The air is sharp and cold, biting at Kuan’s face as he makes his way through the snow-laden mountain paths of the Behani plateau. The wind howls across the barren landscape, carrying with it the weight of winter and the ancient echoes of chants from distant temples. The Behani kingdom, perched on the edge of the empire’s reach, feels like a place forgotten by time. Kuan, draped in his diplomatic robes, keeps his expression calm, neutral. But his mind, ever sharp and calculating, moves like the wind—quick, searching, hunting.
His escort—warrior monks dressed in dark, heavy robes, their heads shaven—march in silent formation around him. Their presence, though meant to be protective, carries an air of quiet menace. Their spears glint in the pale sunlight as they lead Kuan up the steps to the Behani palace. The building, made of cold, dark stone, rises from the snow like an ancient monument, its pointed roofs cutting into the sky like jagged blades.
Inside, warmth greets them—thick tapestries hang from the walls, and the scent of burning incense fills the air, mixing with the aroma of spice-laden food being prepared somewhere deep within the palace. At the end of the grand hall, seated on a simple but ornately carved throne, is the Tanlanzury, Nagyazolgo Altangyibu. He is an imposing figure, his robes of deep red and gold symbolizing his dual role as both king and religious leader. His beard is long, streaked with silver, and his eyes gleam with the knowing look of a man who carries centuries of tradition on his shoulders.
Kuan approaches, his steps slow and deliberate, his eyes taking in the hall, noting every detail—the monks, the guards, the positioning of everything. He bows respectfully, not too low, but enough to show deference without weakness.
"Your Majesty," Kuan says, his voice smooth, polished. "I am Kuan. I come as an envoy of the Moukopl Empire to strengthen the bond between our two nations."
Nagyazolgo stands, spreading his arms wide, his voice booming with warmth. "Envoy Kuan, you are most welcome in my palace and on Behani soil. It has been many years since one of your people has come this far into our mountains. You honor us with your presence."
Kuan smiles, keeping his movements measured, even as his mind races with the real reason for his visit. "The honor is mine, Your Majesty. The empire holds the Behani kingdom in high regard. Our history is one of brotherhood, after all."
Nagyazolgo’s eyes flicker with pride as he gestures for Kuan to sit. “Indeed,” he says, his tone warm but firm. “Our kingdoms are bound by blood and faith. Our first emperor was the first Tanlanzury. A fact that many seem to forget.” He leans forward slightly, his voice taking on a more personal tone. “But not you. No, I can see in your eyes, Kuan, that you are a man who understands the weight of history.”
Kuan sits, letting the compliment linger for a moment before responding, his tone carefully respectful. “It is the duty of an envoy to honor the past. And the Behani kingdom’s faith, with its roots intertwined with the empire’s, serves as a reminder of that shared legacy.”
The Tanlanzury smiles, pleased. “You have a sharp mind. The spirit of the empire flows in these mountains, just as it does in your capital. This is why we must remain strong, vigilant in the face of those who seek to divide us.”
Kuan nods, though inwardly his thoughts shift toward the real purpose of his mission—the Shag'hal-Tyn envoy. The horde, rising in power to the southeast, threatened to pull the Behani kingdom into its orbit. If they succeeded in swaying Nagyazolgo, the empire’s hold on the region would weaken irreparably.
He keeps his smile warm, hiding the gears of strategy turning in his mind. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Our strength lies in unity. Which is why the empire values your kingdom’s continued loyalty."
The Tanlanzury’s expression softens. "Our loyalty is not in question, Kuan. But there are... forces at work." His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something cautious crossing his face. "But we are not swayed by mere whispers."
Kuan nods thoughtfully, feeling the pulse of the conversation shifting toward the deeper game at play. “It is good to hear, Your Majesty,” he says. “But the empire understands that the Behani kingdom faces difficult choices. We are here to ensure those choices strengthen the bond between our peoples.”
…
Kuan follows the high-ranking monk through the winding corridors of the Behani palace, the warrior monks flanking him in disciplined silence. Their presence is a constant, an unwavering shadow that moves with him, every footstep perfectly synchronized. The cold air of the mountains seeps in through the cracks in the ancient stone walls, but inside the palace, there is warmth—both in the flickering torches lining the hallways and in the solemn reverence of the place.
As they walk, the monk beside him gestures toward an archway that opens into an inner garden. "We will pass through here on the way to your quarters, Envoy Kuan."
Kuan steps through the arch, and the scene before him takes him by surprise. The garden is not the quiet, reflective space he expected. Instead, it is a battleground of discipline and skill. Warrior monks, stripped to the waist despite the chill in the air, move in fluid, precise motions, their bodies honed and trained to perfection. Some are engaged in hand-to-hand combat, their fists a blur of movement as they spar, while others practice with bladed weapons, the clash of steel ringing out in sharp, rhythmic bursts.
Kuan pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observes them. Their movements are graceful, but deadly—each strike calculated, every defense measured. The sheer focus and skill displayed by these monks is something to be admired. He can't help but feel a pang of regret at the thought that such talent might fall into the wrong hands. These warriors could change the balance of power in an instant, given the right—or wrong—leadership.
A flicker of something dark passes through Kuan’s mind—the empire must fall. His true purpose, the one buried deep within him, gnaws at the edges of his thoughts. It is a fleeting moment, but powerful. His fingers twitch at his side as the image of the empire’s collapse flashes before him. But he steadies himself, his face betraying nothing. Not yet. It’s too early. His rise in the imperial court isn’t complete; he needs time, trust, and power. If he acts now, without a full plan, it will all come crashing down, and he will be nothing more than a forgotten casualty. Patience, he reminds himself. Patience will win this game.
Among the rows of monks, his eyes catch something unexpected—children. They move with the same disciplined grace as the older monks, albeit with the clumsiness of youth. Their faces are set in determination, their small hands gripping wooden training swords almost too big for them. The sight pulls him out of his thoughts.
"Children?" Kuan asks, turning to the monk beside him. "At what age do they begin their training?"
The monk’s face remains impassive as he nods. "There is no set age. Training begins whenever they are brought to the temples. Often, parents who cannot afford to raise their children—especially poor families—send them as infants to the monks. Here, they receive an education, both in the faith and in combat."
Kuan raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "But not all children are accepted into the palace, I imagine?"
The monk nods in agreement, his tone becoming more reserved. "You are correct, Envoy. It is rare for children to be brought here, to train among the king’s personal guard. Most remain in the outer temples. Only those with extraordinary skill are accepted into the palace... or those who have the influence of powerful families behind them."
Kuan’s gaze lingers on the children as they continue their exercises, their young faces already hardened with discipline far beyond their years. Powerful families, he muses, though he doesn’t say it aloud. A child raised in this environment—trained from the earliest age to serve the Tanlanzury—would be a formidable asset, or a dangerous threat, depending on where their loyalty lay.
He watches a particularly skilled child strike with his wooden sword, the precision in his movements startling for his age. A small, quiet smile plays on Kuan's lips. There is so much to learn here, so much potential to be uncovered.
"They are impressive," Kuan finally says, his tone neutral. "The loyalty of these warriors to your king must be unwavering."
The monk nods again, pride flickering in his otherwise stoic expression. "The warrior monks of the palace are bound to the Tanlanzury by faith and by blood. They serve him without question."
…
The mountains loom high and rugged, their jagged peaks scraping against the pale blue sky as Kuan and his escort descend the narrow, winding paths. The snow, once thick and pristine at the higher elevations, now thins into patches of white scattered among the dark rocks and scraggly pines that cling to the mountain’s side. The air is cold, biting at Kuan’s cheeks, though the sun glows weakly overhead, casting long shadows over the steep cliffs.
Beneath them, the valley stretches wide, a patchwork of forested slopes and snow-covered ridges that roll endlessly toward the horizon. In the distance, the village Kuan seeks lies hidden between two mountains, a speck of life nestled in the shadow of towering giants. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, a thin line against the pale sky, and the air smells faintly of pine and damp earth as the warrior monks lead him downward.
The path they follow is narrow and treacherous, cut into the side of the mountain. It twists and turns sharply, hugging the rock face where the drop below is sheer and unforgiving. The sound of crunching snow and the soft clink of weapons fills the cold silence. Kuan’s eyes sweep over the landscape—vast, isolated, and yet somehow alive with the quiet, unspoken presence of nature’s harsh beauty. The snow sparkles in the sunlight, but beneath it, the land feels wild, untamed.
The warrior monks move with steady precision, their robes billowing slightly in the wind as they keep pace with Kuan. Among them, four children move with surprising agility, their small bodies nimble as they navigate the uneven ground. Kuan’s gaze drifts to them—young, yet already so disciplined. He hadn’t expected children in his escort. The thought of them facing danger on this mission sends a brief flicker of concern through him. If something goes wrong, these children could be injured—or worse. But he keeps his thoughts to himself. It is part of their training, and his comment would be seen as weakness.
The cold wind picks up again, whistling through the crags of the mountains. Kuan pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his breath fogging in the air as he takes in the landscape—endless, remote, and indifferent. This far from the empire, he feels the pull of isolation more keenly, as if the weight of his mission rests on the very bones of the earth beneath him. But there is also something freeing in it—out here, far from the watchful eyes of the court, he can move more freely, plot more carefully.
As they reach the edge of the forest, the path flattens out slightly, and the village comes into clearer view. Wooden houses, their roofs heavy with snow, dot the valley below, small and clustered together like a forgotten outpost of civilization. Kuan narrows his eyes, scanning the buildings for any sign of the Shag'hal-Tyn envoy. Somewhere, hidden among those houses, is the man he has been searching for.
The village feels eerily quiet as Kuan and his escort approach. Snow crunches beneath their boots, the sound swallowed by the cold air, while a group of stern-faced men lead them through narrow, winding streets. Smoke rises from chimneys, and the smell of burning wood mixes with the scent of earth and dampness, but no one ventures outside to greet them. The silence is palpable, as if the village itself holds its breath.
They stop in front of an old, weather-beaten temple, its stone walls eroded by time and wind. Kuan’s gaze sharpens as the chief warrior monk steps forward, his voice firm as he speaks to the men guiding them.
"We are here for the Shag'hal-Tyn man," the monk says, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
The village men exchange glances, their unease clear, but one of them nods and gestures toward the temple doors. “He’s inside, taking shelter,” the man murmurs. There’s a tightness in his voice, as though he fears the power of the man within.
The temple doors creak open, revealing a dim interior lit by flickering candles. The smell of incense, thick and pungent, hits Kuan’s senses immediately as he steps inside. His eyes quickly adjust to the gloom, and there, standing near the altar, is not the diplomat Kuan expected, but a man who exudes a strange and potent aura.
The Shag'hal-Tyn envoy is a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a wildness about him that seems untamed by the trappings of civilization. His long, braided hair falls down his back, dark as the raven feathers woven into it. His face is lined with the harshness of the steppes, deeply tanned by wind and sun, his eyes sharp and glinting beneath thick, furrowed brows. He wears a long coat of animal skins, layered with belts of bones and amulets that clink softly as he moves. Around his neck hangs a necklace of carved talismans.
His eyes meet Kuan’s, and a strange smile curves his lips—knowing, almost mocking, as if he can see through the layers of diplomacy Kuan wears so carefully.
“This is Chalazai,” the village man says in a low voice, introducing the shaman with a respectful bow.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Kuan keeps his expression neutral, studying the man for a moment. He radiates a primal energy, something ancient and raw. This is no ordinary diplomat sent to discuss borders and trade routes—this is a man of the spirit world, a conduit for forces beyond the empire’s grasp.
Chalazai steps forward, his movement slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Kuan’s face. He speaks in a deep, gravelly voice, the words foreign but rhythmic, carrying an unmistakable power.
The chief warrior monk translates, his voice steady but cautious. “He says his name is Chalazai. He comes as a messenger of the spirits.”
Kuan inclines his head slightly, his mind already working through the possibilities. “A messenger of the spirits,” he says quietly, eyes narrowing. “And what message do the spirits have for the people of this village?”
The monk translates, and Chalazai’s eyes gleam with a strange, unsettling light as he responds. His voice grows deeper, his words punctuated by the clinking of the bones and amulets hanging from his robes. When the monk translates, his voice is low, almost hesitant.
"He says the spirits have guided him here to show the villagers the true path. The Shag'hal-Tyn way. He offers them protection from the chaos of the world outside, a path to power through their faith.”
Kuan’s expression remains calm, but his mind sharpens. So that’s it. Chalazai isn’t here simply to spread religion—he’s here to sow the seeds of vassalization. Convert the village, and soon the Behani plateau would fall under the influence of the Shag'hal-Tyn. This village would be their foothold.
Chalazai continues speaking, his hands moving in strange, intricate gestures as he talks, as if weaving a spell in the air. The chief warrior monk translates, his voice growing more uneasy. “He says the empire is weak, and its protection fleeting. Only the power of the Shag'hal-Tyn and their spirits can offer true safety.”
Kuan’s eyes narrow, his hands clasped behind his back as he steps forward. He lets the silence stretch for a moment before speaking, his voice cool and measured. "The empire has stood for centuries, and it will stand for many more. What makes you think your spirits can offer something greater than the strength of an empire?"
The monk translates, and Chalazai’s smile widens, his eyes gleaming with something almost feral. He speaks again, and when the monk translates, the weight of his words hangs in the air like a blade.
“He says it is not the strength of empires that endures, but the will of the people and the power of the land. Your empire is but a passing storm, while the spirits of the Shag'hal-Tyn are the wind and sky itself.”
Kuan’s heart beats steadily, though his mind races. This man is dangerous—not because of the spirits he claims to wield, but because of the power he holds over the hearts of these people. The village men who led them here stand just outside the temple, watching with quiet reverence, as if Chalazai’s words have already taken root in their minds.
Kuan meets Chalazai’s gaze, holding it for a moment longer than necessary. ´This is the first step,´ he thinks, his pulse quickening. If the Shag'hal-Tyn succeed in planting their faith here, the plateau will fall—one village at a time.
But Kuan is no stranger to manipulation, and he knows the game has only just begun.
“I see,” Kuan says slowly, his voice smooth and deliberate. “But I think you will find the people of this land are loyal to the empire that protects them, just as they are loyal to their king.”
The monk translates, and Chalazai’s smile falters slightly, a flicker of something darker crossing his face. He steps forward, his presence commanding as he speaks again. The monk’s translation is quiet but firm.
“He says that remains to be seen.”
Kuan nods once, his face a mask of diplomacy, but his mind is already shifting to the next move.
…
The nights in the village are long, cold, and eerily quiet. Kuan spends them observing Chalazai from the shadows, watching as the shaman weaves his influence over the villagers. Each evening, the temple fills with people, their faces lit by the flickering flames of candles, their eyes wide and eager. Chalazai speaks with a commanding presence, his strange, rhythmic words cutting through the silence like a blade. Kuan listens, though he can only catch fragments through the chief warrior monk’s translations.
Kuan’s mind churns as he watches Chalazai. He could kill the man—it would be simple, a quick strike in the dark—but the ramifications could ignite something far worse. The Shag'hal-Tyn are at the Behani's doorstep, and with the Moukopl Empire’s armies stretched thin and far from these mountains, a war would be disastrous. The Shag'hal-Tyn are wary, just as he is, and their ´pacific´ methods of conquest reveal their own fear of outright conflict. But the death of Chalazai, the beloved shaman, would give them the perfect excuse to march on the plateau.
Kuan knows he must be patient. He must play the long game.
One night, after days of watching Chalazai and growing more fascinated by the man, Kuan is invited to the temple for dinner. He arrives to find the temple quiet, the usual crowds gone, leaving only the dim glow of the hearth and the strange, solemn air of the place.
Chalazai sits cross-legged near the fire, his wild, braided hair casting shadows on the temple walls, his amulets clinking softly as he gestures for Kuan to sit. The shaman speaks, his voice low and guttural, but this time, there’s no translation. He is speaking Moukopl, though the words are clumsy and broken.
“Sit,” Chalazai says, his eyes gleaming with a strange warmth. “We eat.”
Kuan sits across from him, curious but guarded, watching as Chalazai pulls a bowl of soup toward himself. The shaman inspects it with a grimace before reaching into a pouch hanging from his waist. From it, he pulls strips of dried meat, dark and thin, with a strong, smoky scent.
Chalazai looks up at Kuan, grinning, and gestures to the soup. “Behani… food,” he says, his Moukopl stilted but clear enough. “I… cannot eat. Too bland.” He shakes his head, then tears off a piece of the dried meat and drops it into the soup, watching as it soaks up the broth. “This… my meat. Makes… better.”
Kuan raises an eyebrow, intrigued. He’s spent days eating the bland, vegetarian food of the Behani and finds himself eyeing the meat with undisguised envy. His stomach growls slightly, a reminder of the last time he tasted real meat, which feels like ages ago. “The food here... it is simple,” Kuan admits, his tone measured, though his eyes remain on the meat. “It has been some time since I’ve had anything like that.”
Chalazai notices Kuan’s gaze and chuckles, the sound deep and rough. He reaches into his pouch again and offers Kuan a strip of meat, his fingers holding it out across the table. “You try. Better with… meat.”
Kuan hesitates for only a moment before taking the offering. He tears off a piece with his teeth, the smoky flavor filling his mouth. It’s strong, intense, a sharp contrast to the mild, almost flavorless Behani food he’s grown used to. Kuan can’t help but let out a quiet hum of approval.
Chalazai laughs again, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Good, yes? You… like.”
Kuan nods, feeling the warmth of both the fire and the food spread through him. “Very good. It’s much better than what we’ve been eating.”
The shaman’s grin widens, and he tears another piece of meat into his bowl. “Behani… no eat meat. Religion. They say… virtuous.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Moral, good. Great even. I cannot. Too bland. No flavor.” He makes a face, as if the idea of living without meat is absurd.
Kuan chuckles, despite himself. “I agree. It’s difficult to find satisfaction in food like this.”
They both laugh softly, the tension between them easing as the shared meal becomes a bridge. The language barrier fades for a moment, replaced by the simple act of eating and the quiet exchange of amusement. Kuan watches Chalazai more closely now, not just as an adversary, but as a man—one who, despite his wild appearance and mysterious aura, finds the same pleasures and annoyances in life that Kuan does.
The warmth of the fire flickers, casting long shadows across the temple walls. Chalazai leans back, his wild hair falling around his shoulders, his eyes gleaming with a mysterious light as he watches Kuan finish the last of his meal. The atmosphere has shifted subtly, the laughter and shared camaraderie now replaced with something heavier, darker. The shaman's fingers play with the talismans around his neck, and he tilts his head slightly, studying Kuan in a way that feels almost intrusive.
"You… want divination?" Chalazai says suddenly, his voice low and gravelly, his Moukopl still broken but understandable. His eyes gleam with mischief, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, something deeper.
Kuan raises an eyebrow, amused. He knows Chalazai’s type—this is a game, a ploy to unsettle him. But he plays along, curiosity tingling at the edges of his mind. “Divination?” Kuan chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Why not? Let’s see what the spirits have to say.”
Chalazai’s grin widens, his fingers tightening around his amulets as he begins to murmur in his native tongue, his voice growing deeper, more rhythmic. The shaman’s eyes close, and his body sways slightly, as if he’s listening to something far away. Kuan watches, entertained but unimpressed. He’s seen tricks like this before. It’s nothing more than a performance, a tool to keep the village in awe of Chalazai’s supposed powers.
But then, Chalazai’s eyes snap open, wide and filled with something primal, something raw. His grin fades, and his face goes pale as his gaze drifts over Kuan’s shoulder.
The shift in Chalazai’s demeanor sends a chill down Kuan’s spine. He feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, his amusement fading as the atmosphere in the room changes, thickening with an unseen weight.
“W-what is it?” Kuan asks, his voice steady but a touch of unease slipping through.
Chalazai doesn’t answer. His trembling finger rises slowly, pointing behind Kuan. “There…” the shaman whispers, his voice barely audible, “behind you…”
Kuan’s heart skips a beat, and instinctively, he turns his head sharply, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room behind him. The flickering shadows dance across the temple walls, but there’s nothing—nothing except the stone pillars, the fading light of the fire, and the emptiness of the temple. He exhales, half annoyed, half relieved, but when he turns back to Chalazai, the shaman’s expression is unchanged—still filled with a haunted intensity.
“There is nothing there,” Kuan says, his voice firm, though his pulse races faster now. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull?”
Chalazai’s eyes remain locked on him, unblinking. “Many spirits follow you,” he whispers, his broken Moukopl struggling to contain the gravity of what he’s saying. “Powerful… restless… You do not see… but I see. They look after you. If you learn to… control them, you will be great. More powerful than kings.”
Kuan snorts, though there’s an edge of nervous laughter in the sound. “You’re trying to mess with me. This is part of your mission, isn’t it? Convert the Behani, and now you’re trying to rattle me too.” He shakes his head, refusing to be drawn into Chalazai’s game. “Nice try, but I’m not so easily swayed.”
But Chalazai’s eyes remain locked on his, unflinching. “I… show you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “You want see… spirits? I let you see.”
Kuan hesitates, the doubt gnawing at him. He knows this is a game, a trick—but there’s a part of him that itches with curiosity, a part of him that wants to see just how far Chalazai is willing to take it. He nods slowly, more to amuse himself than anything. “Fine,” he says, his voice calm. “Show me. Let me see these… spirits.”
Chalazai’s grin returns, wider this time, but there’s no joy in it—only a deep, unsettling knowledge. He reaches into his pouch, pulling out a small jar filled with a thick, black powder. He speaks in his native tongue, chanting in a low, steady rhythm as he sprinkles the powder over the flames. The fire sputters, crackling and hissing as the powder ignites, sending a thick plume of dark smoke swirling into the air.
Kuan watches, his eyes narrowing as the smoke twists and curls around them, the smell sharp and bitter, filling his lungs. The temple feels colder now, the air heavier. Chalazai’s chanting grows louder, faster, and Kuan’s vision starts to blur. The shadows around him seem to stretch, elongating in unnatural ways, twisting into grotesque shapes that flicker at the edges of his sight.
Suddenly, the world tilts, and Kuan feels his stomach lurch. His vision darkens, but the shadows—those strange, shifting shadows—remain. They swirl around him, growing larger, more defined. Faces, twisted and grotesque, emerge from the smoke. Eyes, hollow and staring, peer at him from every direction.
Kuan’s heart pounds in his chest as a wave of nausea washes over him. The temple, the fire, Chalazai—they all fade into the background, swallowed by the oppressive darkness. His breath catches as the faces in the shadows twist into sneers, their mouths opening in silent screams.
A cold hand—unseen but felt—grasps his shoulder. Kuan spins, panic rising, but there’s nothing behind him. He stumbles back, his heart hammering in his chest, the visions growing more intense, more violent. The faces surround him now, the shadows closing in, suffocating him with their presence. He tries to speak, to shout, but no sound comes. The air is thick, too thick to breathe.
Just as the darkness threatens to consume him entirely, Chalazai’s voice cuts through the chaos like a knife. “Control them!” he shouts, his voice commanding and distant. “Or they control you!”
Kuan gasps, his body trembling, sweat pouring down his face. The shadows recede, slowly dissolving into nothingness as his vision clears. The temple reappears, the fire once again flickering normally, the warmth returning to the air. Chalazai sits before him, watching with a knowing smile.
Kuan’s hands are shaking, his breath ragged as he stares at Chalazai, the weight of the vision pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. His heart still pounds in his chest, but his face remains impassive, hiding the turmoil beneath.
Chalazai leans forward, his eyes gleaming with that same unsettling knowledge. “Spirits… strong,” he says, his voice quiet now, almost a whisper. “They are yours. You… must learn control.”
Kuan swallows, forcing himself to steady his breath, though his mind races with a thousand questions. He knows this was a trick, some dark manipulation—but the fear that lingers in his chest, the terror of those visions, feels too real to dismiss entirely.
The warm light of the fire flickers across the temple walls, casting long, distorted shadows as Chalazai leans in, ready to show Kuan something else. His eyes, still glowing with that unnerving intensity, lock onto Kuan’s. His hands, adorned with talismans and bones, start to move in another strange, deliberate motion. But then—suddenly—the cold gleam of steel flashes in the dim light.
Kuan blinks, and the world snaps back into focus. The soft crackle of the fire is replaced by the sharp, tense silence that follows the presence of a blade. The four warrior monk children who had been part of his escort stand around him, their faces set in stony, focused determination. Two of them press their short, curved swords against Chalazai’s throat, their eyes cold, unflinching.
Kuan barely has time to process the shift. His breath catches in his throat as two other children grab him, pulling him swiftly but firmly away from the shaman. He stumbles back, confused, his mind still clouded from the strange visions Chalazai had shown him. The warrior monks speak to each other in hurried, urgent tones, their words a rapid flow of Behani that Kuan can’t understand. Their voices are young but filled with the authority of their training.
Chalazai's lips pull back in a strange, twisted smile. "You must… learn," he says, his broken Moukopl struggling to form the words, though his tone remains calm, almost pleading. His eyes shift to Kuan. "The spirits… they are with you… You have power. Don’t waste it. Let me… show you the ways of the shaman. Be one with them."
Kuan's heart races, his body tense as he watches the scene unfold, still trying to make sense of it. Chalazai's voice, the words laced with strange conviction, echo in his mind. But before Kuan can respond, the two warrior monks shout in unison, their young voices filled with the weight of unwavering certainty.
"SILENCE, HERETIC!"
The words pierce the air like a blade, reverberating off the temple walls. And in a heartbeat, the monks press their swords deeper into Chalazai’s throat. Blood seeps out, dark and thick, as they slit his throat in a single, smooth motion. The shaman's eyes widen, a sharp, pained gasp escaping his lips, but it’s cut short as the two monks drive their blades into his chest, over and over. The soft sound of metal slicing flesh fills the room, rhythmic and brutal.
The warrior monks pull back, their faces blank, almost serene, as they wipe their blades clean. One of them turns to Kuan, giving a slight nod before releasing him from their grip. The monk’s hands are steady, his face impassive, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
Kuan doesn’t move. He can’t. His eyes are locked on Chalazai’s crumpled, blood-soaked body, the shaman’s final words still echoing in his mind. His vision blurs, a cold numbness settling over him. The warmth of the fire, the scent of incense—all of it fades, swallowed by the weight of the moment.
The monks turn away, their duty complete, as if they had simply carried out a necessary task. But Kuan—Kuan stands there, rooted to the spot, his mind reeling. He feels the weight of the blood that has been shed, the violent end to the strange, twisted promise Chalazai had tried to make him.