The tension in the yurt is suffocating, the air thick with the heat of the fire and the cold steel of the blades pointed at Konir and Tovak. The warriors stand poised, their eyes burning with accusation, their swords gleaming under the flickering light. Darijin, the old Kolopan shaman, looms above them, his voice dripping with venom as he levels his accusation. The sharpness in his gaze, the anger in his tone—it all cuts deep.
He raises a hand. The warriors hesitate, their blades trembling slightly as they glance at each other, uncertain. Konir meets Darijin’s gaze head-on, unflinching, and speaks with a voice as calm as the snow-covered peaks outside the yurt.
“Sit, Darijin,” Konir says, his tone even, almost gentle, but laced with authority. “If you believe I am guilty, if you think I killed my chieftain, my guide, then let the spirits decide. Not your blade. Not your anger. The spirits will see through me, as they see through you.”
Darijin’s eyes narrow, the firelight reflecting off his silver braid as he studies Konir. For a moment, the entire yurt seems to hold its breath, waiting for the elder shaman’s response. Finally, with a slow movement, Darijin lowers himself to the ground, his eyes never leaving Konir’s.
The warriors sheath their blades, though the tension remains palpable. Tovak, still standing, looks bewildered, unsure of what is unfolding before him. Konir gestures for him to stand back, to watch. This is no longer a matter of swords—it is a battle of spirit, and Tovak is a witness to something ancient and powerful.
From within the folds of his robes, Konir pulls out several items, his hands moving with practiced ease. He places a small, ornately carved bone onto the ground between them. Next comes a shard of crystal, its surface flickering with inner light. Finally, he retrieves a smooth, dark stone, etched with words too old to decipher by the untrained eye.
“You know what these are. I challenge you to see into my soul, as I will into yours,” Konir says, his voice calm, though a flicker of something darker passes behind his eyes.
Darijin’s face tightens, but he nods, accepting the challenge. From his own pouch, he pulls out his tools—a small bundle of sacred twigs, a strip of cloth soaked in the blood of a sacrifice, and a clay talisman. He lays them out carefully before him, his eyes narrowing as he settles into the ritual.
The fire crackles loudly between them, casting wild shadows on the yurt’s walls. The warriors, though they keep their distance, watch intently. This is no ordinary display—this is a clash of wills, a divination of the highest order. Even they understand that the spirits will be watching.
Konir inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment, feeling the cold of the mountains seep into his bones. He exhales, and as he does, the energy in the room shifts. His hands hover over the divination bone and the stone, his fingers moving in intricate, deliberate motions. He mutters softly in the old tongue, calling forth the spirits that guide him.
Darijin’s hands are steady as he too begins his divination, his fingers weaving through the air, his voice a low, melodic chant that resonates with power. His talisman glows faintly in the dim light, the bloodied cloth casting a deep red hue on the floor.
As their chants grow louder, the air thickens, and the yurt seems to darken. The flames flicker wildly, casting long, erratic shadows as the spiritual energy builds. Konir’s breath steadies, his mind clearing as he opens himself to the spirits. His eyes remain closed, but in his mind’s eye, visions begin to take form—flashes of snow-covered landscapes, the howling of the wind, and the faint, elusive figure of something moving through the white wilderness.
Darijin’s voice rises, challenging, his eyes locked on Konir’s, trying to pierce through the veil of visions. His power is undeniable, but Konir stands firm. His fingers brush over the crystal, and the vision solidifies.
A figure emerges from the blinding whiteness of the snow—a creature, graceful and silent, with fur as white as the storm itself. It moves effortlessly through the landscape, its shape shifting with each step, sometimes a human, sometimes a larger, more fearsome beast. Its eyes gleam with an otherworldly light, and its presence is both majestic and terrifying.
Tramörygdel, the fox of winter. The ancient spirit of the northern winds, known for its cunning and its power to manipulate fate.
Darijin gasps, his chant faltering for a moment as the vision of the spirit takes form before him. His eyes widen in disbelief as he realizes what he’s seeing.
“You… you are guided by…?” Darijin breathes, his voice shaking with a mixture of awe and fear. “Two souls, two worlds colliding…”
Konir opens his eyes slowly, his expression calm, but there is a flicker of triumph in his gaze. “I did not take my chieftain nor my shaman’s lives,” he says quietly. “They left for a grand journey to the realm of Tengr. Where the sky is endless, and the ground reflects the light of spirits. They have entrusted their tribes’ future with me, and I vowed to not disappoint. They taught me control and humility. Tramörygdel guides me, but I am in control. It points me the way, but those steps are mine.”
Darijin stares at Konir, the weight of the vision heavy in the air between them. The other warriors, sensing the shift in power, glance at each other, unsure of what to do next. The fire crackles softly, as if it, too, has been subdued by the presence of the fox.
The old shaman swallows, his voice strained as he speaks again. “You’re more honest than you seem,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble, the firelight casting deep shadows on his lined face.
Konir laughs, the sound sharp, his amusement genuine. “Honest? Darijin, don’t mistake me for one of those simple men who wear their hearts on their sleeves.”
Darijin opens his mouth to respond, but the words are cut short as the yurt’s flap is thrown open with a gust of cold wind. A figure steps in—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding. The young man moves with purpose, his dark eyes scanning the room, before they settle on Konir. A moment later, a blade gleams under Tovak’s jaw.
Konir straightens, his gaze shifting to the man with the blade. It’s Akun. The name flashes in his mind, a memory stirring—Akun, the man who had saved Urumol, the man who had been close to Horohan, who had escorted Naci with them to Alinkar. His face is not familiar, he had heard of him.
“Rise to your feet, Shaman,” Akun orders, his voice sharp as steel. The blade at Tovak’s neck presses just enough to draw a thin line of blood. Tovak’s eyes widen, his breath shallow as he stands frozen, his heart pounding in his chest.
Konir doesn’t rush. He rises slowly, deliberately, keeping his hands visible, his expression unreadable. “Akun,” he says smoothly, “why interrupt a peaceful dialogue between shamans?”
“Peaceful?” Akun’s eyes flare with anger, cutting Konir short. “The Alinkar and Kolopan will have no ‘peaceful’ dialogue with the Jabliu and Orogol traitors,” he spits, his grip on the blade tightening, pushing it further into Tovak’s skin.
Konir raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Alinkar rebels, you mean. Because the real Alinkar have already joined the Tepr alliance.”
The comment hits its mark, and Akun’s jaw tightens. The pressure of the blade on Tovak’s throat increases, making the young man wince. “The true Alinkar follow their chieftain,” Akun growls, his voice low and dangerous. “Not a patricide.”
The insult hangs in the air, heavy and sharp. Konir’s expression doesn’t change, but the gleam in his eyes hardens. “I understand” he says softly. “But now that the chieftain is dead, isn’t it natural to follow his heir?” He takes a step forward, his gaze locked on Akun, but his movements are measured, careful not to provoke.
Akun’s eyes flash, but he doesn’t waver. “I’m not here to argue with a fox like you,” he snaps. “Leave. I won’t kill you, because unlike Horohan, I don’t lower myself to murdering shamans. But don’t mistake that for mercy.”
Konir laughs, then turns his gaze to Darijin, who has remained silent through the entire exchange, his face troubled but unreadable. “I wonder, Darijin,” Konir says, his voice smooth as silk, “why it isn’t the Kolopan chieftain or shaman making decisions like this. Could it be that they’re being manipulated by these violent rebels?”
Darijin’s face tightens, but he says nothing, only shaking his head slightly, the weight of the question pressing on him like the cold outside.
Akun’s patience snaps. “Enough!” he barks, pulling the blade away from Tovak’s neck and shoving him roughly aside. “You’re not welcome here, Konir. Take your lies and leave before I change my mind about sparing you. And tell your master that the river is frozen. Tell them to come. We will show them how we do war!”
…
Konir and Tovak make their way back to the settlement, the cold wind biting at their faces as they trudge through the snow in silence. The tension from the confrontation with Akun lingers in the air, but neither of them speaks until they finally reach Horohan’s yurt. Inside, the warmth from the fire is a welcome contrast to the freezing cold outside.
Horohan looks up as they enter, her sharp eyes immediately reading the unease on their faces. She doesn’t say anything at first, waiting for them to speak.
Konir is the first to break the silence, recounting the entire encounter with Akun and the Kolopan, from the blade at Tovak’s throat to Akun’s accusations of patricide. He relays the conversation with Darijin and Akun’s decision to spare them, though the tension between the clans was undeniable.
Horohan listens intently, her fingers tapping lightly on the hilt of her sword as her mind works through the information. She doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she turns toward Pomogr, who stands quietly in the corner, observing the situation with his usual calm.
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“Pomogr,” Horohan says, her voice steady but commanding. “What do you make of this?”
Pomogr steps forward, his eyes narrowed in thought. “There’s definitely something suspicious about the river,” he says after a long pause. “It sounds like they may be planning an ambush.”
Horohan’s gaze sharpens, her mind already racing ahead. “Invading across the frozen river… it’s risky now. If they’re waiting for us, we could be walking into a trap.”
Pomogr nods, his brow furrowed. “Exactly. The river itself could be a death trap, especially if they’ve fortified positions on the other side. We’d be vulnerable on the ice, easy targets for archers or other attacks.”
Konir then intervenes. “I did not see any fortification on the other side of the river.”
Horohan’s fingers drum on the table, her eyes narrowing as she considers the options. “How long would it take to circle around the river? To attack from behind?”
Pomogr strokes his chin, thinking carefully. “Four, maybe five days,” he answers. “But it’s risky. If we go around, we might be spotted from a distance. It’s a long ride, and the Kolopan would have time to prepare.”
A heavy silence falls over the room as everyone digests the information. The prospect of an ambush on the river is dangerous, but so is the idea of a prolonged march around the Kolopan forces, potentially exposing themselves to early detection.
Horohan’s eyes flicker with thought. “Then we could wait for warmer weather. Wait until the river unfreezes, circle it and they will be trapped with nowhere to go.”
Konir steps forward. “We’ve planned to attack during the winter for a reason,” he reminds them. “The Kolopan will be weakened by the cold, and their reserves are likely running low. If we wait for warmer weather, we lose that advantage. The cold is our ally, and if we can get to their supplies, they’ll be forced to surrender.”
Horohan considers his words carefully, weighing the options. She stands, her hands resting on the table as she leans forward, eyes locked on the map spread out before her.
Finally, she straightens, her voice decisive. “Prepare the troops,” she orders. “We move in two days. And when we strike, we’ll make sure they know why they should fear us.”
…
The Tepr warriors sit around their fires, the crackling flames casting a warm glow on their faces as they laugh and share stories. The night is cold, but their spirits are high. The river stretches out before them, frozen and silent under the pale light of the moon. Across the ice, the dark shapes of the Kolopan and Alinkar rebels loom, watching from the other side.
Akun, standing tall on his warhorse, surveys the scene. His eyes flicker with intent as he observes the Tepr camp, the distant sounds of their laughter carrying across the still air. With a sharp gesture, he signals to his cavalry. The men around him tense, their horses snorting and stamping the ground in anticipation. Akun’s gaze is fixed on the frozen river beneath them, and without a word, he kicks his horse forward. The cavalry follows, a wave of steel and hooves thundering toward the camp.
The vibrations ripple across the ice as they charge, the ground trembling under the weight of the horses. The Kolopan cavalry speeds across the frozen river, the sound of hooves pounding against ice echoing like distant thunder. The Tepr warriors barely have time to react before the cavalry smashes through their camp, horses barreling into tents, scattering supplies, and sending men flying in all directions.
Chaos erupts as the Kolopan riders cut through the camp, the clash of metal and shouts filling the air. The Tepr warriors scramble to their feet, some grabbing for weapons, others diving for cover as horses trample everything in their path. But the Kolopan riders don’t stop—they surge through the camp without slowing, their mission clear. They leave the camp behind, riding hard toward the Tepr settlement, further back in the territory.
Behind them, the Tepr camp is left in disarray, tents collapsed, fires scattered, but the warriors are quick to recover. Shouts ring out as the commanders take charge, assessing the situation. “Check the casualties!” one voice booms above the din. The warriors regroup, their heads on a swivel, but to their relief, they find that the Kolopan charge caused more damage to the camp than to their men.
Then a single voice rises above the rest, cutting through the noise like a blade. “Second step! Move! Now!”
The camp snaps into action. Riders mount their horses, eyes set on the frozen river ahead. They urge their horses onto the ice, hooves clattering against the surface as they ride toward the river, the crackling of the ice growing louder beneath them with each step.
As they approach the far side of the river, a flash of light catches their eyes from the distance. “Fire arrows!” one of the horsemen shouts, his voice tight with urgency.
In an instant, they split—half the riders veering left, the other half right, just as the fire arrows rain down from the Kolopan bowmen on the far side. The flaming arrows sizzle through the air, striking the ice and melting it on impact. Steam rises from the cracks, the fire spreading quickly as the ice begins to weaken under the heat.
The horses gallop at full speed, hooves slipping and skidding across the slick surface. One rider, eyes wide with panic, feels the ground beneath him give way. His horse trips, its hooves crashing through the weakened ice. A deafening crack echoes across the river as the horse plunges into the freezing water, the rider’s scream swallowed by the night as he’s pulled under.
The other riders make it safely to the shore, hearts pounding, breaths coming in ragged gasps. One of them, drenched in sweat despite the cold, glances back at the cracked ice. “Let’s hope the third step’s going smoother,” he mutters under his breath, wiping a trembling hand across his brow.
Meanwhile, the Kolopan cavalry has already reached the Tepr settlement. It’s deserted, just as they expected—the buildings abandoned, the fires cold. But the warriors don’t hesitate. They charge into the empty settlement, shouting orders to one another as they begin to pillage whatever they can find. “Take everything!” one man bellows. “We don’t have much time!”
The sound of breaking wood and clattering metal fills the night as they ransack the settlement, grabbing supplies, weapons, and anything of value. Akun rides through the chaos, his eyes scanning the area, but something feels wrong—too quiet, too easy. Still, he pushes forward, urging his men to hurry.
Back on the river, the Tepr warriors regroup, their eyes fixed on the ice. They watch as the fire spreads, cracks splintering across the surface like a spiderweb. The ice groans under the strain, and then, with a loud, gut-wrenching crack, a large section of the river gives way, the water rushing up through the broken surface.
The Tepr horsemen pull back, their hearts racing. One of them turns to his commander, his voice tense. “It’s done. The ice is breaking.”
The commander nods grimly. “Good. Now we wait.”
…
The night is eerily silent, save for the distant crackling of the fires set by the Kolopan rebels as they ransack the abandoned Tepr settlement. The wind howls softly through the empty streets, the chill biting at the warriors as they loot the remnants of the deserted camp. But then, out of the stillness, comes a low, menacing growl.
The sound reverberates through the air, primal and filled with malice. One of the rebels stiffens, his ears perking up. Before he can react, a blood-curdling scream pierces the night.
Akun jerks around, his heart pounding as the scream is abruptly cut off. His instincts take over. Grabbing a torch, he shouts, "Group up! Now!" His voice trembles with urgency as the warriors scramble to his side, weapons drawn, their eyes darting nervously into the darkness.
Akun strides forward, his hand gripping the torch tightly, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold. The growling grows louder, more guttural, as they approach the source of the sound. His grip tightens around the torch as he flings it forward toward the noise, the flame spinning through the air before it crashes to the ground.
In the flickering light, the horror is revealed.
A massive white tiger, its fur stained crimson with fresh blood, stands over the motionless body of one of the rebels. The tiger's teeth are sunk deep into the man's neck, the muffled gurgles of the dying warrior chilling the blood of the men watching in frozen terror. The torchlight catches the gleam of the tiger’s eyes—feral, wild, and filled with a hunger that sends a shiver down Akun’s spine.
The tiger’s jaws snap with a sickening crunch, breaking the man’s neck as effortlessly as if he were a twig. The lifeless body slumps to the ground, and in the next heartbeat, the beast turns, its gaze locking onto another man. With terrifying speed, the tiger leaps, its claws flashing in the firelight. The warrior barely has time to scream before the tiger is on him, its massive weight driving him into the snow, its jaws snapping inches from his face.
Panic ripples through the group, the men scattering like leaves in the wind, shouts of terror filling the air as they flee. "Run! It's a demon!" someone shouts, his voice cracking with fear. Akun watches in horror as the tiger tears into another rebel, its claws raking across the man's chest, blood spraying into the air.
The warriors race toward their horses, desperation clear in every movement. Akun follows, his mind racing, but his eyes are drawn back to the flickering torchlight, back to the shadows that seem to move with unnatural speed. His breath quickens as he keeps glancing over his shoulder, terror clawing at his thoughts. Each time he turns, he expects to see the white blur of the tiger lunging toward him.
Just as he reaches the horses, his foot catches on a fallen beam, and he stumbles. His hands flail, trying to catch himself, but it’s too late. He hits the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Before he can even register the pain, he hears the unmistakable sound of the tiger's growl, closer now, and then the weight of the beast is upon him.
Akun gasps as the tiger’s hot breath washes over his face, its teeth bared, ready to sink into his flesh. He tries to roll away, but the tiger pins him, its massive paws pressing him into the snow. His heart hammers in his chest, every muscle screaming in terror as the creature lowers its head, its blue eyes gleaming with murderous intent.
The few warriors who haven’t fled watch in horror, their hands gripping their swords. One of them, face pale but determined, shouts, “We can’t leave him!” With a nod, they act. They pull out flasks of oil, dousing their blades in it, their hands trembling as they ignite them with the dying embers of a torch.
Blades now aflame, they charge toward the tiger, their fear giving way to desperate courage. The flames cast wild shadows across the snowy ground as they strike, trying to drive the beast back.
But the tiger is no ordinary predator. With a snarl, it releases Akun and turns to face the attackers, its fangs bared and its claws gleaming. One of the warriors swings his flaming sword, but the tiger leaps to the side with shocking agility, swatting the blade aside with a powerful swipe of its paw. The man stumbles back, his arm bleeding, but he doesn’t retreat.
The other warriors close in, their swords slicing through the air, the flames hissing as they cut through the cold night. The tiger, undeterred by the fire, lashes out with its claws, tearing through flesh and armor. Blood sprays across the snow as one of the men cries out, falling to the ground, clutching his shredded arm.
Akun, struggling to his feet, watches in horror as the tiger seems to fight with the fury of a demon, the flames licking at its fur but failing to slow it down. The beast is everywhere at once—slashing, biting, its growls echoing through the night like a nightmare come to life.
Another warrior swings his flaming blade, striking the tiger’s side, but the beast barely flinches. Instead, it pounces, its jaws closing around the man’s leg, dragging him to the ground with terrifying strength.
Akun stumbles back, his legs shaking beneath him. The tiger’s growls fill his ears, the weight of death hanging in the air. Only a handful of men remain standing, their faces pale with fear, their blades flickering weakly in the dying firelight.
…
Horohan, Pomogr and Konir ride silently through the night, their breath forming mist in the cold air as they lead a small group of elite warriors along the treacherous, snow-covered path that circles the river.
The moonlight glints off their armor as they move with calculated precision, the crunch of hooves muffled by the snow. Ahead, the rebel encampment lies unaware, its forces trapped on the opposite side of the frozen river where chaos has already begun to unfold.
Horohan's eyes are sharp, her mind cold and focused, every step bringing them closer to the perfect strike. Pomogr rides beside her, his expression unreadable but his confidence in their plan unshaken.
They have outmaneuvered the rebels, cutting off their escape, and now ride to strike where the enemy is most vulnerable—at their heart. Their strategy is flawless, and as they approach the enemy's camp, the weight of their impending victory presses in like the icy wind on their backs.