Days meld into a languid haze, time marked only by the occasional visitations of her captors. Roughly half a week has elapsed since the devastating assault on the Jabliu, since the world Naci knew was razed and reduced to smoldering remnants. Her once-vibrant eyes, now shadowed by the trials of her confinement, flicker with unspoken resilience, even as hunger gnaws persistently at her resolve.

When Sarnai or Ailana arrive with meager sustenance, Naci's handcuffs are temporarily removed, a fleeting reprieve that only accentuates her captivity upon their return. Her thoughts, ever resolute, vacillate between the immediate struggle and the fate of her dear Horohan, an ache that she staunchly stifles, unwilling to let it fracture her unyielding spirit.

Naci’s mind weaves its way toward her brother. His situation, she recognizes, is a maw of desolation, even compared to her current plight.

An abrupt rustling at the entrance of the yurt yanks Naci from her introspections. A silhouette punctuates the dull light filtering through the flap, revealing a woman bearing a tray of dried fruits and cheese. As she steps into the murky confines of the yurt, recognition sparks within Naci's eyes. The visitor is one of the women who had sneered and scorned on the day after her wedding, an ugly presence bathed in condescension and malice.

A part of Naci, the primal, infuriated fragment, finds the woman’s visage hideous, her being a revolting manifestation of animosity and spite. Yet, Naci holds the tempest within her at bay, her expression unreadable, her demeanor a tranquil sea belying the storm surging beneath the surface.

She accepts the food, her motions measured and her words non-existent, refusing to grant the woman the satisfaction of witnessing any semblance of defeat or perturbation. The woman, perhaps expecting a reaction, lingers for a brief moment before departing, leaving Naci in solitude once more.

Naci gazes at the meager offering, her thoughts spiraling back to Horohan, to the Jabliu, to all that has been wrested from her grasp. The fruits and cheese remain untouched for a long while as she loses herself in the depths of her contemplations, the nourishment before her a mere backdrop to the fervor quietly crystallizing within her spirit.

She does not partake until much later, when the fire within her has simmered into a slow, deliberate burn, a flame that will neither extinguish nor erupt, but smolder patiently, awaiting the moment when it will engulf all that stands in its way.

…

Horohan’s yurt, a once-comfortable enclave, now feels like an alien, oppressive space as the flap opens to admit Urumol and his trusted shaman. The ambient energy within the space shifts, crackling with unspoken tensions and looming intent as Urumol's gaze, stoic and unyielding, collides with Horohan’s apprehensive eyes.

His voice, a graveled declaration, breaks the thickening silence. "Horohan, your marriage has been arranged with an Orogol warrior.”

The words hang heavily in the air, a palpable weight that seeks to constrict around Horohan's spirit. She feels a sting, an icy dread seeping into her bones, yet her countenance betrays none of the tempest within. She remains a stoic pillar amidst the swelling tide of shock and dissent, her voice, when it emerges, is deceptively calm.

"Why not an heir, Father?" Her inquiry is pointed, laden with the silent insinuation of contradiction, yet she ensures it remains sufficiently veiled beneath a façade of genuine curiosity.

The shaman, largely oblivious to the undercurrents between father and daughter, begins his blessings, a litany of prayers, and chants weaving through the tense air, seemingly out of place amidst the brewing storm.

Urumol’s reply is a terse, bitter utterance. "Ungrateful daughters do not deserve heirs and titles, Horohan."

Her gaze doesn’t waver, meeting the harshness of his own. "But Father, if it's the lineage and future of Alinkar you’re concerned with, how will marrying me to a mere warrior achieve that?” Horohan's voice, despite its steady timbre, becomes a conduit for her veiled defiance, “Wouldn’t an alliance through marriage be more strategically beneficial with an heir, rather than a warrior of no particular standing?"

The shaman’s incantations persist, blissfully uninterrupted, as he circles Horohan, the flickering light from the small fire within the yurt casting strange, elongated shadows that dance amidst the strained exchange.

Urumol’s eyes spark with a momentary flicker of something unreadable, his voice maintaining its authoritarian resonance. "Your audacity continues to overshadow your position, Horohan. You don’t get to parley or question the decisions taken for the benefit of Alinkar."

She leans forward slightly, maintaining a respectful demeanor despite the iron in her voice. "With all due respect, Father, you sought a suitable heir through me once, seeing potential value in a union of power. Does Alinkar not deserve such deliberate, future-minded alliances even now? Is a ‘mere warrior’ the partner you envision for the bloodline that will carry forth our tribe?"

The shaman, engrossed in his spiritual practices, wafts a bundle of smoldering herbs around Horohan, the smoke spiraling upward in delicate tendrils, momentarily obscuring the strained gazes locked in silent battle.

Urumol, his expression stony, gives no immediate retort, his silence lending a further edge to the already knife-like tension within the yurt.

…

Naci’s bones, weary yet unbroken, rest against the rough fabric of her makeshift bed in the yurt. A subtle shuffle of footsteps against the earth outside signals another arrival, but this one lacks the customary announcement.

The yurt's entrance flutters slightly before conceding to the intrusion of a figure, the faint light carving out his form, immediately recognizable to Naci. Konir, with his notorious fox-like grin and a disposition that swirls darkly beneath a facade of mischief, steps into the dim enclosure, eyes ablaze with a peculiar fire as they latch onto Naci’s.

"Such somberness, Naci," he muses, the playful lilt of his voice betraying no trace of sincerity as he observes her motionless form.

Unperturbed, Naci regards him with a stoicism that masks the turbulent inferno within. "What do you seek here?" Her voice is a steady whisper, a subtle counter to his saccharine tones.

He chuckles, a sound that shivers through the stifling air, and paces leisurely about the yurt, fingers tracing absently along its furnishings. "Ah, always so direct, aren't we?" he teases. "I thought you might like to know about the lovely wedding Horohan will be having soon. An Orogol man. Sturdy. Respectable."

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A vile taste coats Naci’s mouth at the words, yet her expression remains unscathed, her eyes a tranquil abyss as she digests the venom he spills so effortlessly.

Konir, reveling in his self-presumed victory, leans in closer, his voice a sinister whisper. "Do recall our previous conversation, Naci. Have you pondered upon my words?"

A sharp exhale is her initial response, followed by a firm resolution. "Your venom holds no sway here. I will not be ensnared by your deceit."

He tuts, feigning disappointment. "Oh, Naci, it was not mere deceit. After all, it was Orogol intel that brought the Jabliu to their knees. My intel."

As he speaks, something visceral, feral, erupts from within her, and Naci lunges at him, hands throttling his throat as they topple to the ground, her every ounce of restraint shattered beneath the weight of her fury. But, just as she's about to land a decisive blow, Konir's sly grin returns.

“I can help you,” he wheezes, managing a devious smirk even as Naci's hands tighten around his neck, “But everything has a price.”

Disgust evident in her gaze, she responds, "I'd rather rot in this prison than strike a bargain with you."

“Refuse,” he continues, “and this is where your rebellion dies, throat slit in a dingy yurt.”

A cold, steely sensation grazes her throat: the blade of a knife. Her frenzied eyes lock with Konir’s, whose expression, despite the precariousness of his position, remains a chillingly calm. In that moment, amidst the chaos of her emotions and the pain etching across her soul, Naci’s eyes continue to bore into his, and within them, Konir sees not fear, but a boundless abyss, ready to consume all that dare plunge into its depths.

…

The dialogue between Horohan and Urumol continues amidst the shaman's oblivious ritual.

Horohan, maintaining a deceptive calmness, presses on, "Have the trials and sacrifices of our ancestors taught you nothing, Father? Our lineage, our blood, it carries the spirit and resilience of Alinkar. To bind it to a warrior of no notable merit is not just an affront to me, but to the very soil we call home.”

Urumol’s patience wears thin, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "You tread on treacherous ground, Horohan. Your insolence borders on treason to your own kin and land.”

Yet, within Horohan, something festers and boils. Her mother’s teachings, her stories of valor blaze through her memory, juxtaposed sharply against the authoritarian figure before her.

As the shaman moves behind her, still deeply engrossed in his rituals, the air thickens with the pungent aroma of the smoldering herbs. His chant, once a mere irritant, now echoes in her ears as a grotesque parody of the spiritual strength of her people.

Her hand, almost of its own accord, slips to her side, fingers coiling around the hilt of the dagger concealed within her garments.

In a split second, Horohan’s resolve crystallizes into a single act of rebellion. Her arm arcs forward, the dagger sinking into the shaman’s flesh with a sickening, visceral sound. His eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, find hers, but she stares back, unflinching, as he crumples to the ground amidst a burgeoning pool of crimson.

Silence, oppressive and absolute, reigns in the aftermath. Urumol, for the first time, appears genuinely taken aback, his eyes flickering from the fallen shaman to his daughter, who now stands, her grip still firm upon the dagger.

"Is this the alliance you seek, Father?" Her voice, barely above a whisper, slices through the silence.

…

Naci’s heart hammers in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears amidst the sinister intimacy of the confrontation. Her eyes, ablaze with both defiance and disdain, are fixed upon Konir’s, which, even in his compromised position, glisten with a perverse amalgam of amusement and unwavering resolve. The cold blade at her throat, cruel and unrelenting, casts a dark shadow upon her, yet it does not quell the storm within her.

Then, from above, a calm, unanticipated voice slices through the charged atmosphere: a young girl, voice both delicate and assertive, articulates words in Moukopl. Her dialect is refined, her tone like a melodious whisper that softly cascades through the tension-soaked yurt.

“---," she speaks, telling Konir to stop acting so selfishly and to communicate properly.

Naci’s gaze snaps upward, momentarily diverging from Konir’s. Her eyes meet those of a girl, barely in her teens, perched with an eerie calmness atop her. Despite the seemingly precarious position, the girl's poise is impeccable, her presence inexplicably commanding amidst the chaos.

A hanfu top, once pristine and emblematic of Moukopl’s elegant aesthetic, drapes over her slim frame, albeit now adorned with numerous cuts and tears. Beneath the hanfu, a tunic clings to her. Its dark, worn leather sculpted to her form, protecting vital areas yet allowing nimbleness of movement. Her hair, a cascade of ebony, is partly swept up into a loose bun, with wisps framing her face and occasionally veiling her eyes. Intricate silver hairpins secure the style, each adorned with minute carvings.

Konir’s eyes flicker towards the newcomer, an odd mixture of amusement and annoyance flaring within them.

"I apologize," he coughs, modulating his voice to a tone that, to a stranger, might resemble sincerity. "My actions and words, they’re not wholly against you. It's retribution, a personal vendetta...you’re merely collateral damage in a necessary cause."

Naci’s grip slackens, but only slightly, her eyes ablaze with an undoused fury. The torrential wrath coursing through her finds a conduit in her clenched fist as she delivers a sharp, resolute punch to Konir's face, ignoring the blade’s kiss against her throat. Blood, warm and scarlet, spills from his nose, yet she remains unsated.

Konir, his face now streaked with his own blood, glances reproachfully at the girl, uttering with strained words, “Meicong, your assistance would’ve been timely.”

The girl, identified as Meicong, tilts her head slightly, her expression serene, yet her words convey an unequivocal stance. "Watching you get punched felt curiously satisfying."

Naci's heart, though still careening wildly against her ribcage, finds a bizarre sense of steadiness in the wake of Meicong’s intervention. The blade, chillingly precise against her throat, lifts, its absence both a relief and a void as the immediate threat dissipates. Naci pushes herself upright, muscles coiled tightly with a mingling of adrenaline and anguish, her gaze unwavering from Konir’s bloodied visage.

She draws breath, voice a roughened whisper through the tumult within. "Did you arrange my uncuffing now, or were you biding time, Konir?"

He only smirks, an act that seems to stretch the fresh blood across his face into a macabre semblance of mirth. Ignoring her query, he taunts, “It does not surprise me that a brute like your father would beget a boor such as you, Naci.”

Her eyes, momentarily dimmed, flare with a renewed ferocity, and she steps toward him, voice seething with a vehement ire. "How do you know of my father? What is this retribution you speak of?"

But before the words can fully escape her lips, Meicong, with a force that seems incongruous with her slender frame, thrusts Naci forward, pushing her out of the yurt with a murmured, “Slowpoke.”

The abrupt shift from the dimly lit interior to the vast expanse of the world outside catches Naci's senses off-guard. Her foot, stepping into the exterior, is caressed by a cool breeze, the very air seeming to whisper tales of freedom. Eyes blinking against the sudden openness, she is greeted not only by the chill of liberty but by a sight that arrests her very soul.

A majestic eagle, wings a magnificent span of power and grace, descends towards her, and as it lands gently upon her shoulder, recognition flickers through her. Sartak, Temej’s eagle, with eyes like molten gold, peers intently at her, its presence a beacon amidst her tumultuous thoughts.

Naci’s eyes, ensnared by the vastness of the approaching cavalry, widen perceptibly. The silhouette of dozens of warriors, their armors glinting dimly under the opaque moonlight, punctuates the horizon atop the hill. Sartak’s weight, reassuring and solid, on her shoulder does little to steady her spiraling mind. The crests, visible even from this distance, signal the presence of formidable tribes: the nimble Nipih, the unforgiving Haikam, and, starkly punctuating the center with their ominous insignia, the relentless Orogol.

Whirling around, her movements a visceral blend of primal fear and tempestuous anger, she levels a glare at Konir, the words ripped from her with a vehement force. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

Konir, his form eerily still amidst the chaotic unfolding, meets her gaze with an inscrutable one of his own. His voice, when it comes, is devoid of the malevolence she expects, instead cloaked in a calm, deliberate cadence. "I am but a shaman, Naci, seeking only what is best for Tepr."

His words, seemingly simple, pulsate with an unspoken depth, the dark undertow of intent lurking just beneath their surface, revealing nothing.