Naci stands at the open balcony of the guesthouse, face lifted to the pearl-gray sky just before sunrise. The city of Pezijil stretches out below her—twisting rooftops, filigreed eaves, and lanterns still glowing faintly in the dawning light. A crisp wind stings her cheeks, carrying the scent of distant fires and the earthy tang of the river that loops around the imperial capital. She tightens her fur-trimmed cloak and breathes deeply, unable to quell the pang of longing for the wide steppes of Tepr. Even the mountain air of Tengr seems tame compared to the smell of home.
Footsteps shuffle behind her. She turns to find Temej, arms folded across his chest, gaze flicking from Naci to the awakening city. Lanau steps up next with her measured calm, and, behind them, Fol appears—looking pale as usual but giving a small nod.
"This is our final day," Naci murmurs, voice low yet carrying a note of finality. "We head for the gates by nightfall." She fixes each companion with a steady look. "We've lingered long enough."
Temej's posture shifts. "Finally. I'll see that the horses are ready." His voice is a quiet rumble, still touched by caution after all the intrigues they have seen here.
Lanau crosses her arms, giving a small huff. "These palace courtesies were giving me twitches."
Fol attempts a wan smile. The dark circles under his eyes stand out starkly, but he nods earnestly. "Leaving soon… that sounds good."
Naci studies him carefully, the memory of his more recent troubles still raw. Before she can ask him how he's holding up, her gaze strays to the stone railing where two broad leather gauntlets lie folded. She exhales, as though recalling a promise unkept.
"Temej," she says, turning back to him. "We haven't let Uamopak and Sartak stretch their wings in ages."
A reluctant flicker crosses Temej's face. "We've been in Moukopl territory all this time. Soldiers here might decide they're threats."
"It's ridiculous," Naci counters. She rests a hand on the railing and leans forward, eyes glinting with that familiar restlessness. "Our eagles are too proud to remain caged. If we can't ride them across the sky yet, we can at least let them roam for a bit on the fortress roof."
Lanau glances at Temej, clearly gauging his reaction. Fol shifts from foot to foot, uncertain. There's a silent moment, filled with the crackle of distant cookfires and the faint clang of blacksmiths starting their day.
Temej's jaw tightens. "This city is cramped with archers. One misstep, one alarmed guard, and they'll loose arrows. Is that what you want?"
Naci's lips press together. For a beat, she says nothing. Then, softly, "No. I don't want them shot. But I won't let them rot in some dingy stable corner either." She grips the balcony ledge, knuckles whitening. "Uamopak misses the wind. I can feel it every time I pass her tether."
Temej runs a hand across his close-cropped hair. "Sartak's been restless too," he admits. "He tore through half his feedbag last night. If we let them out, we do it fast. And quietly."
Naci turns on her heel, nodding decisively. "Agreed."
They descend a flight of narrow steps to a small rooftop enclosure just off the guesthouse's eastern wing—a makeshift aviary the palace staff set up upon their arrival. The structure is cramped for creatures as grand as Tepr eagles, but at least it keeps them sheltered.
The moment Naci slips inside, Uamopak's hooded eyes snap toward her. The eagle emits a cry pitched halfway between a greeting and an admonition. Naci's throat tightens with guilt.
"I know," she murmurs, stepping closer and offering a gloved forearm. Uamopak sidles along the perch, talons scraping wood, then hops onto Naci's arm with surprising delicacy. The weight is familiar—comforting and formidable at once.
Temej removes Sartak's hood. The eagle flicks out his wings, the motion stirring a gust of air strong enough to ripple Lanau's cloak. Fol lingers at the edge, silent, watching the interplay with wonder and a trace of wariness.
"They've been cooped up too long," Naci says, voice hushed. "Let's climb to the roof. Even a few minutes to glide might ease their spirits."
They ascend a narrower stairwell until they reach a flat rooftop sheltered on one side by ornate turrets. Dawn's light spills across the palace spires. Wisps of cloud drift overhead, pale orange against the growing blue. Naci sets Uamopak down gently on the parapet. The eagle coils, testing the wind, eyes reflecting the sky's early shimmer.
Temej does the same for Sartak, who shifts his weight and fixes Temej with an expectant stare. A faint breeze ruffles feathers. For a moment, time seems to stand still: two proud eagles perched above a foreign city, masters of a sky they've been denied for weeks.
"Go," Naci whispers.
The eagles spring into the air, wings unfurling with breathtaking power. Uamopak lets out a triumphant cry that echoes among the palace's tiled roofs. Sartak ascends in a tight spiral, scanning for thermals. Their forms become silhouettes against the dawn, fierce shapes gliding in tandem, an unspoken bond of predator and partner.
Lanau watches anxiously, one hand on Fol's shoulder. Fol tenses as shadows dart overhead.
"Beautiful," Lanau murmurs. She can't hide a hint of awe in her tone.
Naci can't tear her gaze from the sky. She breathes, her chest tight with both longing and pride. "Wait until we're in Tepr again," she says, voice thick. "They'll roam the skies from dawn to dusk."
Temej stands still, arms folded, though a flicker of relief crosses his expression. He's prepared for the worst, but for now, seeing Sartak slice through the air sets some internal tension at ease. He glances at Naci, nodding once in reluctant acknowledgment of her decision.
A minute passes, then another. The eagles circle high, tasting fleeting freedom. But as the first stirrings of movement appear on a guard tower not far away—a black-helmeted figure stepping into the open—Temej gives a low hiss. "Time's up. Recall them before some hawk-eyed archer decides to play hero."
With a single, clear whistle from their keepers, Uamopak and Sartak swoop lower, returning to the rooftop in a flurry of powerful wingbeats. Naci quickly offers her bracer; Uamopak grips it, panting lightly. Sartak lands near Temej, clacking his beak. An undercurrent of defiance lingers in the air, as if the eagles both resent being summoned so soon—but there is acceptance, too.
Naci strokes the glossy feathers along Uamopak's head. "Soon," she promises in a whisper so faint it is almost lost in the stirring wind. "Soon we'll be out of here."
They descend carefully back into the building, eagles in tow, hearts pounding from the exhilaration and the risk. The eagles are stabled once again.
Back at the suite, Naci focuses on Fol, who stands by the door. She asks, gently, "How are you feeling?"
Before Fol can answer, there's a sharp rap on the doorframe. A servant in brocade robes—perhaps too fine for mere delivering duties—edges into the room with a wide tray. Towering arrangements of unfamiliar fruits and confections teeter on delicate porcelain plates. The servant looks harried, as though he was forced into this lowly task by some higher official.
He fumbles with the door curtains, trying to maintain his balance. One of the plates tilts precariously, sending a handful of glistening, grape-like spheres rolling toward the tray's edge. Fol instinctively lunges forward, hands outstretched. "I've got it—!" he manages, stumbling as he intercepts the precarious fruit. He ends up half-sprawled on the threshold, catching the plate at the last second. Juice from a bruised piece drips onto the carpet.
The servant's eyes bulge in horror. He sputters a string of apologies, head bobbing in frantic bows. Lanau darts in to help steady him, while Temej stands watch, mouth set in a firm line. Naci keeps her composure, but her lips twitch with restrained amusement.
Fol, sprawled on one knee, lifts his head sheepishly, forcing a shaky grin.
Once the awkwardness subsides, they gather around a low table to pick at the strange breakfast. Some of the fruits boast vibrant, alien colors—purple rinds and a pungent, honey-sweet smell. Naci tests a slice with the tip of her tongue, arching a brow at the tang.
Lanau eyes the spread with mild suspicion. "They always bring us these elaborate meals. We'll have to make do with tack and water when we're on the road again."
"We'll manage," Naci says, brushing away the thought. "But before that…" She drums her fingertips on the table's edge. "I'd like to visit the markets one last time. There's something I need to buy for Horohan, and maybe a few small tokens for the people back home."
Lanau blows out a measured breath. "Should we really draw more attention to ourselves?"
Naci inclines her head. "We'll handle the cost." Her tone suggests finality. There is a pause, no further protest. Even Temej, who is typically brimming with protective objections, merely grunts acknowledgment.
They set out shortly after. The streets of Pezijil are already awake: hawkers bellow from every corner—stall keepers brandishing painted fans, braided talismans, or shimmering glassware. Children dash in and out of the crowd, snatching sweets or chasing each other around barrels of roasted chestnuts that waft a woody warmth through the chill air. A donkey brays at a passing donkey-cart, nearly toppling the precarious stack of crates it carries.
Lanau leads the way, carefully scanning the labyrinth of alleyways. She halts at a stall draped in swaths of embroidered silk ribbons that shimmer under the morning sun. The elderly vendor beams toothlessly at her, launching into a torrent of compliments about "the radiant lady from foreign lands."
"Your eyes sparkle like the Sea of Moko," he croons, producing a length of violet ribbon. "This color will reflect your most exquisite aura, my lady."
Lanau's cheeks redden, though she quickly dons a mask of calm. "And how much for these?" she asks in a clipped tone.
The vendor presses a hand theatrically to his heart. "For you, oh regal goddess in mortal flesh? A mere fifty coins." His grin is wide, revealing blackened teeth.
"Fifty?" Lanau's eyebrow twitches. She opens her mouth to retort, but the man continues.
"You see, I am undone by your beauty. I must recite a poem—"
Temej snorts under his breath, shifting from one foot to the other. "We don't have time for serenades," he growls. "Make it quick."
Naci, standing a step behind Lanau, watches the exchange with mild amusement. Eventually Lanau shakes her head and moves on without buying anything—fifty coins is ludicrous, even if she is flattered by the vendor's flowery words.
A few stalls down, Fol lingers. He's drawn, as if by a magnetic pull, to the sound of a strange wind instrument. The performer is a lean man with braided hair, perched on an upturned crate. His fingertips dance along the flute's holes, producing haunting notes that twist through the marketplace. Something about the melody pulls at the corners of memory—a keening, forlorn sound that echoes like a war cry cut short.
Fol's pupils dilate as the musician crescendos to a piercing peak. He sways, heart hammering. The memory is sudden: a swirl of red, Jinlü Feng's final glare before— Fol's chest constricts, lungs seizing as if a vice grips them. Spots flicker in his vision.
"Fol?" Temej's voice snaps through the haze. Strong hands clamp on Fol's shoulders. "Fol!"
The younger man's knees buckle. He gasps for breath, sweat pouring down his temples, lips parted in a silent gasp. The musician, startled, hits a sour note. Market-goers cast curious glances. Temej steadies Fol, hooking an arm around his waist. "Stay with me, you idiot," he mutters, though his tone wavers with concern. "We don't have time for this."
Fol clings to Temej's tunic, eyes wide. Slowly, the panic recedes. The flute's melody ends abruptly as the musician lowers his instrument, uncertain. Naci and Lanau arrive, alarm flashing in their expressions.
"Let's keep moving," Temej says firmly, guiding Fol away before the crowd thickens. "He needs some air. And we still have a list to finish."
Naci's jaw sets, but she nods, choosing to stand stoic rather than betray too much worry. The group forms a tight cluster, pressing through the throng. Fol's breathing steadies, though he remains clammy and pale, forcing a thin-lipped smile at Lanau as if to reassure her.
They wade deeper into the city's trading quarter—a section famed for ceramics, jade trinkets, and tea implements. Naci's gaze darts from stall to stall, occasionally stopping to question a merchant or inspect their wares. She walks with a certain poise, that lethal energy coiled beneath her skin, hinting that she's someone not to be trifled with. Temej keeps vigil at her side, scanning for pickpockets.
Finally, Naci's steps slow. She sees it: a porcelain tea set, five cups and a delicate teapot shaped like a snowflake. Its glaze shimmers in the morning sun, and the intricately painted motifs—tiny cranes taking flight—remind her faintly of Horohan.
"This," she says softly, stepping closer. Her fingertips hover above the porcelain, not quite touching. An image flashes before her mind's eye: Horohan's playful grin, the way she always tilts her head while sipping tea. For a heartbeat, Naci forgets about armies and alliances and wonders how Horohan's eyes will sparkle at such a gift.
The merchant, a balding man in a finely embroidered vest, steps forward with a broad smile. "Ah, what exquisite taste! A rare, hand-crafted set from the western provinces. A true collector's piece."
He glances at Naci's posture: the slight shift of weight, the subtle wariness—like a warrior even among teacups. Sensing an opportunity, he rattles off a price that makes Temej's eyebrows shoot up. Lanau's eyes narrow in annoyance.
"Collectors, indeed," Lanau says coolly, stepping in front of Naci before she can protest. She matches the merchant's stare with practiced composure. "If it is truly from the western provinces, I expect a hallmarked pot, which I don't see on the bottom. Let's be honest about the origin and the cost."
The merchant's grin wavers. "Well, you see, madam, the hallmark might have worn away during firing. It's quite typical—"
"Not typical if it's genuinely from a reputable kiln," Lanau interrupts, voice level but edged with quiet steel. "We can look elsewhere, if you're unwilling to negotiate fairly."
Her unwavering gaze and firm tone pry him down from the outrageous figure. He lowers the price in incremental steps, mumbling defenses about the unique glaze and the time-consuming painting process. Lanau stands firm, occasionally cutting a glance at Naci, who silently marvels at how skillfully Lanau dismantles the merchant's tactics.
When the final cost is declared, Naci nods curtly, counting out coins. She cradles the box holding the set as if it's more precious than any weapon. "Thank you," she says, voice low, but the warmth in her eyes betrays how much it means to her. The merchant bows, half-grateful, half-chastened.
Then, around a bend, they come upon a handful of imperial guards—dark-lacquered armor, curved swords at their hips. Some startle at the sight of Naci. One guard dips his head in a gesture that is almost respectful: confusion flickers across his face, as if uncertain whether to treat her as a guest of the empire or a potential threat.
Another guard narrows his eyes. His lip curls in a fleeting sneer. Naci holds his gaze for a full second, offering no indication of backing down. Only when Fol shifts, resting a shaky hand on his sword's hilt, does the guard relent and step aside.
They continue their walk through the market. Vendors call after them, hoping for last-minute sales. Beggars huddle in shadows, hands outstretched, while dancers in bright silks spin in a central square, drawing applause from onlookers. The air grows heavier, the sun rising high enough to blanket them in a mild, muggy heat.
A hoarse growl of frustration echoes in the cramped alley. Jinhuang stomps through a puddle, sending oily water splashing onto Ta's boots. He yelps, leaping back and shaking off the droplets, but Jinhuang doesn't slow. Her glare aims straight ahead, as though she'd cut a path with sheer willpower.
"Stray cat boy," she hisses under her breath. "Idiot. Thief." She ticks off insults with every step, knuckles white at her side.
Trotting after her, Ta flashes a crooked grin, half-eaten bun tucked between his lips. "So you do remember my name," he mumbles around the dough. Jinhuang spins, eyes blazing, but only for a heartbeat; she seems to think better of any retaliation that'd slow her down further.
They move from twisting side-streets into broader lanes. Even in the early day's haze, the bustle of Pezijil begins: vendors hawk skewers of sizzling meat, a donkey brays at a cart, and the jostling crowd surges with the city's typical morning chaos. Ta tries making conversation—marveling at the bright awnings overhead or pointing out interesting shops—but each attempt is met with Jinhuang's frosty silence. The wariness in her gaze says she'd prefer to fight another scythe-wielding thief than endure the chatter of this cheerful interloper.
At last, she stops before a tall, ornate gate carved from dark wood. The stylized image of a hawk in flight adorns the latticework. Jinhuang fiddles with an iron latch. "Stay here," she snaps, lips pressed thin. "I need to grab something."
Ta peers through the gate's iron bars. Beyond lies a manicured courtyard with a small pond, potted plants, and delicate wooden screens shading a broad foyer. Jinhuang doesn't bother to confirm he's waiting; she just storms in, the gate clanging behind her.
He entertains himself by humming a tuneless melody, poking around the gate's edges. A faint smell of jasmine drifts from inside, mixing oddly with the lingering stench of the alley. Just as he's leaning his forehead against the bars, trying for a better peek, a figure steps into view at the far end of the courtyard—tall, hair unkempt, wearing plain traveling clothes. There's a brief moment of mutual surprise before recognition sparks in Ta's eyes.
It's Dukar, looking as though he's just left a side corridor of the mansion. Jinhuang, noticing him too, halts mid-stride. Tension crackles in the air. Ta practically chokes on the remainder of his bun.
Jinhuang's face then twists with fury. She advances on Dukar like a panther ready to pounce, voice low and bristling with contempt. "What are you doing here?" She stops barely an arm's length from him, eyes narrowed. "Have you decided to lurk around my home after playing dress-up as my father?" The word drips disdain.
Dukar's shoulders stiffen, but he tries for calm. "I—I spoke with your mother, Madam Kai Lang," he begins. "She—"
"Don't you dare bring her into this," Jinhuang snaps, voice quavering with the sheer force of her anger. "So now you show up and expect me to believe you're family?"
Ta sidles over, swallowing the last morsel of bun. His wide grin reappears as he draws up next to Jinhuang. "Oh! So this is your uncle, is it?" He nudges her playfully, ignoring the way she nearly elbows him in the gut. "You really know how to pick your relatives."
Jinhuang's head snaps around, ready to vent her wrath on Ta. "Shut up," she growls. "Don't you have more bread to steal?"
Dukar, arms raised in a show of contrition, attempts to explain. "Ta, what the hell are you playing at? Listen, I— I never wanted to deceive anyone. I only learned the truth about Bazhin and me recently. San Lian, an old family acquaintance, can confirm. If you'll just—"
Jinhuang's mouth hangs open, caught between disbelief and outrage. "Are the gods playing a joke on me?" she mutters. "The clown wants to see San Lian, and the father-impostor wants the same. Are you both collaborating to annoy me to death?"
"Actually," Ta cuts in, eyes bright, "I was looking for San Lian to help my dear brother Dukar here. See?"
Dukar shakes his head, sighing. "I promise, I'm not here to harass you. Just… help me find San Lian, and I'll prove who I am. After that, if you still want me gone, I'll leave. Also, this kid calls me ´brother´, but we're not related, so you don't have another uncle to worry about!"
A muscle twitches in Jinhuang's jaw. She stares Dukar down with fierce skepticism. Finally, letting out a frustrated breath, she snaps, "Fine. But only because I can't stand having idiots loitering in my courtyard. Now move."
They leave the estate, a mismatched trio striding through the city: Jinhuang at the front, posture taut, scowl unwavering; Dukar trailing with anxious politeness; and Ta weaving between them, dropping jokes like flower petals. The dawn crowd thickens to midday hustle, forcing them to zigzag past stalls displaying everything from bright fish to pottery so delicate it seems to tremble at the slightest breeze.
"Family fun day, eh?" Ta chirps as they pass a vendor selling grilled skewers. "First the father fiasco, now an uncle. You guys need a matriarch to complete the set." He wiggles his eyebrows, earning a glare from both Jinhuang and Dukar.
"Don't test me," Jinhuang warns, rounding a corner. She halts at a narrow house with peeling paint and dusty windows. "Old Lan's place," she says curtly.
Dukar steps forward, rapping politely on the doorframe. Silence. He knocks again, harder. Still nothing. Jinhuang shoves past him, bangs her fist against the shutters, but the wooden slats rattle emptily.
Inside, gloom reigns. Through a gap in the shutters, they see a table and a lone chair toppled sideways. No sign of life. Jinhuang exhales, nostrils flaring.
"Maybe he's gone?" Dukar wonders, squinting at the door's lock. No fresh footprints or any sense that the occupant left in haste—just an unsettling quiet.
"Or maybe," Ta interjects with exaggerated dramatic flair, "he vanished under mysterious circumstances. Could be assassins, or an underground betting ring gone wrong—"
Jinhuang's glare burns holes in him. "Don't say that like it's real."
Ta's jaw drops. "Assassins? Are you an idiot, they are real!"
Dukar facepalms, but Jinhuang only sets her jaw, shoulders slumping slightly. "Anyway. If he's not here, he might be at his second hideout… a teahouse or gambling den. Old coot's not exactly consistent."
She turns to retrace her steps, motioning them to follow. "Come on. We'll try the teahouse first. But if it's empty, you can forget your grand plan. I'm not leading you around all day."
They navigate back through the same streets they just marched down, and Jinhuang's irritation is palpable. Each time Ta tries to crack a joke, her temple twitches. She snaps at random passersby who dare to cut across her path. Dukar, for his part, attempts small talk—"I'm sorry about earlier," or "I meant no offense by the father-thing,"—but his words vanish under Jinhuang's frosty silence.
Suddenly, a familiar voice calls out from behind: "Dukar!"
Puripal steps around a donkey cart, face lighting up at the sight of Dukar. He carries himself with unruffled confidence, though the curiosity in his gaze sharpens when he spots Jinhuang and Ta. "Oh, so everybody is here, how quaint!"
Before Dukar can answer, Jinhuang snorts. "Weird men, more weird men… Are there any normal people in this city?"
Puripal offers a short bow to Jinhuang. "I apologize if I'm intruding, but that's kind of rude, if I may. What do you mean by normal, exactly?"
She rubs her temples, as though warding off a headache. "Fucking hell! You might as well follow, seeing as you're obviously going to anyway."
She spins on her heel. Dukar starts to offer introductions, but Jinhuang's pace is relentless. Ta bounces along, greeting Puripal cheerfully. Their footsteps echo off the flagstones, a four-person caravan forging deeper into Pezijil's tangled heart.
"So, Miss Jinhuang," Puripal ventures politely, "Have you inherited your father's aptitude for—"
She whips around, eyes flashing. "Don't talk about my father. Either you four want to see me lose my mind, or you genuinely don't care that you're pissing me off." She stomps forward again, her scowl so intense that merchants quickly hustle out of her way.
Dukar and Puripal exchange worried glances. Ta, in typical fashion, only grins, whispering, "This is going great."
Jinhuang mutters, "I'm living a nightmare. They keep multiplying like rats."
At last, Jinhuang leads them into a sprawling market square. A swirl of colors and scents bombards the senses—stalls heavy with dried peppers, racks of embroidered cloth, caged chickens squawking frantically. Performers juggle flaming torches, and a knot of children squeals with delight. The air feels electric, brimming with noise and life.
"Stay close," Jinhuang barks over her shoulder. "We can cut across here to the teahouse. If we lose each other in the crowd, I'm not—"
She never finishes the sentence. Movement at the edge of her vision catches her off-guard. Another group pushes through the throng at the exact same moment—four figures, led by a young but authoritative woman with braided hair and intense eyes. In the press of bodies and a flurry of swirling robes, the two parties nearly collide headlong.
"Watch it—!" Lanau snaps reflexively, sidestepping. Temej places a protective hand on Fol's shoulder, while the younger man stumbles, clutching a small bundle. They come to a jarring halt, face-to-face with Jinhuang's ragtag quartet.
A hush descends. Vendors hush mid-sales pitch, some craning their necks to see the spectacle. It's as if the entire market collectively holds its breath. At the center of this sudden stillness stand Dukar and Naci. Their gazes lock, recognition detonating in the space between them. Neither speaks. Neither moves.