Your yurt seems unusually cold when you find yourself back inside it a few minutes later. In the dim light of the oil lamps, you can see the faces of the others gathered there, looking despondently at the empty throne that was your father's. In reality, the throne is but a simple chair of carved wood. It is one of only a few in Tar-Domos, light enough to be taken with the tribe on its journeys around the steppe.
Kral is the first to speak. "We must concentrate on what we know," he says. "While this news is bleak indeed, it does not spell the end for our tribe. We must look to the future."
"And what future is that?" rasps Drazha. "My brother is dead. That is what we know. Many of our warriors are dead. That we know, too. What future can there be, Kral, save to negotiate with Zhan-Ukhel for our lives?"
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