Qaloron Khan reclines on his throne, casting a gentle eye toward his son, Nemeh, who stands with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The room hums with silence as Nemeh glares through the large windows overlooking the gardens, his brows knit with a brooding intensity.
"Your brother will return soon, Nemeh," Qaloron says, his tone even, laced with the softness that marks his affections. "Puripal has a clever mind. I think you’ll see he’s not out there merely wasting time."
Nemeh lets out a low scoff, his lips curling in disdain. "Little Puripal?" he repeats. "Clever, perhaps, if you count running from responsibility clever. He prefers Moukopl’s bazaars and back streets to anything resembling duty. We all know he left the moment he was allowed, father."
The Khan’s gaze sharpens, though his expression remains kind. "If Puripal were only that, he would have been found out by now. He has a knack for blending in where others stand out—a talent few possess. You see recklessness; I see opportunity. There’s a certain wisdom in moving unseen."
"He thinks like a stray cat, which is useful if you’re catching mice," Nemeh sneers, his eyes shifting to his father with a guarded frustration. "But if he’s meant to guard our land? I’d prefer he stay close."
"Perhaps," Qaloron replies with a measured smile. "But there is strength in knowing the lay of the world beyond our own lands, strength even in adapting to its currents. When he returns, he’ll bring back what we need."
Nemeh crosses his arms, his face pulled into a tight frown. "If he returns," he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice edged with bitterness.
Qaloron’s gaze softens. "Puripal will return, Nemeh. He has his part to play."
Nemeh looks away, and a dark shadow creeps into his eyes. "And if he doesn’t?" He takes a deep breath, straightening his posture as if to shake off the thought. "But Little Puripal isn’t the only one," he continues, a slight tremor of irritation in his tone. "You’ve heard about Brother Noga’s mischief, I assume?"
A knowing glint sparks in Qaloron’s eyes. "Naturally, he said he’s off to the East, taking a few men with him. 'I’ll come back with twice as many,' he says," Qaloron chuckles, shaking his head. "It’s bold, this confidence. Reminds me of someone else."
Nemeh’s eyes narrow as he watches his father laugh, his jaw tense. "Perhaps. But it’s easy to be bold with no care for what he leaves behind. Brother Noga acts as if there’s no one but himself to consider."
"He takes on much, I’ll admit," Qaloron says thoughtfully, leaning back. "Aralën left him with burdens I perhaps placed too eagerly on his shoulders. But even as a boy, he carried those burdens without complaint. And look now—he holds the loyalty of his men; he inspires them."
"Inspires them?" Nemeh’s voice is cold, laced with skepticism. "It’s more the promise of blood and glory that draws men to him. Second Brother has always been… single-minded."
"Perhaps," Qaloron agrees with a sigh, looking at Nemeh with an almost wistful gaze. "But it’s that certainty, that single-mindedness, that may serve him—and our people—well." He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, "If there were any doubts before, I see now our future lies safe between the hands of you three. With Puripal’s cunning, Noga’s ambition, and your own insight—yes, I think our line will endure."
Nemeh’s jaw tightens. "Insight," he echoes, his voice low and sharp. "Perhaps you see insight, Father. But I see the cracks. You rely on us too much—trust in dreams too freely. What if Little Puripal never returns, or Brother Noga’s ambitions blind him to sense?" He lets the words hang in the air, cold and deliberate, his eyes hard as iron.
Qaloron studies his son for a long moment, the weight of his gaze meeting Nemeh’s unflinching stare. "You underestimate your brothers, Nemeh. But perhaps," he says, his voice dropping, "it is only because you do not yet see what you all could build together."
"Perhaps," Nemeh replies tersely, though a note of doubt creeps into his voice. He looks at his father, his mouth twisting as if he wants to say more. But then, with a stiff bow, he steps back. "Then I’ll leave you with your certainties, Father."
As he turns to leave, his father’s voice calls softly after him. "Be wary of your doubts, Nemeh. They can lead a man to ruin if he lets them fester."
Nemeh pauses, the gate looming before him, and he turns his head just enough for his father to catch the glint of something dark in his eyes.
"Or," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, "they can lead a man to strength."
He steps into the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silence, each one striking the stone with a slow, ominous beat.
As Dukar, Puripal, and Ta approach the Agan-An encampment, the barren desert shifts to a sparse oasis where tents of dyed cloth dot the landscape, their vibrant colors a welcome contrast to the pale sands. The Agan-An chieftain, Turgun, a young man with piercing eyes and a tall, lean frame, stands surrounded by his closest advisors. He watches the newcomers approach with an expression both guarded and eager.
Puripal dismounts first, brushing the dust from his clothes and offering a respectful bow. Turgun’s eyes flicker with recognition, his stern face breaking into a slight smile as he extends a hand, welcoming Puripal and his companions with the practiced grace of a leader.
“Welcome, Prince Puripal of Yohazatz,” Turgun says, his voice carrying a blend of formality and warmth. “You honor the Agan-An with your presence.”
Puripal inclines his head, his expression one of genuine appreciation. “The honor is ours, Chieftain Turgun. It’s been too long since Yohazatz has been able to send true allies such as yourself the respect you deserve.”
Turgun’s gaze sharpens, and he gestures for them to follow. “Come, we’ll speak more within the warmth of our tents. The sands are too cold for the conversations we must have.”
Inside the largest tent, richly adorned with woven tapestries and fur-covered seats, Turgun gestures to a low table laden with food and drink. He takes a seat opposite Puripal, while Dukar and Ta settle themselves nearby, observing the scene intently.
As Puripal and Turgun exchange the first pleasantries, Turgun studies him, his gaze unwavering. “I must admit, Prince, it’s been some time since Yohazatz has shown interest in the Agan-An.”
Puripal leans forward slightly, choosing his words carefully. “It’s true. We’ve been caught in battles on many fronts. But the loyalty of the Agan-An has not gone unnoticed. Yohazatz holds its true friends close, even in silence.”
Turgun’s mouth tightens into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. “Loyalty is a dangerous trait here, Prince. The Moukopl would have us kneel before them, but that’s not where my allegiance lies. The Agan-An have been waiting for Yohazatz to show us the next step. Tell me—how much longer do we need to endure the Moukopl's shadow?”
Puripal’s gaze meets Turgun’s, steady and unflinching. “The time is soon, Chieftain. My father, Qaloron Khan, has been gathering strength, strategizing for the right moment. And the time to reclaim what’s ours is nearly upon us.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
A flicker of eagerness flashes in Turgun’s eyes, though he masks it quickly. “Words of war stir the heart, Prince, but they don’t dissuade suspicion. Moukopl dogs are not blind, and they watch me closely. To show outright loyalty to Yohazatz would mean risking the lives of my people.”
Puripal nods, showing respect for Turgun’s caution. “I understand, Chieftain. You are wise to protect your people first. But that is precisely why we are here—not to put you in harm’s way, but to give you a means to protect the Agan-An, a path that can slip through Moukopl’s grasp without raising alarms.”
Turgun leans back, folding his arms thoughtfully. “And what exactly do you propose, Prince Puripal?”
Puripal leans in, his voice dropping just enough to draw Turgun closer. “A route through Agan-An lands that allows us to move undetected to Pezijil. No fanfare, no armed display. We do not seek open conflict on your territory, only safe passage for a handful of... traders.”
Turgun raises an eyebrow, catching on quickly. “Traders, is it?” He smiles, a slight edge to it. “Perhaps if the Moukopl ask, I might even confirm that I saw merchants, unaware they held any allegiance to Yohazatz.”
Puripal’s expression remains composed, though a hint of satisfaction glimmers in his eyes. “Precisely, Chieftain. We wish to pass as quietly as the sand drifts.”
Turgun nods slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of a cup before him. “And how many ‘traders’ might we be expecting?”
“Only those you see here,” Puripal replies, his tone casual yet firm. “A small caravan, inconspicuous yet with purpose. No more than necessary.”
Turgun studies Puripal’s face, his own expression carefully measured. “The Moukopl will suspect I’m aware of your movements.”
Puripal inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Which is why we won’t involve you beyond this arrangement. You know as well as I do that the less you know, the less Moukopl can twist to their advantage.”
Turgun considers this, then nods, a grudging respect in his gaze. “You’ve chosen your words well, Prince. I’ve waited for Yohazatz’s orders with patience, but the truth is, the Agan-An have always wanted more than to be the Moukopl’s lapdogs. Their rule is a burden we bear until we are free of it.”
Puripal’s gaze sharpens. “Then perhaps you can take comfort in knowing that your patience has paved the way for a time when the Agan-An will have their choice of allegiances once more.”
A spark ignites in Turgun’s eyes as he leans forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Very well, Prince. I will disguise your party as merchants bound for Pezijil, carrying goods from our tribe. It will look like nothing more than a routine caravan, invisible against Moukopl’s expectations.”
A smile of relief softens Puripal’s features. “Your trust is not misplaced, Chieftain. When the time comes, Yohazatz will not forget who helped light the path.”
Turgun’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile. “Then consider it done. The Agan-An will make certain your journey continues as swiftly and quietly as a shadow in the dunes.”
In the dimly lit captain’s cabin of the Blood Lotus, Shan Xi reclines in her chair, boots kicked up on the table while Lizi stands before her, ledger in hand and an exaggerated look of disbelief on her face.
“So, explain this to me, Captain,” Lizi starts, flipping through the ledger. “Our stock of dried fish was supposed to last three more weeks, but after last night’s... celebration”—she raises an eyebrow—“we’re down to what, two days?”
Shan Xi shrugs, waving a hand dismissively. “Perhaps the fish developed legs and jumped off. Or maybe they were just too delicious to resist.”
“Right. Just like the barrels of rum that ‘evaporated’,” Lizi says with a grin. “At this rate, the only thing we’ll have left to drink is the sea itself. Or maybe the lantern oil if we’re feeling creative.”
Shan Xi leans back, smirking. “Good thing we’ve got those creative types on board. Keeps life interesting. Besides, maybe we’ll just find another town to ‘shop’ in soon. Keep your spirits up, Lizi!”
Lizi rolls her eyes. “Captain, I think you’re forgetting we nearly drank that last town dry.”
“That’s what happens when you run a crew of seasoned enthusiasts.” Shan Xi grins. “Besides, consider it a bonding experience.”
Lizi can’t help but laugh. “Right, I’ll just tell the ladies to bond over salted air next time.”
They leave the cabin, stepping onto the deck where the Blood Lotus rocks gently on the waves. Lizi leans in, lowering her voice, as if sharing a secret. “By the way, Captain, our new friends from Tepr are looking more restless than ever. Maybe it’s getting close to Pezijil, or maybe it’s something to do with that... unfortunate accident with their friend.”
Shan Xi raises an eyebrow. “It’s not so easy to be calm when you lose someone, I imagine. Hard for them, but they’re tough.”
Lizi snickers. “I didn’t even notice someone was missing until I heard a couple of them moping around. The only difference I saw was that our corner of the ship finally had some space!”
“Give them some credit,” Shan Xi says with a grin. “They’re from the land—everyone’s close-knit on solid ground. It’s weird for them not to know who’s who.”
Lizi nods, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Yeah, I guess keeping track of people matters to land folk. Personally, I’d struggle to name half our crew.”
“Half?” Shan Xi raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s ambitious. I’m aiming for a quarter, tops.”
At that moment, Na’Er sidles up, eavesdropping on the conversation and looking around in mock confusion. “Well, if you ask me, it’s Fol that’s changed the most since that Tepr business.” She nods subtly towards the bridge, where Fol strides with an unusually intense expression, his Khan trailing behind him like a shadow.
Shan Xi squints at him, then smirks. “Looks the same to me. Boy, still got two legs, still got his brooding look. What exactly changed?”
Na’Er laughs. “I dunno, Captain. Before, he was just... mopey. Now, he’s dangerously mopey. Didn’t you see him kick that barrel into the ocean yesterday? Practically vaporized it.”
“Pfft,” Shan Xi waves her hand dismissively. “Barrels are fragile. I don’t see any difference in the boy. Besides, I don’t waste time memorizing personalities. The only names I bother with are the ones who bring me breakfast on time.”
Lizi chimes in, “Funny you should say that—guess who was supposed to bring breakfast yesterday?”
Shan Xi grins. “Ah, I knew I missed someone’s name on my ‘reliable’ list.”
Just then, Fol strides up the bridge, his gaze dark and intense as he approaches a group of pirates in his path. With a fierce expression, he delivers a swift kick to one who stumbles out of his way, yelping as he does. “Move aside! Make way for the Khan!” he bellows, his voice carrying across the deck.
Shan Xi raises an eyebrow, amused, and looks back to Na’Er with a shrug. “See? Nothing’s changed. That’s just what we call pirate enthusiasm. Ask Nono to give him some of her magic potion. He’s just hangry and needs soup, I tell you.”
Na’Er snorts. “Pirate enthusiasm, huh? Not what I’d call it. Boy’s as grim as a storm cloud these days. I’m telling you, he’s changed.”
Shan Xi sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I’m just proud he’s finally got some volume to him. Remember when he first came on board? Could barely muster a ‘hello’ without stuttering. Look at him now, practically bellowing.”
Lizi chuckles. “Yeah, next thing we know, he’ll be reciting odes to the Khan in his sleep.”
Naci approaches the pirate who is rubbing her side where Fol’s boot had made contact. Her expression softens as she places a steadying hand on the pirate’s shoulder, giving her an apologetic nod.
“Apologies for my companion’s,” Naci says, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “He’s still learning to move with the waves rather than against them.”
The pirate grins through a wince, brushing off the dust. “If he’s half as fierce in battle, we won’t mind a bit of footwork on deck.”
Naci laughs lightly, then turns to Fol, who stands rigid, eyes still fixed ahead. “Fol,” she says gently, “save that fire for our enemies.”
Fol glances down, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as he mutters, “Yes, Khan.”
At that moment, Temej strides out of his cabin, catching sight of Naci. His gaze is intense, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he speaks, his voice low. “A moment, Naci.”
Naci nods, excusing herself from Fol and approaching Temej. She studies him as she nears, noticing the tension in his stance, the tightly held grip on his belt, the way his eyes refuse to settle.
Temej’s mouth opens as if to speak, but before he can, a shout slices through the salty air.
“Pezijil in sight! The dragon’s heart is ours to grasp!”
The call surges across the deck, filling every corner with a breathless urgency. Naci and Temej exchange a glance, then, without a word, they turn and sprint to the edge of the ship.
As they reach the rail, Pezijil emerges on the horizon, sprawling and magnificent, a city that pulses with life even from a distance. Stone walls stretch toward the heavens, towers rising like darkened spears against the lightening sky. The sheer enormity of the place, the scope of its walls and the tightly clustered rooftops, is a stark contrast to the rolling wilderness they’ve crossed.
The port bustles with life even at this hour, ships of all sizes dotting the harbor, their masts reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Further inland, the city unfurls in waves of stone and brick, its heart marked by a colossal, fortress-like structure that looms over everything else—a palace as much a prison as a throne.
For a moment, neither Naci nor Temej speaks. The city holds them captive in its shadow, the weight of their journey and purpose pressing down like the mountains from which they passed through. Naci’s hand grips the railing tightly, her gaze unyielding.
“This is it, Temej,” she murmurs, barely a breath. “We’re here.”
Temej nods grimly. “What awaits us here?” He asks to the spirits of Tepr, but, so far from home, none can respond.