Mo and General Han step out from the jade-inlaid doors of the palace, exchanging parting words about the meeting with the Emperor. The air in the courtyard is bright with midmorning sun, and the faint smell of polished stone and sandalwood drifts on the breeze. As they descend the short flight of marble steps, Shi Min stands at the bottom, half-hidden behind a carved pillar, her composure masked by a polite bow.
She advances with a measured gait, greeting General Han with a gentle smile. “General Han, good day. May fortune favor your tasks.”
Han offers a friendly nod, returning her courtesy. “And you as well, Governor Shi Min. A good day it is—though busy.” He flicks a glance at Mo, curiosity tugging at the edges of his eyes.
Mo clears his throat, forcibly polite. “General, if you’ll permit me a moment alone?”
Han arches an eyebrow but smiles. “Of course. I’ll wait by the arches.” With a respectful dip of his head to Shi Min, the general strides off, boots tapping faintly on polished stone.
Shi Min faces Mo in silence for a moment. She can’t hide the hints of tension that tighten her mouth. Mo offers her a cursory nod, then gestures toward an adjacent walkway. “Let’s find a quieter corner. We both need tea. I suspect we’ve had enough palace chatter for one morning.”
They walk side by side through a side garden, where rows of meticulously trimmed hedges and koi ponds line the path. A discreet pavilion stands just beyond, large windows open to a gentle breeze. Inside, a single attendant prepares tea with swift, graceful motions, bowing deeply as they enter. Mo and Shi Min seat themselves across a small lacquered table.
Mo waves off the attendant with an impatient flick of his hand. “We can pour for ourselves.”
The attendant departs, leaving Shi Min to measure out the tea in porcelain cups. Steam rises, perfumed with floral undertones.
Mo begins in a low voice, forcing a cordial tone. “I see you’ve been busy, Governor.”
Shi Min inhales, trying to steady her breathing. “I’ve found it eye-opening, Father.”
Mo stiffens at her address, but doesn’t deny it. He covers his reaction with a humorless chuckle. “And I suppose the Khan is more docile than we anticipated, hmm?”
“She’s… determined,” Shi Min admits, choosing her words carefully. “Certainly no lapdog, but for now she’s cooperating. I believe she wants to protect her people.”
“An idealist.” He sighs, stirring the tea with a delicate spoon. “They always start that way.”
She sets her cup down with deliberate calm, remembering the conversation she overheard the other night. She steels herself. “Father, why—” Her voice lowers, a flicker of anger in her eyes. “Why did you speak with Yile so… cooperatively? You’ve always loathed the eunuchs and their meddling.”
Mo flinches, then lets out a quiet sigh. “What you heard was a frank exchange, nothing more. I speak with those who hold power. That’s how the world works. We can’t all afford the luxury of moral high ground.”
She notices the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way he won’t quite look at her. “You used to speak of uprooting corruption.” Her voice carries a tremor she hates revealing. “Now you hand Yile the weapons of cooperation, betray your own ideals.”
Mo scoffs, lifting his cup. “Ideals mean precious little if they don’t shape reality, Little Min. Yile, for all his faults, is a channel to the Emperor’s ear. And I—” he hesitates, swirling the tea. “I hold what little influence I can, to do as much good as possible under these constraints.”
Her eyes flash. “So you posture in public, condemning eunuchs, and ally with them in secret?”
He sips, grimacing at the tea’s bitterness. “If you saw the bigger picture, you might understand. Moukopl’s bureaucracy is labyrinthine. Eunuchs like Yile keep the wheels turning, as much as I hate it.” Mo sets his cup down with an audible clink, yanking her from the memory. “Shi Min, you are naïve. Your devotion to honorable governance is admirable, but in reality—”
She leans forward, eyes blazing. “In reality, your cynicism has robbed you of hope. You claim the empire cannot be changed, so you bend to those who exploit it. I won’t do that.”
His mouth twitches in a half-sneer. “Bold words. But how many times have I seen such fervor? It always breaks against the empire’s immovable bulk. Ideals don’t feed the hungry or protect the innocent; power does.”
She shakes her head, her voice trembling with quiet rage. “Power without principle is what starves the innocent in the first place. If you truly believed power alone suffices, you wouldn’t have taught me to stand up for justice when I was a child. Or was that another empty lie?”
Mo’s face darkens. “Don’t turn my lessons against me. I taught you to survive in this monstrous machine. Do you think you can topple centuries of tradition by waving ideals about? You’ll be devoured.”
A charged silence crackles between them, father and daughter locked in a struggle of convictions. Shi Min draws in a slow, measured breath. “Then let me be devoured, but not by hypocrisy. I’ll continue my path. I will not become like you. I want to improve the empire from within—without compromising my soul.”
Mo opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to plead, but she rises before he can speak. Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “I’m grateful for what you once stood for,” she says softly, voice laced with sorrow, “Goodbye, Official Mo.”
She bows stiffly and turns away. The hush of the pavilion wraps around them like a cold breath. Mo watches her go, frustration twisting his features. He wants to call out, to demand she stay, but the words catch in his throat. Pride, exhaustion, and a hint of shame weigh him down.
Shi Min’s footsteps echo through the corridor, each step feeding her resolve, forging the steel in her heart.
Morning light slants through a ragged seam in the caravan’s canvas curtains, painting shaky golden stripes on Dukar’s dusty boots. He sits cross-legged atop a crate, arms folded, gaze flitting between Ta—who sprawls belly-down on a heap of blankets—and Puripal, perched with regal bearing on a wooden stool that looks one good wobble away from collapse.
A camel nearby snorts, rattling the wagon’s flimsy framework. Ta mumbles something about hating the smell of camel feces, adjusting his headscarf with a lazy flourish.
Puripal, ignoring Ta’s antics, steeples his fingers. “We can’t just wander back to Qixi-Lo empty-handed,” he says calmly, though a thread of annoyance tightens his voice. “My father expects fresh, valuable information from the Moukopl court—something we can negotiate with so the Tepr men can be freed.”
Dukar rubs his temples. The musty air inside the caravan has begun to feel suffocating. He shakes his head, dread creeping into his tone. “My disguise got figured out in a single day. I don’t want to set a foot in this city anymore.”
Ta bounces upright with surprising energy and smacks his palm on the crate, cutting Dukar off. “Why not lie? Just make up a grand story about Moukopl building a flying junk that shoots fireballs!” His eyes sparkle mischievously.
Puripal’s glare could pierce stone. “You idiot,” he snaps. “You think my father can’t sense a pack of nonsense from a mile away? One whiff of a fake rumor and he’ll have your heads.”
Ta’s shoulders slump dramatically.
A muscle twitches in Puripal’s jaw. “Your jokes tend to get people into more trouble than you realize.”
Dukar, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve, tries to focus on the solution rather than the obstacles. “Well, it’s not like I can just waltz into the Emperor’s throne room,” he mutters. “But...” He remembers San Lian, that old, semi-retired Moukopl soldier he crossed paths with. Though the man eyed him suspiciously, Dukar found him oddly civil for a Moukopl officer—less inclined to shove him into jails, more willing to share stories of the old days. Dukar inhales slowly. “If I find him again and befriend him—maybe I can milk some intel about the army structure.”
Ta’s mouth falls open in mock outrage. “You can milk an old soldier?! That’s kinda gross, Brother.”
Puripal throws Ta a look of utter exasperation.
Unfazed, Ta waggles his brows. “It’s a question of technique, Esteemed Brother. Maybe you should listen to his expertise.”
Dukar huffs, rolling his eyes. “I meant metaphorically,” he says through a slight grimace, “as in gleaning information from him.”
Puripal pinches the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. “If we could please keep our phrasing above an uneducated bastard’s humor level—”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Ta waves a lazy hand, flopping onto a rolled-up carpet in the corner of the caravan. “I’m a connoisseur of comedic phrasing.”
Puripal mumbles under his breath, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the caravan’s wooden bench. “So, let me get this straight: We’re banking on your ‘Bazhin’s-brother’ claim to charm old man San Lian—who just informed you that you really are Bazhin’s brother—and we hope he’ll spill critical Moukopl secrets over some cheap wine?”
Dukar shifts uneasily, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. He can still feel the echo of San Lian’s revelations rattling around in his head. “Look, it’s better than bursting into the Imperial Court, yelling ‘Hey, guess what, I’m the Tepr impostor who also discovered I’m the real General Bazhin’s sibling!’ That’d be a quick route to a public beheading.”
Ta’s eyes light up with mock inspiration. “Or—hear me out—you pretend to be deeply traumatized by the ‘brother’ discovery. I’ll pose as your loyal caretaker who can only communicate in interpretive erotic dances. San Lian, pitying our tragic drama, hands over every plan he’s got.”
Puripal’s mouth sets into a firm line, though his eye twitches with exasperation. “That is the worst plan I’ve heard in a week—and you’ve come up with some pretty awful ones.”
Dukar smothers a laugh, remembering a previous disaster involving Ta’s ploys. “We’re still washing donkey hair out of our clothes from your last stunt. No thanks, Ta.”
Ta puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me. And here I was, only trying to help.”
Puripal exhales sharply. “We need real intel. If this San Lian is half as wise as he seems, you’ll have to approach him with sincerity, Dukar. Pretend you’ve just discovered the truth about your lineage—because, well, you did. Remain calm, act a bit humbled by all this. He cared for Bazhin, so if he believes you’re related for real, he’ll want to help. Just don’t push too hard. Suspicion will get us killed.”
Dukar straightens, feeling a flutter of newfound determination. “Makes sense. And hey, at least San Lian doesn’t seem as likely to break my nose as Bazhin’s daughter was.”
Ta snorts, crossing his arms. “She nearly snapped you in half, that’s for sure.”
Puripal’s shoulders tense at the memory. “Focus. We can’t afford any more brawls in the city streets.”
Ta claps rapidly. “We have a plan that might not explode in our faces? That’s new.”
Puripal levels him with a withering stare. “Your optimism is comforting.”
…
Dukar slips into the winding streets of Pezijil, now dressed in his usual Tepr tunic and boots. The bustling crowds don’t spare him more than a sidelong glance, which is precisely what he wants. No more pretending to be some stern Moukopl general or wearing boots two sizes too big. He can finally walk without worrying about tripping over his own feet—or about incurring suspicious stares.
He meanders past stalls laden with spiced jerky and colorful clay pots. A few vendors call out prices, but Dukar waves them off with a polite smile. His attention isn’t on dried fish or hammered copper bowls; he’s on the lookout for a certain old soldier. Each time he spies a gray-haired man with a broad build or a stooped back, his pulse jumps—only to sink again when he sees some stranger’s face.
He stops by a small fountain in the center of a cramped plaza, water trickling down a carved stone dragon’s maw. A group of children dart around the fountain, squealing in delight, nearly colliding with Dukar. He steps aside with a muttered laugh. Under the draping shade of an awning, an old beggar hums a tuneless melody. Dukar considers asking him about San Lian, but something tells him prying too openly could invite the wrong ears.
As he turns to continue his search, he hears a quick whistle from above. Squinting, he finds Puripal perched on the rooftop of a blacksmith’s shop, crouched beside the smoke-blackened chimney. Puripal lifts a hand in greeting, beckoning Dukar closer. Dukar dodges a few passersby, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic to peer up at him.
“You’re picking some unusual vantage points,” Dukar calls softly, glancing around to make sure no one else notices. “Next time, maybe you can wave from the top of the imperial palace?”
Puripal’s grin is a white slash against the soot-stained bricks. “I’ll consider it. Only if you’re willing to foot the bribe for those guards with crossbows.” He shifts his position, sending a small cascade of dusty pebbles trickling to the ground. “Heard anything about San Lian yet?”
Dukar exhales, shaking his head. “No luck. Asked three times if folks have seen an older soldier with a face like a dried cactus. All I got were blank stares and one lady trying to sell me an ostrich-feather fan.”
Puripal arches a brow. “An ostrich-feather fan? You should’ve bought it.”
“You like this kind of useless stuff?” Dukar deadpans. “So you’ve also come up empty handed?”
Puripal drops down onto a ledge just below the roofline, leaning forward with an air of mild triumph. “Haven’t spotted any sign of San Lian’s hideout, but I did see someone else. Guess who?”
Dukar’s expression darkens. “Please don’t say Bazhin’s daughter—I barely escaped that last encounter with all my bones intact.”
Puripal chuckles. “Not her. Though I'd pay to see a rematch. It’s Bazhin’s wife.” He points somewhere toward the market district. “Saw her about a quarter-hour ago, picking up... whatever it is these Moukopl wives buy. She looked tense.”
Dukar’s stomach knots at the memory of her haunted eyes and the hollow sadness in her voice. “Not sure if she wants to see me. She was half-furious, half-heartbroken last time.”
Puripal raises an eyebrow. “You realize she might know exactly where San Lian is. They’re family friends, right? If you want to track him down, she’s your best bet.”
Dukar rubs the back of his neck, uneasy. “So I corner her and say, ‘Hello again, random man claiming to be Bazhin’s brother. Mind telling me the old soldier’s address?’ That won’t be weird and obnoxious at all.”
Puripal drops from the ledge in one smooth motion, landing with catlike grace on the street below. A passing blacksmith’s apprentice yelps in surprise, nearly dropping a bundle of iron rods. Puripal waves apologetically before turning to Dukar.
“Maybe try a softer approach,” Puripal says, stepping aside as a donkey cart rumbles by. “Tell her you’re sorry for the confusion and that you just want to talk. Use those sad eyes of yours. She might take pity.”
Dukar stiffens at the notion. “I’m not some puppy begging for scraps.”
Puripal smirks. “You sure? You’ve got that wounded, earnest look down perfectly whenever people bring up Bazhin.”
Dukar snorts. “Says the man perched on rooftops like an alley cat.”
With a quiet laugh, Puripal clasps Dukar’s shoulder. “I’ll keep a lookout in case things go south. I’ll trail behind you, invisible as a summer breeze. If you manage to talk with Bazhin’s wife, maybe she’ll lead you straight to San Lian. Then we can finally figure out our next step.”
And with that, they slip into the crowds again, weaving through the maze of Pezijil’s busy streets, one searching for the reluctant confidante he dreads to face, the other watching from the shadows, ever ready to offer a steadying hand if (or when) chaos ensues.
Naci sits at a low desk in the borrowed reading room, its paper-strewn surface a battlefield of scrolls, bound volumes, and official records. Pale morning light filters through a narrow window, glinting off the ink-stained metal nib she fiddles with. A dozen half-translated passages clog her mind, each more tedious than the last.
She flicks to the next page of a fat bureaucratic manual Sima delivered earlier. The words swim before her eyes, all talk of "imperial ordinance," "fiscal contributions," and "standard forms of address." It might as well be written in the secret code of some ancient crypt. She clenches her jaw, forcing herself to read one more line:
"Bow at precisely a sixty-degree angle to high officials of rank ‘Two Gilded Feathers’ and never exceed—"
Naci slams the book shut, teeth grinding. "Ugh, enough! Sixty-degree angle? Are they measuring with a protractor now?" She lurches upright, scattering parchment onto the tiled floor. "If I read another line of this nonsense, I’ll turn into a statue."
Temej, standing by the door, flinches at the sudden crash of scrolls. His face pulls into a wary smile. "H-Hold on, Naci. You’ve only—" He spies her expression and steps forward, hands lifted in a placating gesture. "Let’s calm down, yes?"
She spins around, fury sparking in her eyes. "I’m calm," she retorts, failing to sound remotely calm. "But if this damn eunuch thinks burying me in protocols is some brilliant tactic, he’s wrong. I’m done."
Temej takes a deep breath. "I know how you feel—"
"Do you?" Naci snaps. She picks up the thick manual, brandishing it like a weapon. "Because I’m about two heartbeats away from storming into Sima’s office and giving him a piece of my mind."
Temej grimaces. "That’s precisely what I’m worried about. You—uh—exploding at him. We don’t want to cause a diplomatic meltdown, right?"
Naci barks a laugh. "Diplomatic meltdown, huh? That’s exactly what Sima deserves—some meltdown to show him we’re not just mindless puppets."
Temej edges closer, voice lowered. "But think it through. This city’s basically a giant mousetrap. One misstep, and it slams shut on us. Remember the soldiers!"
She sets the manual down with exaggerated care, as if it might jump up and bite her. "So you want me to keep swallowing these endless instructions? Let them teach me which foot to step forward first when greeting the advisors? Or how many pearls I’m allowed to wear during the lunch hour?" She snorts, stomping on a fallen scroll. "I just want to go home! I miss my Horohan!"
Temej offers a pained grin. "If you roar into Sima’s office now, you’ll confirm every ‘barbarian’ prejudice they have. They’ll say, ‘Look, the savage Khan can’t handle a bit of reading without howling.’"
Naci crosses her arms, gaze darting around for something to throw. “Let them talk. At least my howling’s honest. Better than Sima’s sneaky backhanded flattery.”
Temej scrambles to gather the scattered documents. "What if—" he begins, voice muffled as he stoops— "you wrote him a note instead? A politely worded complaint about the thickness of these books? That’s more civilized, right?"
She levels him with a flat stare. "A ‘polite complaint?’ And sign it what— ‘Warm regards, The Barbarian’?"
Temej’s shoulders heave in a helpless shrug. "I’m open to suggestions, all of which involve you not catapulting yourself into Sima’s office with war cries."
Naci leans forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, Temej, I appreciate your caution. But these official volumes are turning my brain into soup. If I let them drown me in paperwork, I’ll never get anywhere."
Temej’s gaze flicks to the door, as if expecting Sima to appear at any second. "What if we just..." He hesitates, fiddling with the corner of a scroll. "What if we gather these and pretend we’ve read them? You know, wing it?"
Naci arches a brow. "You want me to lie? Or do half the job and fake the rest?" Despite herself, she smirks. "Sounds tempting, but Sima is exactly the type who’d quiz me on some obscure etiquette rule during dinner just to make me squirm."
"Yes," Temej concedes, "he would. He might ask how many times you’re supposed to tap your spoon on the rim of the bowl."
Naci scoffs, exasperated and amused. "Have these Moukopl ever heard of simpler living? I come from a land where if you tap your spoon too many times, someone steals your soup."
She stomps to the door, head held high. Temej hurries after her, an alarmed look on his face. "Naci, wait. Don’t do something—"
She glances back, that fierce glint in her eyes. "No, Temej. I’ve decided. I’ll give Sima a piece of my mind, but in a calm voice—well, calm-ish. I’ll demand real conversations, not a library of nonsense."
Temej exhales, half-laughing, half-terrified. "And if Sima calls the guards?"
A dangerous smile quirks her lips. "I’ll recite one of these etiquette lines about summoning a guard politely, then ask him which page it’s on."
Temej stares at her, uncertain whether to laugh or run for cover. But a slow grin forms on his own face. "Alright," he says softly. "Just... please promise not to flip his desk. Or break his nose. Let’s at least keep the illusions of civility."
Naci grunts. "No promises. But I’ll do my best not to lose my temper fully." She plants her hands on her hips. "Now, let’s see if I can reason with that snake before my head explodes from reading about ‘the correct angle of a bow.’"
Temej nods, stepping to the side, gesturing chivalrously for her to lead. "After you, Khan of Tepr. May Heaven bless us all, because this will be interesting."