breath puffs white in the chill. "That is true."
Pomogr, shifting uncomfortably, tries to break the tension with a question. "So. More archery contests? Or are we going to skip straight to seeing who can wrestle that monster cat to the ground?"
All eyes dart to Khanai, who yawns widely, revealing canines that gleam like daggers. No one volunteers.
Horohan draws herself up. "We can't afford hostility. Not with Naci away, and not with the Nedai. They must see we come in peace."
Tovak's eyes narrow, already suspecting what she plans. "Khatun… you want a small envoy?"
Horohan lifts a palm, silencing him. "I wanted to say it myself... Anyway, yes, I want an envoy." She pauses, letting the announcement settle. "And that's you."
Tovak sighs. His gaze flicks to Pomogr, to Kuan, as if searching for someone who might volunteer in his place. The others remain still. He dips his head in acceptance. "If that is what you command. I… yes, Khatun."
Horohan rises from her seat, stepping forward. Her boots crunch the snow. She places a hand on Tovak's shoulder, her voice quieter, warmer. "No need to worry about anything. Nedai men are in the Moukopl army, remember? Show them that we're no threat. Offer them our trust—and remind them of their promise."
He nods slowly. "I'll leave at first light."
Pomogr snorts, half in jest, half in exasperation. "He always gets the fun missions," he mutters under his breath, though his tone carries a kernel of genuine worry.
...
Tovak shivers against the biting cold as he nudges his horse onward. The vast steppes of Tepr, typically an endless tapestry of grasslands, now lie under a thick blanket of snow and ice. Clusters of leafless trees punctuate the horizon, their silhouettes stark against the pale winter sky. Each exhalation fogs the frigid air, then vanishes as swiftly as the footprints his mount leaves behind in the untouched snow. The rhythmic cadence of the horses' hooves harmonizes with the whispering winds that sweep across the frozen landscape, carrying scents of pine and frosty earth. There's a serene stillness here—something deeper than the usual hush of winter, as if the land itself holds its breath in anticipation.
He slows at the edge of a shallow riverbed, now frozen into glassy channels. The horse's hooves clack on the ice, and he leans forward in the saddle, scanning the stark horizon. The occasional gust whips up icy crystals that bite his cheeks. A swirl of dusted snow tries to mask the path, yet Tovak catches glimpses of footprints. Not just the prints of a lone scout or merchant caravan—these are broad trails, overlapping, forming wide arcs that snake through the snow.
He reins in his mount and dismounts carefully, pressing gloved fingers into one of the prints. It's large, deep. He spots a faint crest in the trampled snow—some pattern he doesn't recognize, as if the men who passed through had stamped symbols onto the ground. He can't quite make out the details; the swirling flakes have blurred them. Still, something unsettles him about it.
A feeling of exposure gathers in his gut, each breath turning quicker. The plain seems too empty, too quiet. He leads his horse forward, but after another hundred paces, even the horse begins to snort and toss its head. They both sense it, a silent hostility coiling beneath the surface. Tovak's gaze sweeps the dunes, the ridgelines, searching for any sign of watchers.
Suddenly, the hush is shattered by a thunderous rumble. Hooves hammer the frozen ground, echoing off the low hills. Tovak whips around, instincts screaming. A group of riders, cloaked and masked, charges from behind a jagged ridge of half-buried rocks. Their banners—obscure and unrecognizable—snap in the wind, each symbol eerily foreign.
"Who are—!" Tovak's shout is cut short as they close in. Spears leveled, swords glinting, they move with brutal efficiency. He scrambles to mount his horse again, but it rears in panic. One attacker lunges with a lance. Tovak manages to twist aside, parrying with his dagger. The impact jolts his arm to the bone.
He nearly loses his footing, mouth dry with alarm. Another rider darts in from the flank, slashing down with savage force. Tovak raises his forearm to block with the blade's hilt, but steel kisses flesh; pain explodes across his arm. A warm gush of blood splatters onto the pristine snow.
Gritting his teeth, Tovak retaliates with a desperate swipe, forcing the attacker's horse to shy away. But more riders press in like wolves on a wounded deer. A spear butt slams into his horse's flank. Tovak tumbles off, hitting the ground in a swirl of snow. His vision reels; he fights to stand, grips his dagger tight.
Two masked figures dismount in unison. One kicks Tovak's dagger from his hand before he can react. The other slashes downward, forcing him back. He tries to duck, but a spear shaft smashes into his ribs—pain roars through him, leaving him gasping. The world tilts precariously, sky and sand-snow spinning.
One final blow cracks him across the temple, powerful enough that he hears a hollow thud inside his skull. Darkness threatens to spill over his sight. He collapses to his knees, hands trembling in the snow. The masked riders loom, their breath steaming behind cloth veils.
Through the haze, Tovak notices a standard fluttering from a spear jammed into the drift—a crest unknown to him, swirling with bold colors he can't name. He tries to focus on it, tries to memorize its lines. But the corners of his vision squeeze inward.
He thinks he hears one of them speak—cold, harsh syllables in a language that might be Tepr but sounds altogether stranger. Then his consciousness flickers. The biting wind vanishes into a heavy silence. The last thing he feels is the hot trickle of blood down his brow before everything fades to black.
...
Tovak opens his eyes to a throbbing ache in his head. The world swims in a haze of firelight and pungent incense, an oppressive mix that makes him want to retch. Coarse hands drag him forward across thick rugs, friction burning his knees. He fights a wave of dizziness, straining to lift his head. That's when he sees the inside of the yurt.
This is Chieftain Batu's main tent—familiar in its typically Tepr-like shape and size, yet somehow transformed. Ornate carpets crisscross the floor, and the smoky glow of standing braziers bathes everything in flickering gold. But the warmth that once greeted visitors here is nowhere in sight; an uneasy hush grips the space. Armed men in finely wrought lamellar armor line the perimeter, their expressions set in stone. These aren't Nedai warriors. Their livery bears strange symbols, like stylized beasts or script Tovak's never seen.
His captors yank him up onto his knees, forcing his shoulders back. Pain flares along the gash in his arm. Tovak grimaces, swallowing a curse. Incense smoke drifts around him, smelling of unfamiliar spices. On a cushion of velvet sits Noga—tall, poised, and alarmingly regal. A curved sword rests at his side, the pommel adorned with a polished stone that gleams blood-red in the firelight.
Batu is nearby but not at the place of honor—he's half-hidden behind Noga, posture stiff, face pale. His eyes dart toward Tovak, reflecting apology or dread, maybe both. And then there is Akun, lurking at the opposite side of the yurt, arms folded tight across his chest, gaze brimming with bitterness. The sight makes Tovak's stomach lurch. Akun should have bent the knee to Horohan; now he stands beside this stranger, lips curled in a sneer.
Noga lets the silence draw out, appraising Tovak with a cool, knowing look. When he finally speaks, his voice is polished—each syllable measured. "So you're the envoy of the so-called Khatun of Tepr," he says with a small, pitying smile. His accent has a silkiness foreign to Tepr ears, every phrase carrying an undercurrent of command. "My shaman predicted she would come as well, but she sent only you? How… quaint. She must have a good advisor, or a shaman strong enough to counter ours' divinations."
Tovak tries to piece together words, but the agony in his ribs nearly robs him of breath. Still, he clenches his teeth. "This camp—" he manages, voice cracking, "—belongs to Chieftain Batu of the Nedai tribe, not you. I was… expected as a friend."
Noga's grin widens, equal parts humor and disdain. "A friend indeed." He shifts on his cushion, letting the lamplight flash across the gilded plates of his armor. "Permit me to introduce myself properly, envoy of the Khatun. I am Noga, second son of the true Khan who rules Yohazatz, Alejügur, Agan-Bele—" His tone lifts, almost chanting. "—and all lands that stretch between the Kamoklopr Sea and the known world."
One of the foreign warriors shifts, spear clinking softly, as if in silent agreement. Tovak catches Batu's uneasy swallow, the old man's hand gripping the air. Akun remains motionless, the tension in his jaw hinting at deeper resentments. Tovak draws a shaky breath. "Tepr stands with Horohan Khatun from Alinkar," he says. "Naci Khan and Horohan Khatun unified more tribes than ever. The Nedai—"
Noga lifts a hand, and the warrior behind Tovak responds with a swift jab of something blunt across Tovak's ribs. White-hot pain lances through him. He gasps, doubling over. "Careful with your bold declarations," Noga chides, his voice maddeningly calm. "Small tribes and half-formed coalitions exist at our pleasure. It's a big world, friend, and we are quite accustomed to swallowing bigger fish than your Khatun."
A sick sense of dread sinks into Tovak's gut. He glances at Batu, hoping the chieftain will speak, will protest—but Batu lowers his gaze, face haunted. There's no rescue in his expression. The truth flickers in Tovak's mind: Batu is cornered. His men have been missing, forcibly drafted into Moukopl's service, or so the rumor went. Yet from the tension in this yurt, Tovak suspects something more nefarious—some infiltration or twisted deal orchestrated by Noga.
Noga twirls a ring on his finger. "You see, boy," he continues, voice resonating with an almost hypnotic certainty, "we have ways of arranging events across many territories. Sometimes, men vanish into foreign wars; sometimes, trade routes mysteriously close. Then, in their desperation, the local rulers—like dear Chieftain Batu here—turn to us. Beg for help. And help we do… at a cost."
Batu chokes out quietly, "I only..." His voice trembles with shame as he glances at Tovak. "I never meant—"
"Silence," Akun snaps, stepping forward, eyes blazing with hatred. The scar on his jaw twitches. He aims that fury at Tovak, as if blaming Horohan for every personal grievance. "Batu did what he had to," he snarls. "And I do what I must. Your precious Horohan murdered Chieftain Urumol, disgraced the Alinkar. Don't think we've forgotten."
Tovak tries to retort. He fights the throbbing in his ribs. "She is no murderer. She—"
But Noga's voice once again overrides him, all polished steel. "It hardly matters what she is. In time, your Tepr alliance will kneel or be wiped out." His gaze bores into Tovak, and a sad smile tugs at his mouth. "Such loyalty, though, is commendable. Misplaced, but commendable."
Tovak's heart races. He can't stay silent, can't let this smug usurper rewrite history. "You underestimate them," he rasps, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "Our alliances stand for more than—"
An almost imperceptible flick of Noga's finger. Another warrior slams a foot into Tovak's back, forcing him to his knees. Tovak exhales sharply, pain exploding along his bruises. Noga barely shifts from his seat, continuing with his lecture as if reciting lines from a script. "Yes, yes, alliances. Rival chieftains who've been fighting for generations, now holding hands?" His gaze glitters with amusement. "How fragile. How easily undone."
Beside Noga, Batu trembles visibly, one hand half-raised as though wishing to intervene but lacking the courage or power to do so. "He's just an envoy," Batu whispers to Noga. "Let him go, please."
Akun snaps, "He is a traitor. An Alinkar who bent the knee to the usurper. I'd see him and all of Horohan's brood crushed. Let them witness true wrath."
Noga lifts a brow at Akun, bemused by the vehemence. Yet the prince of Yohazatz indulges it. He nods slightly, turning back to Tovak. "You see? Even your old clan hates you. Will your Khatun manage to keep them all appeased, I wonder?" He chuckles low, an unsettling sound that resonates in the hush. "Ah, but we're wasting breath. I think we have shown you our position clearly enough."
Tovak's mind screams with warnings. He tries to force himself upright. "We… We have an entire coalition... You think you can beat us... in our land...?"
"Quiet." The single word snaps out, cold and final. Noga's amusement fades. A silent command in his eyes prompts the nearest guard forward. Metal clangs near Tovak's ear. He sees the faint reflection of his own battered face in the guard's polished pauldron. Then a sudden blow from behind with a short club smacks the side of his skull.
Lightning arcs through his vision. Blood seeps into the thick rug beneath him, hot and disorienting. The pain shreds his thoughts, leaving him gasping. In the dying edges of consciousness, Tovak glimpses Noga leaning forward, lips curved in a faint smile, as though indulging a curious child. "Don't die just yet, it's the beginning! Your body can break, but your mouth still needs to move. Otherwise, how can you beg your Khatun to mercy kill you once you've betrayed her?"
Tovak's vision tunnels. The flicker of braziers blurs into streaks of light. He reaches for something—maybe just the memory of Horohan's voice. But darkness surges, swallowing the firelit shapes of Noga's victorious posture and Batu's haunted eyes. He slumps sideways, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and then he knows no more.