Horohan’s once level gaze morphs into a look of wild determination, and she steps forward with purpose. Each footfall on the yurt’s floor feels like the beat of a war drum, echoing the rapid rhythm of her heart. Urumol’s eyes narrow, calculating and wary, but he’s momentarily paralyzed by the audacity of her actions.

“Do you feel it, Father?” Horohan’s voice drips with an odd mix of venom and regret. “The weight of our ancestors’ judgment? The weight of your choices?”

Urumol, although taken aback, is not one to be so easily defeated. He musters his pride and voice. “You dare? After shedding the blood of our shaman, you think to threaten your own father?!”

Horohan continues to close the distance, the gleaming blade held firmly, ready to strike. “It’s a desperate world we live in, where a daughter must consider such actions to make her voice heard,” she retorts bitterly.

Just as she lunges forward, Urumol’s hand shoots out in an attempt to wrest the dagger away. Their hands meet in a tussle of wills, and the blade nicks Urumol’s palm. He recoils, blood oozing between his fingers, his expression a mix of pain and fury.

“Help! Help!” Urumol’s voice rises in a desperate plea.

Horohan lunges again, trying to silence him, aiming for his neck. However, her aim falters under the weight of her emotions, and the blade only grazes him, leaving a superficial cut.

Urumol, realizing the precariousness of his situation, scans the yurt for anything to use as a weapon or shield. Grabbing a metal bowl, he hurls it at Horohan, momentarily catching her off guard and causing her to duck. He scrambles, grabbing anything he can find—a vase, a rug, an ornate wooden figurine—and throws them in rapid succession, trying to buy himself some time and space.

Outside the yurt, murmurs and the sounds of commotion grow. The flap of nearby tents rustles as occupants emerge, drawn by the chaos despite the deep cloak of night. Whispers of “What’s happening?” and “Is it the chieftain?” spread like wildfire.

In the midst of the echoing cries from the chieftain’s yurt and the shadowy sprawl of the encampment, Naci and Temej stand motionless for a fleeting moment, the weight of the evening’s events pressing down on them. A thick silence envelops them, punctuated only by the distant murmur of awakening camp dwellers and the whisper of the cold night breeze.

“It had to be done,” Naci begins, her voice trembling, the defense caught somewhere between an explanation and a plea.

But before she can elaborate, Konir cuts in, urgency evident in his tone. “This isn’t the time. We need to move, now!”

Temej, his eyes darting to the emerging figures from the yurts, nods in agreement. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

But as they begin to make their way towards the hill where they’ve camped, the commotion intensifies. Curious heads pop out of tent flaps, and murmurs swell into a growing cacophony. One figure, standing a little away from a nearby yurt, squints into the dim light, catching a glimpse of Naci’s profile.

“There! It’s Naci!” the figure shouts, pointing directly at the group. “They’re freeing her! We’re under attack!”

The alarm spreads like a spark igniting dry grass. Yells and cries of surprise resonate through the encampment as more warriors emerge, drawn by the escalating chaos. Naci’s heart races, the echo of every footfall sounding louder in her ears as she and Temej sprint towards the hill. Konir, keeping pace with them, glances over his shoulder, assessing the rapidly approaching threat. “Hurry!” he urges, pushing them onward.

The camp sprawls before them, a tapestry of tents and torches against the night’s canvas. Naci bursts into the center, her voice rising with determination. “They know we’re here! Let’s fight now! It’s our only chance!”

Konir’s eyes narrow, his face contorting with disagreement. “We should return and bide our time for a better opportunity. Charging in recklessly will do no good.”

Naci’s gaze then turns to Pomogr, the Haikam chieftain. The tall man, with a mane of jet-black hair, strides forward, relief evident in his eyes upon seeing her. “Naci, it’s good to see you safe, but I side with Konir. It isn’t the right time.”

Refusing to back down, Naci steps closer, her voice taut with emotion. “Don’t forget, Pomogr, the Haikam owe me. You should be listening to my commands.”

Pomogr’s face remains impassive, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes. Before he can reply, Konir scoffs, “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we, Naci?”

With a swift motion, Naci grabs him by the collar, pulling him down to her level, her eyes burning into his. “I’m not leaving without Horohan, and I won’t let you or anyone else stop me.”

Konir’s face registers surprise, then understanding. Slowly nodding, he murmurs, “Fine. We’re here anyway.”

Pomogr sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You have the Haikam with you, Naci. Just make sure we don’t regret it.”

The camp, now buzzing with activity, transforms. Warriors ready their weapons, war cries fill the air, and Naci stands in the midst of it all, her determination unwavering.

…

The canvas flap of the chieftain’s yurt rustles as a tall man enters, his face etched with urgency. “Chief Urumol, the encampment is under—” His voice catches, eyes widening as they take in the blood-splattered interior of the yurt and the lifeless form of the shaman.

Horohan doesn’t hesitate. She lunges with the sharpness of a predator, plunging her blade into the man’s side before he can process the horror before him. The man gasps, choking on his pain, eyes darting frantically between Urumol and Horohan. Blood stains the woven rugs as he crumples, life fading swiftly.

Urumol’s fury and desperation reach a crescendo. He surges forward, using the distraction to his advantage. Hands, rough and calloused, close around Horohan’s neck, squeezing with all the force he can muster. “You … ungrateful…!” he rasps, the veins in his neck standing out starkly.

But Horohan, weakened but not defeated, summons all her remaining strength. Reaching for the dagger at her side, she drives it deep into Urumol’s flank. He cries out, the strangled sound mixing with the chaotic cries from outside. The pressure on her throat lessens, and she gasps for air, drawing in ragged breaths.

Urumol falls back, clutching the wound in his side. Blood seeps between his fingers, pooling around him, and his face pales, a stark contrast to the anger that had colored it moments before. He struggles, each movement weaker than the last, until he collapses onto the ground, panting heavily.

Horohan, drenched in sweat and blood, stumbles back, steadying herself on the central pole of the yurt. Her eyes lock onto Urumol’s, searching for any sign of the man she once knew, the father she once revered. But the flames of the torches cast dancing shadows across his features, making it impossible to read his expression.

The noise outside intensifies, drawing nearer with every passing moment. The distinct pounding of hooves vibrates through the earth beneath Horohan’s feet. Taking one final, lingering glance at the scene inside the yurt, she steels herself and pulls back the flap.

The world outside is chaos. Men scramble to don their armor, yelling out commands and coordinating defenses. A flurry of horses and riders race past her, dust swirling and making her cough. Before she can react, a horseman speeds by, narrowly missing her. The force of his passage almost knocks her off her feet.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Horohan’s head whirls as she tries to take in the situation. “What’s happening?” she yells to no one in particular. But before she can make sense of the chaos, another rider pulls his horse to a halt right in front of her. Akun’s eyes widen in recognition.

“Horohan! Naci has been freed, we’re under attack!” he shouts over the din, his voice filled with urgency.

Horohan’s heart skips a beat at the mention of Naci’s name. “Where is she? Where’s Naci?”

The horseman points towards the eastern end of the encampment. “She’s there! But you need to go to the forest with the women, children, and elders. It’s safer there.”

Akun dismounts, urgency evident in his eyes. “Listen! This isn’t just any attack. It’s a full-scale assault It isn’t just a tribe, it’s a coalition. We’ve been caught off guard, and you need to be safe.” Without waiting for her response, he leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper, “Is Chief Urumol...?”

Horohan swiftly steps aside, creating an inviting path into the yurt for Akun. But as he begins to step forward, she suddenly uses all her strength to shove him inside. Taken by surprise, he stumbles and falls flat on the yurt’s floor with a loud thud.

“What the hell?!” he bellows, confusion and anger evident in his voice.

Before he can react further, Horohan takes advantage of his distraction. She bolts from the yurt, swiftly seizing the reins of his horse. With practiced ease, she mounts the beast and kicks it into motion, charging towards the hill where Naci was last seen.

Cursing loudly, the warrior scrambles to his feet, pushing himself up from the soft rugs. But as he regains his bearings, he notices the chilling coldness of the body beneath him. Recoiling in horror, he finds himself lying atop the lifeless form of the shaman. The realization hits him hard, the cold weight of dread settling in his stomach.

His eyes dart around the yurt, and that’s when he spots Chief Urumol, lying close to the entrance, a pool of blood surrounding him. Rushing over, he finds the chieftain still breathing, but only just. Each breath is shallow, labored, and ragged.

“Damn it!” he hisses, his mind racing. Gently, but with a sense of urgency, he lifts Urumol onto his shoulders. The weight of the injured man is considerable, but adrenaline and determination fuel the warrior’s strength. Struggling under the burden, he exits the yurt and begins scanning the chaos for another horse, his voice cutting through the clamor.

“Horohan has betrayed us! She tried to kill Chief Urumol!” he bellows to anyone within earshot.

Akun, now with the help of a few others, manages to hoist Urumol onto a nearby horse, securing him with utmost care.

Horohan’s heart beats wildly in her chest as she pushes the horse faster, the sounds of chaos echoing in her ears. The hill looms before her, a beacon in the maelstrom. The warriors building barricades ahead shout warnings, their voices full of panic and desperation.

“Stay back! It’s too dangerous!”

Ignoring their pleas, she leans low over the horse, urging it on. The barricades near rapidly, and with a quick calculation, she spurs her horse to leap. The world seems to hang in a split second of time as they clear the wooden obstacles. The landing is rough but Horohan holds on, eyes fixed on her destination.

From behind, shouts grow louder, fueled by Akun’s proclamation of her betrayal. She can hear the rhythmic pounding of hooves, multiple horses pursuing her. A chilling whistle cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of bowstrings being released. She feels the rush of arrows slicing past her, each one narrowly missing its mark.

Horohan veers her horse left and right, using her knowledge of the terrain to her advantage. The zigzag pattern makes it harder for the arrows to find their target. But just as she thinks she’s gaining distance, a chilling war cry splits the air.

The ground seems to tremble beneath her, and as she glances to the horizon, her blood runs cold. A massive wave of coalition riders, their numbers easily exceeding a hundred, charge with relentless speed. Their horses kick up a dust storm, obscuring the moon and casting an ominous shadow over the field.

The Alinkar encampment, already in disarray, stands little chance against such a force. Horohan’s pursuers from the heart of the encampment momentarily halt their chase, their attention diverted by the approaching threat. The warriors at the barricades brace themselves, weapons drawn, faces painted with grim determination.

But the coalition’s charge is directly in Horohan’s path. She’s caught between two deadly forces: the encampment’s warriors behind her and the oncoming horde. Desperation fuels her actions, and she pulls hard on the reins, steering her horse to the side, hoping to find a gap in the charging ranks.

Just as it seems like she’s about to be trampled, a series of shouts draw her attention. From the northern ridge, a group of Alinkar riders descend like a tempest. Their sudden appearance and fierce battle cries cause momentary confusion in the coalition’s ranks. Seizing the opportunity, Horohan threads her way through the chaos, narrowly avoiding collision after collision.

As she breaks free from the main skirmish, she can’t help but glance back. The encampment has turned into a battlefield, with warriors from both sides clashing in brutal combat. The silhouette of the hill still beckons her, and with a newfound determination, she spurs her horse onward, hoping to find Naci amidst the madness.

…

The quietness of the coalition encampment stands in stark contrast to the war cries and tumult from the Alinkar side. The dust from the charging warriors has yet to settle, but here, among the few tents that remain, there’s an eerie calm. Naci, Temej, and Konir are the only souls not on the battlefield.

“Why aren’t you out there, Temej?” Naci’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and accusatory. “Too scared to fight?”

Temej meets Naci’s gaze without flinching. “I have seen enough bloodshed for ten lifetimes,” he admits, his voice heavy. “I no longer wish to partake in the endless cycle of war.”

Naci’s lips curl into a smirk. “So, you turned into a coward during the time I was away?”

Before Temej can retort, Konir, leaning against a tent post with a sly smile, interjects, “And what about you, Naci? Aren’t you afraid your precious Horohan will be killed out there?”

Naci’s eyes narrow. “Horohan is more formidable than any warrior I’ve ever known. She won’t fall so easily.”

Konir tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Then why are you here? Watching over us? Afraid I might do something without your permission?”

Naci steps forward, her stance aggressive. “I’m watching you because I don’t trust you. You think you can do as you please without giving any explanations? Think again.”

Konir chuckles, the sound grating against the tense atmosphere. “I don’t owe you any explanation.”

The tension in the air becomes palpable. Temej, his patience worn thin, unsheathes his sword with a metallic hiss. In the sky above, Sartak, his majestic eagle, circles ominously, casting a shadow over Konir.

“You might not owe her explanations,” Temej growls, pointing the blade at Konir, “but your arrogance is insufferable. I suggest you adjust your tone before I adjust it for you.”

Konir’s eyes dart to the sword, then back to Temej’s determined face. But before he can react, Temej’s threat continues, “And don’t think your little bodyguard will save you. I’ll end you before she can even blink.”

Suddenly, from the shadow cast by Naci, a dark figure emerges swiftly. It’s Meicong, her hand firmly gripping a dark blue dagger, its blade gleaming ominously under the moonlight. With Naci caught off guard and unarmed, Meicong positions the blade against the back of her knee, eyes cold and unyielding.

“There is always a way out,” she whispers, her voice carrying the weight of authority.

The tension mounts. Temej’s sword is still drawn, the blade pointing at Konir, but Meicong’s unexpected entrance complicates things. They’re at an impasse.

Understanding the precarious situation, Temej grudgingly slides his sword back into its sheath, though his glare remains locked onto Konir.

Naci, while trying to maintain composure with a blade pressed against her skin, manages to rasp out a question to Temej. “Why do you even care if I live or die? Ever since we met again, every look you’ve given me was filled with either hatred or disgust. What’s changed?”

Konir, sensing another opportunity to fan the flames, begins to sing in a mocking tone, “Oh, the secrets of the Nipih, how they haunt and tease…”

Naci’s eyes snap to Konir, and she interrupts him with a shake of her head. “Whatever you think you know, it doesn’t matter. The end justifies the means.” Her voice strengthens as she continues, “I did what I had to do to save my clan. The Haikam and Nipih might have been enemies once, but now, they’ve proven invaluable allies. All thanks to my decisions.”

Konir throws his head back, cackling loudly, his laughter echoing across the encampment. But Temej’s expression only grows darker.

Konir’s laughter fills the air, a mix of mockery and genuine amusement. “You know,” he says, wiping away a tear from his eye, “that’s what I like about you, Naci. You’re ruthless. Nothing like the weakling I know. If you keep proving your worth like this, perhaps I’ll help you get seated on a throne fit for your ambitions.”

Temej’s face remains a mask of solemnity, a stark contrast to Konir’s mirth. “Naci,” he begins, his voice deep and introspective, “I have no intention of standing in your way, nor do I wish to oppose you.”

Naci’s eyes find Temej’s, searching for an explanation.

“In the few wars I’ve seen,” Temej continues, “I’ve come to understand the invaluable nature of life. My own life, to be specific. And I’ve also come to understand that power, true power, resides with those who possess both determination and vision.”

He takes a step closer to Naci, every word deliberate. “I won’t be one of your warriors, charging into the fray. That’s not who I am. But I want to be there to support you, to assist with whatever you need. I see a future in your path, and I want to be close to it. In a world filled with danger and treachery, my belief is simple: if I stay close to you, and if I prove my loyalty and worth, I will be the last to fall.”

Naci, visibly moved by Temej’s candid words, nods slowly. “You’ve already proven your worth time and time again, Temej,” she admits, her voice soft but resolute. “From this moment on, consider yourself my left hand. But you can’t be my right hand, that’s Horohan’s role.”

“Then allow me to be the eyes in your back.” Temej stares coldly into the distance as Sartak lands majestically on his forearm.