Dawn claws its way up over the Tengr mountains, spilling pale gold across the plateau like a fresh bruise turning yellow. The grasses ripple in long waves, bending and straightening as if the land itself is breathing. Smoke from a hundred cookfires threads upward, and the smells—mutton fat, sour mare’s milk, singed wool, crushed juniper—hang low in the air like a blessing and a warning.

  By the time the sun clears the ridge, the camp is already loud.

  Someone is beating a drum made from an old enemy’s shield. Someone else is arguing with a goat that refuses to be ceremonial. Children sprint between yurts wearing new ribbons, shrieking like they’ve been promised an apocalypse made of sweets. Eagles circle overhead, their shadows sliding over the ground like dark hands.

  Bimen wakes inside a yurt, wrapped in furs that smell faintly of horse. For a stunned heartbeat he doesn’t remember where he is. Then he remembers everything at once. His heart gives a slow, confused thump, as if checking whether he still has a right to beat.

  He lies still and listens.

  Outside, laughter erupts, raw and bright. A child squeals. A dog barks like it’s announcing war. Somewhere, someone yells, “WHO STOLE MY BOOTS,” in the tone of a man whose entire lineage has been insulted.

  Bimen closes his eyes.

  Strangely, he feels… at peace.

  It irritates him immediately.

  He sits up, blinking in the warm dimness. Someone has left a bundle of clothes neatly folded beside his sleeping mat.

  The outfit is Tepr: heavy wool trousers, a tunic stitched with simple red thread, a sash that looks like it could double as a tourniquet. There is even a fur collar, because apparently in Tepr you are not dressed until you resemble a slightly pampered predator.

  Naci offered it to him the night before with a grin that suggested it was both a gift and a joke. Bimen, Great Admiral of the Moukopl Empire, Minister of Navies, wearer of silk, drinker of delicate teas—had accepted it because refusing felt like admitting fear.

  Now he pulls it on.

  It fits. Of course it fits. Tepr clothing doesn’t care about rank.

  He steps out of the yurt.

  The camp hits him like a wave.

  Fol’s family has effectively turned half the plateau into a festival. Ropes of colorful cloth flap between poles. A line of women is roasting meat on spits longer than Bimen’s patience. Someone is brewing a cauldron of something that smells like fermented regret. Men are wrestling for sport, for pride, for goats. Someone has painted a horse’s face with spirals, and the horse looks personally offended.

  Bimen stands there a moment, stunned by the scale of it. He has attended imperial ceremonies with ten thousand kneeling bodies and a silence sharp enough to cut tongues. This is chaos that feeds you and then dares you to complain.

  “Ah,” Bimen says out loud, because it seems the only proper response. “Barbarism. How… thorough.”

  A figure barrels toward him.

  Not a warrior. An old man with broad shoulders, a stubborn jaw, and the posture of someone who spent decades ordering armies and has only recently learned that age is allowed to argue back.

  Tseren.

  Bimen’s brain makes the connection half a second too late. His breath catches. His eyes widen.

  He recognizes that face from old reports, old paintings, old rumors in the Northern Bureau’s hallways. The Moukopl general who vanished. The one the court spoke of as if he’d evaporated into myth.

  Tseren squints at him. “You,” he says, as if pointing at a memory. “You’re the admiral.”

  Bimen straightens by instinct, spine snapping into formal arrogance. “Great Admiral,” he corrects automatically, then hates himself for it.

  Tseren’s mouth twitches. “Here you’re just a man, you know.”

  Bimen glances down at his Tepr tunic, the sash, the fur collar. He exhales sharply. “I am not.”

  Tseren laughs, a rough sound like a wheel turning over gravel. “You look like a respectable goat.”

  Bimen’s eye twitches. “That is not a compliment.”

  “It is in Tepr,” Tseren says cheerfully, then leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing state secrets. “Are you shocked?”

  Bimen’s gaze flicks over the camp again: the number of Banners, the number of faces that should not exist in the same place.

  Bimen swallows. “Yes,” he admits, then forces himself to add, “and offended.”

  Tseren nods as if that explains everything. “Tepr is the place anyone who longs for freedom goes to,” he says simply.

  Bimen stares at him. “Freedom is not a place.”

  “It is if you ride far enough,” Tseren replies.

  That sentence hits Bimen in the ribs in an annoying, inconvenient way.

  Before he can conjure a proper imperial rebuttal, a familiar voice slices through the air.

  “Father!” Naci barks from behind them. “Stop recruiting my captured admiral into your philosophy.”

  Bimen turns.

  Naci strides toward them. She’s in a wedding-day outfit that still manages to look like armor: fur at her shoulders, red thread at her cuffs, her braids tied with a silver ring that catches light like a blade edge. Her smile is bright enough to make fools feel safe.

  Tseren’s expression shifts immediately into argumentative fatherhood. “He asked.”

  “I did not ask,” Bimen says quickly, because he refuses to be adopted into anything without paperwork.

  Naci points at Bimen’s tunic. “Look at you,” she says, delighted. “You’re practically clan.”

  Bimen’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I am not—”

  Naci points at Tseren. “And you,” she says, “are supposed to be helping with wedding logistics, not loitering like a lost monument.”

  Tseren bristles. “I can help.”

  “Forget it,” Naci replies with devastating affection. Then she leans in and—without warning—shoves him.

  It’s not a violent shove. It’s the kind of shove siblings do. It still makes Tseren stumble like the earth betrayed him.

  Bimen, in shock, says, “You push your own father. WAIT, YOU’RE THE DAUGHTER OF THAT GENERAL?!”

  Naci grins. “Unfortunately. If you want, that makes us Moukopl kin, admiral. Now. You two. Go play xiangqi.”

  Bimen blinks. “What.”

  Naci makes a vague shooing motion at them like they’re chickens that keep wandering into a war council. “Go,” she repeats. “Argue over elephants and cannons on a board. You’ll love it. I am busy.”

  Tseren grumbles, but there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes. “You’re bossy.”

  Naci’s smile turns sharper. “Yes.”

  She pivots away before either of them can protest further, already calling across the camp, “WHO LET THE CHILDREN STEAL A SWORD AGAIN—”

  Bimen watches her go, mind reeling.

  Tseren claps Bimen on the shoulder. It’s the kind of clap that could dislocate a lesser man. “Come,” he says. “We’ll play.”

  Bimen’s pride flares. “I won competitions.”

  Tseren beams. “Good. Then you can lose with dignity.”

  Bimen follows, grumbling, and realizes—horrifyingly—that he is almost smiling.

  ...

  On the other side of the camp, Temej stands beside a pile of wedding supplies—cloth, rope, carved wooden charms—staring down at the object in his hands with the wary expression of a man who has seen poison and recognizes it.

  It is a small bundle wrapped in fabric. The fabric is tied with a neat bow.

  Temej knows bows are never innocent.

  He unties it anyway, because curiosity has killed many men and apparently he wants company.

  The cloth falls away.

  Inside is a dead fish.

  Not rotten. Not slimy. Just… dead, stiff, and incredibly out of place, its glassy eye staring up at him like accusation.

  Temej stares. Then he slowly turns his head.

  Kuan stands nearby pretending to be deeply interested in a child’s stick-sword duel, which is suspicious because Kuan is never interested in anything that doesn’t involve either spirits or humiliation.

  Temej’s eyes narrow. “Kuan.”

  Kuan doesn’t look up. “Yes, beloved.”

  Temej’s jaw tightens. “Did you—”

  Kuan finally turns, blinking innocently. “Did I gift you a fish?”

  Temej lifts the fish. “This.”

  Kuan’s face brightens in genuine delight. “Oh! Someone gave you a bride-price. How traditional.”

  “This is not traditional,” Temej says, voice flat.

  Kuan tilts his head. “In some coastal clans, it is.”

  Temej’s stare deepens. “We are not in a coastal clan.”

  Kuan shrugs, unbothered. “Traditions travel. Like fleas.”

  Temej takes one step forward, fish in hand like evidence. “Kuan,” he repeats, and there’s a warning in it now.

  Kuan lifts both hands. “Not me.”

  Temej’s brow furrows. “Not you?”

  “Not me,” Kuan repeats, with such sincerity it almost convinces the air.

  Temej stares at him another beat, then exhales sharply and says, “Then help me find who did.”

  Kuan’s grin turns fox-bright. “Gladly.”

  They walk through the camp, Temej holding the fish like a cursed relic, Kuan strolling beside him as if this is a sacred quest. They pass children wrestling. They pass women painting symbols on the bride’s veil. They pass men arguing over whether a horse counts as an auntie if it has raised three foals.

  Kuan scans faces with lazy amusement. Temej scans for threats with soldier instincts he hates.

  Then, behind a stack of firewood, a giggle.

  A flash of dark hair. A glint of mischief.

  Temej’s eyes go sharp. “Meicong,” he says.

  Meicong freezes mid-sneak, the way a rabbit freezes when it realizes the grass has teeth. Then she straightens, feigning innocence. “What?”

  Temej holds up the fish.

  Meicong’s face breaks into pure pride. “Oh, you found it!”

  Temej’s eyelid twitches. “Why.”

  Meicong shrugs. “You look too serious. We’re fixing you.”

  Meicao pops her head out from behind the woodpile too, expression serene as if she’s not part of a conspiracy. “You were going to throw it in the river,” she says. “We saved it.”

  Meibei appears last, holding another fish. “There are more,” she offers helpfully.

  Temej’s mouth opens. No sound comes out at first, because his brain is trying to decide whether murder is socially acceptable at weddings.

  Kuan leans in to Temej, whispering with theatrical solemnity, “Do not kill them. It will ruin the atmosphere.”

  Temej’s voice finally arrives, thin and lethal. “You did this.”

  Meicong lifts her chin. “Yes.”

  Temej looks at Kuan. “You are supposed to keep your siblings from becoming criminals.”

  Kuan shrugs. “They were criminals before me. I just taught them to enjoy it.”

  Meicong grins. “He’s a bad teacher.”

  Temej stares at the fish, then at the sisters, then at Kuan, and something in him deflates with a tired sort of humor. “Fine,” he says. “I accept your… fish.”

  Meibei nods solemnly. “Good. It symbolizes abundance.”

  Temej rubs his face with his good hand. His other arm hangs heavy, a constant reminder that bravery is not free.

  Kuan watches him, and his grin softens just a fraction.

  “You were scared at sea,” Kuan says suddenly, conversational.

  Temej’s head snaps up. “What.”

  Kuan keeps his gaze on the sisters, as if he’s talking about weather. “You were scared. I saw it. I smelled it. You smelled like iron and prayer.”

  Temej’s jaw tightens. “Everyone is scared at sea.”

  Kuan shakes his head. “No. Some people are stupid at sea.”

  Meicong beams. “That’s true, look at Bimen.”

  Kuan’s eyes slide back to Temej. “You are too injured to go to the front again,” he says, voice gentler now, but still sharp.

  Temej’s mouth twists. “I must do what Naci and Horohan tell me.”

  Kuan’s smile fades entirely. He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You are free,” he says. “The freest man in Tepr, even.”

  Temej’s brows knit. “That’s—”

  Kuan taps Temej’s chest lightly with two fingers, as if marking a drumbeat. “You care for eagles. You ride where you want. You have already survived the worst thing that could have happened to you.” His gaze sharpens. “Be more selfish.”

  Temej’s throat works. He looks away, as if staring at the plateau will make his feelings smaller.

  Meicao, strangely soft, says, “You deserve to rest.”

  Meicong adds, “Also if you die, who will be our favorite target.”

  Temej huffs a laugh despite himself. “Your concern is moving.”

  Meicong bows. “We are very tender.”

  Kuan’s grin returns, slightly feral. “Go,” he tells the sisters. “Find someone else to traumatize.”

  The sisters scatter, giggling, leaving Temej with his fish and his thoughts.

  Temej exhales, looking at Kuan like he wants to argue. He doesn’t. He just nods once, small.

  Kuan’s grin widens. “Good. Now throw the fish at Borak. He’ll deserve it.”

  Temej laughs.

  ...

  In a different yurt, Fol is being prepared like an offering.

  The men inside look like they’ve been told to perform a ritual they don’t fully understand but intend to do correctly out of stubborn love.

  Dukar stands near the entrance with his arms folded, watching with the same expression he wears at war councils.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Ta lounges on a trunk like a half-healed cat, neck scar hidden beneath his collar, eyes alert even while he pretends to relax. His mouth is already curved in a smirk.

  Fol sits on a stool, hair being braided by one of his sisters, cheeks flushed with the uncomfortable attention of someone who is about to be publicly loved.

  His brothers circle him, offering advice as if marriage is a battle formation.

  “Don’t blink too much,” one says.

  “Blink a lot,” another contradicts. “It makes you look humble.”

  “Don’t say anything about her eyes,” a cousin adds urgently. “She’ll think you’re lying.”

  Dukar clears his throat. “Complimenting someone’s eyes is not lying.”

  Everyone turns to stare at him as if he just announced he intends to fight a bear with philosophy.

  Ta snorts. “Dukar,” he says, sweetly, “you have the romantic instincts of a stone.”

  Dukar’s gaze flicks to Ta. “And you have the manners of a goat.”

  Ta beams. “Thank you.”

  Fol’s sister tightens his braid too hard. Fol hisses. “Ow.”

  “Pain builds character,” Ta says.

  Fol glares. “You’re not helping.”

  Ta leans in. “I’m bonding. Yesterday I met you. Today I’m emotionally invested in your survival.”

  Fol’s brother points at Dukar. “Is he always like this?”

  Dukar answers flatly, “Worse.”

  Fol exhales. “I’m going to die.”

  Ta pats his shoulder. “Yes. But romantically.”

  Dukar’s mouth twitches. “You’ll be fine,” he tells Fol, and the simplicity of it lands like something solid.

  Fol looks at him, surprised. “You think so?”

  Dukar nods once. “You love her,” he says. “She loves you. That’s already more preparation than most rulers ever have.”

  Ta’s eyes flick to Dukar, amused. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Giving blessings. You’re practically an auntie.”

  Dukar’s stare hardens. “Say that again and I will throw you out.”

  Ta sighs. “Violence. Always violence. Fine.”

  Fol’s mother shoves a cup into Fol’s hands. “Drink,” she commands.

  Fol sniffs it. “What is it.”

  His mother smiles too widely. “Confidence.”

  Fol drinks. His face contorts. “That’s fermented horse milk. You know I hate it.”

  “It builds confidence,” she repeats, satisfied.

  ...

  Outside, away from the densest knot of celebration, Puripal stands by a fencepost like a shadow.

  He has chosen the side on purpose. He is always choosing edges. Edges are safer. Edges let you watch without being watched. They let you breathe without someone mistaking it for weakness.

  The camp swirls with laughter and cloth and smoke.

  Puripal stands still.

  Then he notices someone else standing still.

  Yile sits on a low rock near a stack of firewood, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture immaculate even in a place that laughs at immaculateness. His face is turned toward the noise, but his eyes are elsewhere—far enough away that they could be watching a different life.

  Puripal walks over. His steps are quiet. He has learned how to move without announcing himself.

  Yile doesn’t startle. He only lifts his eyes when Puripal is close, expression unreadable.

  They had hated each other once. Eight years ago, hatred was easy. It was a clean line to draw through chaos.

  Now, with all the blood that has happened since, hatred feels like a childish hobby.

  Puripal stops beside him. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  Yile’s mouth twitches. “Breathing,” he says.

  Puripal huffs. “Besides that.”

  Yile looks out at the camp, at the people who belong to one another in messy ways. “I have nowhere else to go,” he says simply.

  Puripal’s gaze drops for half a beat. “Same.”

  Yile studies him. “Then why aren’t you celebrating with the others?”

  Puripal’s eyes flick toward the far yurt where laughter erupts again. “I have a bad experience with weddings,” he says, tone almost conversational.

  Yile’s brows lift slightly. “That is… a way to say it.”

  They stand in silence a moment, two men shaped by palaces and cages, watching a camp that treats joy like a form of defiance.

  Yile glances sideways. “Are you…” he searches, then settles for honesty, “all right?”

  Puripal blinks. The question hits him like a small stone thrown at armor. Not damaging. Just… unexpected.

  “I don’t know,” he admits.

  Yile nods as if that is the most reasonable answer in the world.

  From somewhere behind them, a voice yells, “PURIPAL!”

  Dukar’s voice.

  Then Ta’s, sharper: “Stop brooding, you dramatic snake! Come be useful!”

  Puripal closes his eyes briefly, as if savoring the insult. Then he opens them and looks at Yile.

  “Come,” he says.

  Yile blinks. “Where.”

  Puripal gestures toward the noise. “With us.”

  Yile’s throat tightens. “You want me there?”

  Puripal’s expression stays mild. “If you stay here alone, someone will adopt you into an auntie circle and you’ll die.”

  Yile’s mouth opens, then closes. Then, with the cautious obedience of someone who has learned to accept offered hands before they vanish, he stands.

  They start walking.

  Dukar and Ta appear a moment later, both moving fast, both looking relieved and annoyed at the same time.

  Ta sees Yile and stops mid-step. “Oh,” he says. “The ghost is coming too.”

  Yile’s lips twitch. “Hello.”

  Ta narrows his eyes. “Don’t be polite. It makes me suspicious.”

  Puripal gestures at them both. “He’s with us.”

  Dukar looks at Yile for a beat, then nods once. “Good,” he says, as if adding another person to the group is as simple as adding another blade to a belt.

  ...

  Naci finds Kuan and Temej near the edge of the camp, where the wind is colder and the noise slightly less likely to bite.

  Kuan is crouched, drawing crude shapes in the dirt for a circle of children. Temej stands behind him like a guard who has been assigned to protect a fox and is regretting his career choices.

  Naci strides up, hands on hips. “Kuan,” she says, “your siblings are playing pranks on everyone.”

  Kuan doesn’t look up. “That is their love language.”

  “They need a leash,” Naci says.

  Kuan tilts his head. “So do you.”

  Temej’s mouth twitches, faint. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

  Naci notices.

  Before she can say anything, the ground vibrates with something small and determined.

  An army appears.

  Toddlers, children, cousins’ cousins, all armed with sticks, ribbons, and the unholy confidence of beings who have never paid a tax.

  They swarm Naci from all sides.

  “AUNTIE KHAN!”

  “HORSE!”

  “PLAY!”

  One child grabs her belt. Another tugs her braid. A third tries to climb her leg like she’s a tree.

  Naci, who has faced cannons, who has stared down empires, who has set people on fire and watched them scream, looks briefly terrified.

  Kuan cackles. “Behold,” he says, delighted. “Your true enemies.”

  Naci tries to step back. A toddler latches onto her boot.

  She exhales. Then she does what Tepr does with anything that can’t be defeated: she embraces it with teeth.

  She scoops the boot-toddler up and swings him gently, making him shriek with laughter. Another child immediately offers her a pinecone like a tribute. Naci accepts it solemnly, as if crowned.

  Kuan rises and joins in, pulling silly faces, making a scarf into a “spirit serpent” that chases children in circles. They shriek and run and then immediately chase it back.

  Temej watches them.

  His eyes soften, and then they sharpen again with something else—something older, heavier, the slow ache of a man who has been useful for too long.

  He swallows. He steps forward.

  “Naci,” he says.

  Naci pauses mid-laugh. She turns, still holding a toddler under one arm like a sack of grain. “Yes?”

  Temej’s voice comes steady, which is how you know it costs him. “I resign.”

  The wind seems to still for a heartbeat, as if the plateau itself leans in.

  Kuan stops too. The children, sensing the shift without understanding it, quiet slightly, clustered like curious birds.

  Naci’s face changes—not shocked, not angry.

  Temej continues, eyes fixed on hers. “I can’t fight for you anymore,” he says.

  Naci’s mouth opens. No words come at first, because there are too many possible words and most of them are wrong.

  Temej’s jaw tightens. “I’ve done what you asked,” he says. “I’ve done what Horohan asked. I’ve done what the war demanded. And now… I can’t. Not again.”

  Naci’s throat works. Her gaze flicks over him—over the exhaustion, the quiet trembling in his fingers, the way his eyes are trying not to beg for permission to be human.

  She steps forward and—without ceremony, without pride—she sets the toddler down gently on the ground.

  Then she takes Temej into her arms.

  It’s not a delicate embrace. Naci does not know how to do delicate. It is fierce and warm and absolute, like she is physically holding him in the world so he doesn’t drift away.

  Temej freezes for a heartbeat, then his shoulders sag. His breath shudders out of him like something finally allowed to die.

  Naci’s voice is low, close to his ear. “You have done more than enough,” she says. “More than any oath could demand. More than any ruler deserves.”

  Temej’s throat tightens. “But you—”

  “I am not the only thing that matters,” Naci cuts in gently. “You are free.”

  The words land.

  Free.

  Temej’s face crumples. He makes a sound that is half laugh, half sob, then he cries—quiet at first, then with the helpless honesty of someone who has held his tears like a weapon and finally set them down.

  Kuan watches, eyes unexpectedly soft. He doesn’t mock.

  The children, as if receiving a sacred command, swarm Temej like a blessing.

  One offers him a dried berry cake. Another shoves a sticky sweet into his palm. A third pats his knee with serious tenderness, as if comforting a wounded animal.

  “Snack,” a toddler announces solemnly, pushing a piece of honeyed bread at him.

  Temej takes it with shaking fingers, tears still on his face, and for a moment he looks utterly bewildered by the simple mercy of sweetness.

  ...

  In the low light of Naci and Horohan’s yurt, Khanai lies curled like a storm cloud that has decided to nap, her white flank rising and falling slow. Three cubs cling to her belly in a messy knot of stripes and paws, nursing with the ruthless focus of tiny tyrants.

  Horohan sits cross-legged beside them, one hand sunk into Khanai’s ruff, fingers scratching the thick fur behind her ear. The tiger’s eyes half-close. Her tail flicks once, lazily, like she’s dismissing the entire concept of enemies.

  Kelik, all sharp cheekbones and sharper disappointment, kneels near the hearth and warms a cloth over the embers. Borak sprawls nearby with the casual sprawl of a man who has never respected furniture.

  Horohan rubs Khanai’s jawline, gaze snagging on the cubs.

  Borak leans in, squinting at the smallest cub as it kneads Khanai’s belly with needle paws. “That one has Temej’s face,” he announces.

  Horohan’s hand pauses mid-scratch. “No,” she says flatly.

  Borak points as if presenting evidence at court. “See the seriousness? The judgment? That’s my brother. Even as an infant, he looked like he was disappointed.”

  Kelik snorts, finally glancing over. “Temej never nursed like that,” she says. “He bit.”

  Horohan’s mouth twitches. “He did bite,” she admits, and the memory arrives like a small stone thrown at her ribs: a boy with windburned cheeks trying to pretend he doesn’t care while he follows her everywhere, carrying her practice sword twice his size, insisting he isn’t tired.

  She pets Khanai again, slower now. “When we were little,” she says, “Temej used to follow me to the ravine and insist he could climb down with one arm.”

  Borak’s grin flashes. “He fell all the time.”

  “He fell,” Horohan agrees, unrepentant. “And then he got up and told me it was on purpose.”

  Kelik folds the warm cloth with careful hands. “He kept falling after he grew,” she says. “Just off different cliffs.”

  Borak’s smile dims a fraction, then returns sharper. “At least now he has an excuse,” he says.

  Horohan looks down at the cubs again, watching them wriggle, their tiny ears twitching at sounds they don’t understand. “What do we call them,” she asks.

  Borak brightens. “I vote for ‘Knife,’ ‘Other Knife,’ and ‘Bigger Knife.’”

  Kelik’s glare could set wool on fire. “You will not name my grandcubs like weapons.”

  Borak lifts a hand innocently. “They’re not yours."

  Horohan watches one cub unlatch, sneeze milk onto its own paw, then latch again as if nothing happened. “I’ll name them after virtues,” she says, deadpan.

  Borak taps the side of his head. “Ah yes. ‘Patience,’ ‘Restraint,’ and ‘Not Biting Your Aunt’s Hand.’”

  Khanai, as if hearing the suggestion, opens one eye and fixes Borak with a look that says: I will bite whoever I want.

  Borak bows slightly. “My apologies, Lady Tiger.”

  Horohan scratches Khanai’s chin. “Where did you disappear to,” she murmurs, voice turning sharper. “I was ready to hunt you across the plateau.”

  Khanai’s ear flicks, unimpressed.

  Horohan’s gaze drops to the cubs again and softens. “You were busy making problems,” she mutters, almost fond.

  Kelik finishes her cloth and sets it aside, then turns fully toward Horohan. Her eyes are tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “Speaking of problems,” she says, voice low.

  Horohan doesn’t look away from Khanai. Her hand stays buried in fur. “Yes,” she says.

  Kelik’s mouth tightens. “He should stop going to war for you.”

  Horohan’s jaw flexes once. “I know.”

  Borak adds, quieter, “He’s weak. Wounded.” He searches for the word and finds it anyway. “Kind.”

  Horohan’s eyes flick toward him. “He is not weak,” she says sharply.

  Borak holds her gaze without flinching. “He is gentle,” he corrects. “And that’s rare. And now that Tepr is strong, now that we have Banners and clans and enough teeth to bite back—he needs to stay home.”

  Kelik’s voice turns flint-hard. “He needs to tend to eagles. He needs to live long enough to become old and annoying. He’s done bleeding for your glory.”

  Horohan exhales slowly through her nose. She keeps petting Khanai like the motion is the only thing keeping her from snapping. “It was never for our glory,” she says.

  Kelik’s eyes narrow. “Then whose was it.”

  Horohan’s mouth tightens, and she has the grace not to answer.

  A cub lets go and begins to crawl clumsily toward Horohan’s knee, tiny claws catching on felt. It reaches her, head wobbling, then—without permission—starts to chew on her thumb.

  Horohan stares at the cub, then at the small teeth. “Even your children are disrespectful,” she tells Khanai.

  Khanai closes her eyes again, as if to say: Good.

  Horohan gently pries the cub’s mouth off her thumb and sets it back against its mother. Then she sits up straighter. The air in the yurt shifts. Kelik’s shoulders tense.

  Horohan reaches to her own belt and pulls out her ceremonial dagger. She flips it in her palm once, then plants its tip into the packed earth beside her knee.

  It looks like a vow.

  She turns to Kelik and bows her head, formal. Not playful. Not teasing. The kind of apology that takes a piece of pride and lays it down where anyone can step on it.

  “I apologize,” Horohan says, voice steady.

  Kelik blinks, caught off guard by sincerity. Her mouth opens, then closes. Her hands tighten in her lap.

  Horohan lifts her eyes. “I swear,” she says, and the word is heavy, steppe-heavy, old as the plateau. “On the wind that raised me. Temej will never be called again.”

  Kelik’s eyes shine for a heartbeat. She looks away quickly. “Good,” she says, too rough. “Because if you did, I would drag you by the hair back to your yurt and lock you in it until you learned to knit.”

  Borak makes a choking sound. “Mother, no—”

  Horohan’s mouth twitches. “Knit,” she repeats, horrified.

  Khanai flicks her tail as if applauding.

  Outside, a louder drum begins to beat—slow at first, then steady, then joined by another. The sound carries through felt and bone. The day is sliding toward dusk, and with it comes the moment the camp has been running toward like a horse toward water.

  Horohan pulls her hand free of fur, reluctantly. Khanai makes a small sound—half huff, half complaint—then tucks her head down again, cubs wriggling into place.

  Borak stands, stretching. He places his hand on Horohan’s head and strokes gently. “If you name them,” he says, pointing at the cubs, “I still vote for ‘Knife.’”

  Kelik throws a small cloth at his head.

  ...

  The sun drops low enough that the grasses turn copper, every stalk edged in light. Smoke from the cookfires rises straight for once, as if even the wind has agreed to behave for a few hours.

  The camp gathers in a wide ring around the central firepit, where fresh logs are stacked in a careful shape and sprinkled with herbs—juniper, bitter root, something that pops and crackles when it burns, like laughter. Torches mark the perimeter.

  Jinhuang stands near the edge of the circle with Naci at her shoulder, chin lifted, trying very hard not to look like she wants to bolt. Fol stands opposite with his family clustered behind him, looking like he has been dressed, braided, and threatened into respectability.

  Lanau steps forward first.

  She wears her shaman paint tonight: pale lines across her cheekbones, dark spirals at her temples, symbols that make her face look like a map the spirits might recognize. Her eyes sweep the crowd, sharp and steady, as if she’s counting blessings and potential disasters.

  Kuan steps beside her with absolutely no reverence in his posture, which is impressive given he is about to invoke powers that, in Tepr, are taken seriously enough to start wars over. He has dressed for the occasion too—sort of. His robe is clean. His belt pouch is full of things that clink. His grin is already insolent.

  Lanau shoots him a warning look.

  Kuan whispers back, “Relax. If the spirits wanted decorum, they wouldn’t have made me.”

  Lanau’s nostrils flare. “If the spirits wanted punishment, they would have made you.”

  Kuan’s grin widens. “They did.”

  Naci mutters under her breath, “This is why I drink.”

  Lanau raises both hands. The drums quiet. The camp quiets too, a thousand bodies leaning inward.

  She speaks in Tepr first—low, rhythmic, old words that taste like smoke. She calls the wind. She calls the plateau. She calls the ancestors who still sit in the grass.

  Kuan echoes her in a different register, murmuring something that sounds like prayer and insult braided together. He flicks a pinch of salt into the firepit, then a pinch of flour, then—because he cannot help himself—a pinch of something that sparks green for a heartbeat.

  Lanau’s head snaps toward him.

  Kuan smiles innocently. “Festive.”

  Lanau continues without murdering him, which is its own miracle.

  She gestures Jinhuang forward.

  Jinhuang steps into the circle. Firelight catches her hair, the braids Naci fought through earlier now neat and heavy with small charms borrowed from half the camp. Jinhuang’s wedding veil—more curtain than embroidery, as promised—hangs sheer over her shoulders. She looks like someone dressed in softness while holding a blade under her tongue.

  Lanau places a hand on Jinhuang’s forehead and murmurs a blessing.

  Kuan, not to be outdone, leans in and says loudly, “May your marriage be less painful than mine.”

  There is a beat of silence.

  Yile, standing near the back, coughs once and stares hard at the ground as if the earth is fascinating.

  Lanau’s glare could strip paint. “You’ve never been married.”

  Kuan smiles. “Exactly.”

  A laugh ripples through the crowd, relieved and warm.

  Lanau turns to Fol and motions him forward.

  Fol steps into the circle like a man walking toward an execution he has agreed to. His family looks proud and delighted and slightly predatory, the way people look when they’re about to gain another person to boss around.

  Lanau blesses Fol too—palms to his cheeks, low words, a breath that smells of herbs and winter.

  Kuan steps in and adds, “May you survive.”

  Fol blinks. “That’s—”

  “Encouragement,” Kuan says.

  Lanau lifts a carved wooden bowl filled with mare’s milk, its surface frothy and white. She holds it out to Jinhuang first.

  Jinhuang takes it with both hands. The milk trembles slightly.

  Lanau speaks. “Drink, and let the wind witness you.”

  Jinhuang lifts the bowl and drinks.

  The milk hits her mouth like a slap—sour, sharp, alive. She swallows anyway. Her eyes water. She does not flinch.

  She passes the bowl to Fol.

  Fol drinks too, grimacing. His brother behind him whispers, “If you spit it out, we disown you.”

  Fol swallows, coughing a little, then holds the bowl up as if challenging the sky.

  Lanau nods, satisfied. She gestures them toward the firepit.

  “Circle,” she commands.

  They circle the unlit logs three times—once for the past, once for the living, once for whatever comes after. The crowd hums softly with each turn, a chorus of voices that sounds like the plateau itself talking.

  On the final circle, Lanau stops them at the edge of the pit. She takes a strip of red cloth and binds it around their wrists together, knotting it tight. The knot sits between their hands like a shared wound.

  “Now,” Lanau says, voice carrying. “Speak.”

  Jinhuang’s throat works. She glances at Fol. His face is flushed, eyes bright, smile trembling at the edges like he’s trying not to laugh or cry.

  Jinhuang inhales.

  “I…” she starts, then pauses, and the camp holds its breath with her. She lifts her chin. “I choose you,” she says simply, and the simplicity hits harder than poetry. “Even when you annoy me. Especially when you annoy me.”

  Fol’s grin breaks. “Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because you terrify me.”

  The crowd erupts in laughter, warm and approving.

  Lanau looks pleased despite herself.

  Kuan wipes an imaginary tear. “So romantic,” he murmurs, loud enough for several aunties to hear.

  Lanau snaps her fingers. A child runs forward with a torch. Lanau lights the central fire.

  The logs catch. The herbs crackle. Flame blooms upward with a hungry sigh, throwing light across a circle of faces.

  Lanau lifts both hands again. “Spirits,” she says. “Witness.”

  ...

  Meat arrives on platters the size of shields. Bread arrives in stacks that look like fortifications. Someone pours fermented mare’s milk into cups with the solemnity of a priest dispensing penance.

  People sit in circles that shift constantly as cousins drag one another to join, as elders demand updates, as children climb laps without asking permission.

  Lizi and Lanau find each other in the chaos. They sit too close, once again.

  Sen sits with Pragya and Pragati, quietly making sure they eat, her hands moving in small, competent gestures. The twins laugh once—small, startled—and it feels like watching a bird test its wings.

  Tseren moves through the feast like a man trying to hug everyone and receiving mixed reviews. He corner-hugs Dukar so hard Dukar’s face turns a shade darker.

  “Father,” Dukar grunts, voice strangled. “Air.”

  Tseren pulls back, eyes shining.

  Puripal sits near Dukar, quieter than most, but his eyes track everything. When someone shoves a cup into his hand, he drinks like he is making peace with the concept of sweetness. Yile sits nearby too, and when Puripal nudges a plate toward him without comment, Yile takes it with a small, private tremor of gratitude.

  Ta laughs too loud at something Meicong says, then winces and pretends he didn’t.

  Kuan drifts through it all like a fox through a henhouse, stealing bites, stealing jokes, stealing everyone’s patience. He ends up near Temej at some point and whispers something that makes Temej’s mouth twitch despite himself, which is basically a miracle.

  And Bimen—Bimen is drunk.

  Not the elegant Moukopl drunk where your cheeks flush and you recite poetry about falling leaves. This is Tepr drunk, which is a state of being where your soul comes out, sits on your shoulder, and starts confessing humiliations to strangers.

  He sits with Tseren and Yile and several people who have adopted him into their circle without his permission. His Tepr sash is slightly crooked. His hair is loose. His dignity has been eaten by a dog.

  “I lost,” he says, voice thick with betrayal. “Again.”

  Tseren pats his shoulder. “You fought bravely.”

  “I fought with strategy,” Bimen snaps, then deflates. “And it meant nothing.”

  Yile’s mouth twitches. “Welcome to life.”

  Bimen points at the board. “Your elephants move like demons,” he accuses Tseren.

  Tseren squints. “They’re… elephants.”

  “They’re traitorous elephants,” Bimen insists.

  Someone refills his cup.

  Bimen drinks again.

  ...

  As night deepens, the camp begins to peel away from the feast in layers.

  Fol and Jinhuang rise first, hands still loosely bound by the red cloth. The crowd erupts into teasing, wolf-whistles, auntie shrieks that sound like war cries.

  “RUN,” someone yells at Fol. “SHE’LL EAT YOU.”

  Jinhuang lifts her chin and says, very dignified, “He volunteered.”

  Fol grins, then blushes, then lets himself be dragged toward their marital yurt amid a hail of laughter and thrown flower petals.

  Naci and Horohan stand next.

  Horohan looks like she’s ready to flee. Naci looks like she’s ready to pick a fight with the moon.

  They exchange a glance, something private passing between them—memory, teeth, warmth. Then they leave together, shoulders brushing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  Dukar stands after them, stretching, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off celebration. Puripal rises too, quieter, and they move off in the same direction.

  The fire burns lower.

  Temej sits still for a long moment, watching the flames consume the last of the herbs, sparks rising and dying. His face is calmer than it has been in years, and that calm looks strange on him, like a new garment.

  He finally stands.

  The motion is careful. His injured arm hangs heavy, but his spine is straight.

  He turns away from the fire and begins to walk into the dark.

  And, of course, Kuan follows him—quiet as mischief, grinning like he’s planning another prank.

  Behind them, Bimen slaps a hand down.

  “I lost all the games,” he repeats, voice cracking with tragic outrage.

  Yile, sighing, hands him a cup of tea that he accepts before falling over, snoring.