The plains of Tepr stretch out endlessly, a vast expanse of grassland and rolling hills that seem to touch the horizon. The air is crisp and tinged with the promise of winter, a chill that seeps into bones and whispers of colder days to come. The tribes of Tepr, once scattered across the landscape, now converge in a flurry of activity as they prepare to move their camp for the winter months.

Tents are dismantled and yurts disassembled, the once bustling camp now a hive of organized chaos as the tribesmen and women work together to pack their belongings. The sound of voices mingles with the rustle of fabric and the creak of wagon wheels, creating a symphony of motion that fills the air.

Above, the sky is a canvas of muted grays and whites, heavy clouds hanging low as if burdened by the weight of impending snowfall. And indeed, as the day progresses, the first flakes begin to drift lazily from the heavens, delicate and ethereal against the backdrop of the landscape.

The snowfall transforms the scene, casting everything in a soft, diffused light that bathes the world in a cold, melancholic beauty. Footprints are quickly erased by the ever-falling flakes, leaving behind a pristine blanket of white that stretches as far as the eye can see.

But amidst this winter tableau, there is a palpable absence—a void that echoes with the absence of one figure: Naci. For Horohan, Naci's missing is a wound that festers with each passing day. She moves through the camp with a heaviness in her step, her gaze lingering on empty spaces where Naci's presence once filled the air with warmth and purpose. The loss is a tangible thing, a shadow that hangs over her like a shroud, casting doubt on her own ability to lead in her wife's absence.

Horohan stands at the edge of the camp, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon obscured by falling snow. The flurry of activity around her seems to blur into the background as she wrestles with the turmoil churning within.

Loneliness creeps in like tendrils of frost, seeping into the cracks of her resolve. The laughter and camaraderie of her fellow tribespeople, once a source of comfort, now serve only to highlight the emptiness that lingers in Naci's absence. Each smile feels hollow, each grimace like a stab.

Uncertainty hangs in the air like a dense fog, clouding Horohan's thoughts and leaving her adrift in a sea of doubt. She questions her own abilities, her worthiness to lead in Naci's place. Can she truly fill the void left by her wife's absence? Does she have what it takes to guide their people through the challenges that lie ahead?

As she grapples with these doubts, Horohan tries to remember the lessons she were taught as a heir of Alinkar; to remember that her every move is scrutinized by those around her. She knows that she must project an air of strength and confidence, that she must maintain order and unity among the tribes despite the storm raging within her own heart.

With a heavy sigh, Horohan straightens her shoulders and forces herself to push aside her doubts. She may not have all the answers, but she refuses to let her insecurities dictate her actions. Stepping forward, she calls out commands to her fellow tribespeople, her voice firm and unwavering as she strives to maintain order amidst the chaos.

Whispers drift through the camp like ghostly echoes, carrying with them the seeds of doubt that threaten to take root in the hearts of the tribespeople. They gather in small clusters, their voices hushed as they exchange wary glances and speculative murmurs. It is not long before these whispers coalesce into a tangible undercurrent of skepticism, casting a shadow over the fragile unity that bounds these ancient enemies together.

In the flickering light of a campfire, a group of elders huddle together, their brows furrowed with concern as they discuss the implications of Naci's absence. "Can she even keep everyone at bay?" one elder murmurs, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "We, Nipih, were at each other’s throats only a few months ago. It’s only a matter of time before we split apart once again."

Elsewhere, among the younger tribespeople, similar doubts take root, fueled by whispers of discontent and uncertainty. A group of warriors exchange wary glances as they spar, their movements tense and cautious. "Horohan may be fierce in battle," one warrior remarks, "but can she command the respect of our enemies without Naci by her side?" The question hangs heavy in the air.

For Horohan, these murmurs of dissent are a bitter pill to swallow. She knows that she must assert her authority and quell the doubts that threaten to undermine her leadership, but the task proves easier said than done. With each passing day, the whispers grow louder, the skepticism more pronounced, and Horohan finds herself fighting an uphill battle to maintain the fragile unity of the tribes.

Under the blanket of night, the camp is cloaked in a serene stillness, broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath Horohan's boots as she steps outside her yurt. The air is frigid, biting at her exposed skin as she bends to scoop up handfuls of snow, the only source of water available for her nightly ritual of boiling tea.

As she works, a voice—a familiar, irritating presence—cuts through the silence like a dagger. "Miss Khan, can you give me a moment?"

Horohan straightens, her muscles tensing at the sound of the voice. Though she doesn't need to see him to recognize him, she turns her gaze towards the shadows. "Here you are. Call me Khatun," she corrects him, her tone sharp with annoyance. "And get closer to the light. What were you up to?"

Konir staggers into view, his movements unsteady as he presses a trembling hand against his stomach. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining the pristine snow beneath him. "I need a little help... if you may?" he gasps, his voice strained with pain.

Horohan's eyes narrow as she takes in the sight before her. "What happened to you?" she demands, her concern mingled with suspicion. "I'll call the shaman! I mean... another shaman."

But Konir shakes his head weakly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. "No need," he manages to wheeze out between clenched teeth. "But would you let me... lie down for a bit?"

Despite her reservations, Horohan's sense of duty compels her to offer assistance. With a resigned sigh, she steps forward to support Konir, guiding him towards the warmth and safety of her yurt.

With careful hands, Horohan helps Konir settle onto a makeshift bed of furs within her yurt. His breaths come in ragged gasps.

"Who stabbed you?" Horohan's voice cuts through the silence, sharp with concern as she kneels beside him, her gaze searching his face for answers.

Konir's response is a strained whisper, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. "Meicong... The girl I came with."

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"Came from where?" Horohan presses, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Moukopl," Konir confesses, his voice tinged with resignation. "My real name is Kuan. I'm not really a shaman... I'm a eunuch..."

Horohan's surprise is evident, her eyes widening in disbelief. She had harbored suspicions about Konir since their first encounter, but the revelation of his true identity catches her off guard. The news that he hails from Moukopl is no surprise, but the revelation of his status as a eunuch from the imperial court is a revelation she hadn't anticipated.

"Why are you telling me all that? Do you plan to die?" Horohan's tone is sharp, her skepticism evident.

But Kuan shakes his head weakly, his gaze meeting hers with a steely resolve. "I just need to gather some strength and I'll heal my wound in no time. It's not even that deep... That asshole Meicong didn't stab to kill me. I'll make him pay tenfold!"

"Him?" Horohan's curiosity is piqued, but Kuan dismisses her question with a wave of his hand.

"Nevermind. It's the pain that makes me lose it," he mutters, his breath hitching with each movement.

"Do you want some tea?" Horohan offers, not knowing what to do.

Kuan's response is a grateful nod, his eyes closing as he sinks into the warmth of the furs beneath him. "Yes, please..."

The fire casts dancing shadows across the interior of the yurt as Horohan carefully pours tea into a cup, the fragrant aroma filling the air. With gentle hands, she lifts the cup to Kuan's lips, guiding it as he takes a small sip, the warmth of the liquid soothing against his parched throat.

"Why did Meicong stab you? Is it related to Naci's summons?"

"You're smarter than you make it seem," Kuan murmurs. "That asshole betrayed me. I mean... I had it coming. She's loyal to someone else. A terrible guy that the Naci Khan must not meet at any cost... But it's the reason why she has been summoned. It's not the emperor who did it. He's being deceived. The reason why she has been summoned is because he knows that I have taken an interest in her. Meicong told him! That piece of shit!"

Horohan's mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle of Kuan's words. The revelation sends a chill down her spine, the implications staggering in their magnitude. "So you two were spies that have been selling information on us to the empire?" she demands, her voice steely with determination. "I won't hesitate to make you feel pain, so tell the truth."

With a swift movement, she retrieves her dagger from its sheath, the gleaming blade catching the light as she places it against Kuan's wound. Her gaze is unwavering, a silent warning that speaks volumes of her resolve.

Kuan's plea sound in the confined space of the yurt, his words laden with desperation. "I will tell you the truth. I don't have anything to lose. But first, could you use your pretty knife to cut my sleeve and help me stop the bleeding with the cloth?"

Horohan's grip tightens around the dagger, her resolve hardening as she inches it closer to Kuan's wound. "Not until you tell me what I need to know," she insists, her voice firm and unwavering. "Why did you come to me? What is your goal?"

Kuan's eyes widen with a mixture of frustration and fear, his breath catching in his throat. "I said it many times already!" he protests, his voice rising with desperation. "Everything I do is for the sake of Tepr! I am a traitor of Moukopl, but I couldn't act as openly with Meicong around! And I came to you because I thought you were reasonable! I'll explain everything in detail once you help me!"

Horohan's mind churns with uncertainty, torn between her instincts and the weight of Kuan's words. But in the end, she makes a decision. With a steady hand, she lowers the dagger, the blade resting against Kuan's side as she begins to cut away his sleeve.

As she works, her movements are precise and deliberate, her focus unwavering despite the tumult of emotions swirling within her. Trust is a fragile thing, easily broken and difficult to mend, but in this moment, Horohan chooses to extend it, if only for the chance to uncover the truth hidden beneath the layers of deception and betrayal.

"Press down firmly on the cloth," he instructs, his voice steady despite the pain that flares with each movement. "Apply pressure to staunch the bleeding. Good, like that."

Horohan follows his guidance with a focused determination, her hands deft as she follows his lead. With each passing moment, the flow of blood begins to slow, the makeshift bandage serving its purpose in stemming the tide of crimson.

"Now, tie it off tightly... Oof! Too tight!!! Do you plan to suffocate me? Don’t cut off the circulation!!"

Horohan's patience wears thin as Kuan protests the tightness of the bandage, his complaints grating on her nerves like sandpaper. With a frustrated growl, she slaps his wounded side, the sound echoing in the small confines of the yurt.

"Shut up!" she snaps, her voice sharp with irritation as she glares at him. "You're lucky I'm even helping you at all."

Kuan winces at the force of her blow, tears welling in his eyes as he struggles to compose himself. "I can't believe this...!" he mutters, his voice choked with emotion. "You're the worst shaman on earth! Now I would need some ointment to clean the wound every day, but I will manage on my own. I can't count on you to make the recipes!"

"How did you learn the way of the shamans?" Horohan asks, raising an eyebrow.

Kuan's expression softens at her question. "That's another story," he replies. "Now let me tell you from the beginning..."

The next morning, Horohan oversees the packing of the camp. Her attention is drawn to a commotion nearby. She strides purposefully toward the source of the disturbance, her brow furrowed in concern.

Pomogr stands at the center of the conflict, his stance defiant as he blocks the path of a group of Nipih and Orogol tribesmen. They wear expressions of frustration and determination, their voices raised in heated argument.

"You cannot leave!" Pomogr's voice rings out, firm and commanding. "The coalition remains strong, and we must stand united against our enemies."

One of the Nipih tribesmen steps forward, his eyes flashing with anger. "We owe no allegiance to anyone anymore," he retorts, his voice tinged with defiance. "Our loyalty lies with our own tribes, not with some hastily formed alliance."

A murmur of agreement ripples through the group, their resolve bolstered by the support of their peers. The Orogol tribesman nods in solidarity, his gaze unwavering as he meets Pomogr's stern gaze.

"We have fought alongside you, but our paths diverge here," he declares, his voice calm yet resolute. "We will not be bound by the decisions of others. Our tribes will return to our lands and chart our own course."

Horohan watches the exchange with a mixture of apprehension and determination, her mind racing as she searches for a solution to the growing rift within the coalition that Naci left in her hands. With each passing moment, the bonds that hold them together seem to fray, threatened by the weight of individual desires and ambitions.

As the tension mounts, Horohan knows that she must act swiftly to prevent the coalition from crumbling beneath the weight of dissent. With a deep breath, she steps forward.

Horohan's voice cuts through the tension like a thunderclap, her words ringing with determination. She stands tall, her gaze steady as she addresses the rebellious tribesmen.

"So you think you can walk alone like your big brothers did? Don't make me laugh!"

Pomogr turns to Horohan, his expression torn between concern and uncertainty. "Khatun...?" he begins, his voice trailing off as he awaits her next move.

But Horohan does not falter. She turns to face the rebellious tribesmen, her eyes ablaze with conviction. "You are not the independent people that you were a few moons ago," she declares, her voice ringing with authority. "You vowed allegiance to Naci Khan, the one who shall rule over all that the sun can reach, and I, her consort, will assert her rule in her absence!"

The tribesmen grow increasingly agitated, their murmurs of dissent growing louder with each passing moment. One of them steps forward, his stance defiant as he meets Horohan's gaze.

"You don't have the strength to stop all of us from leaving!" he declares, his voice filled with scorn.

Another joins in, his words dripping with contempt. "We'll walk on your dead body if we need to!"

Horohan's lips curl into a defiant smile. "WELL SAID!" she retorts, her voice booming across the camp. "Choose your best warrior among yourselves, or come at me all at once, that's fine, and I will prove before all the spirits that sleep in Tepr that I am legitimate to rule above all of you weaklings!"

With a swift motion, she draws her sword, the gleaming blade catching the light, beaming in the snow as she holds it aloft. The camp falls silent, the air thick with tension as the tribesmen weigh their options. In that moment, Horohan stands as a beacon of strength, ready to defend the unity that she inherited from her Khan at any cost.