PART 1
The wind does not merely blow here—it sings. It howls across the Tepr plateau like a chorus of ancient spirits, bending the endless sea of golden grasses into rippling waves that crash silently against the horizon. This is a land where the earth and sky are lovers, locked in an eternal embrace. By day, the sun scalds the steppes, turning the plains into a furnace of shimmering light. By night, the cold bites with fangs of frost, and the stars burn so fiercely they seem ready to plunge like meteors into the waiting jaws of the Tengr mountains.
The Jabliu tribe's yurts rise like scattered pearls on the plateau's vast breast, their felt walls dyed in shades of ochre and crimson. Smoke curls from their peaks, thin gray threads that spiral upward until they dissolve into the indifferent blue. Around them, the land thrums with a primal heartbeat. Herds of wild horses gallop in the distance, manes streaming like banners of war, their hooves pounding the earth into a thunder only the steppes can conjure. Antelope dart between the swaying grasses, fleeting shadows too swift for even the golden eagles that circle overhead, their talons curled like scythes. Rivers carve silver scars through the soil, their banks crowded with willow trees that weep into the current, their branches trailing like the unbound hair of mourning widows.
At the edge of the encampment, where the grasses grow tallest and the wind carries the iron scent of distant storms, Naci stands alone.
The bronze mirror in her hands is ancient, its surface pocked with age, yet it catches the dying light of the sun and hurls it back in shards of liquid gold. Her reflection is a paradox—a chieftain's daughter clad in the armor of tradition, yet her eyes blaze with the restless fire of a creature that refuses to be tamed. Her tunic, heavy with beadwork, is a tapestry of crimson threads, amber beads, and black wool. The garment is a masterpiece. It itches like a cage.
Naci's fingers brush the tattoo on her collarbone, the skin still raised and pink at its edges. The Jabliu emblem is fresh, inked just weeks ago during the bloodrite ceremony. The elders had chanted as the bone needle pierced her skin, their voices merging with the drone of the ceremonial dopshul. "A mark of honor," her father had said, his calloused palm warm on her shoulder.
She tilts the mirror, and the light shifts. For a moment, the reflection is not her own but that of the steppes themselves—the yurts, the horses, the rivers that vein the land like cracks in pottery. The wind snatches a loose strand of her hair, black as a raven's wing, and whips it across her face. She does not flinch. Her body, honed by years of racing Liara across the plateau and sparring with warriors twice her size, is a map of contradictions. Lithe yet powerful, her arms bear the faint scars of blade and bridle, and her hands, though adorned with silver rings, are calloused, their grip firm enough to strangle a wolf or cradle a newborn lamb. Or the other way around.
Behind her, the encampment stirs. Women grind barley into flour, their stone pestles clicking rhythmically against mortars. Men mend fishing nets, their laughter rough and bright as they trade stories of the hunt. Children dart between the yurts, their cheeks smeared with dirt and honey, clutching sticks they brandish as swords. The air hums with the smell of roasting mutton and smoldering juniper, smoke clinging to the senses like a memory.
Naci turns away from the mirror and lets her gaze sweep the horizon. Somewhere beyond those mountains, the Moukopl Empire sprawls, its shadow stretching across the plateau like a vulture's wing. The tribes whisper of their cruelty—of villages razed for refusing tribute, of children taken as hostages to ensure compliance. But the Jabliu have survived worse. They are the children of the wind and the dust, born from the steppes' marrow. They bend but do not break.
Her fingers tighten around the mirror's handle. Tomorrow, she will don the bridal veil, its fabric so sheer it feels like breathing. Tomorrow, she will ride to meet the Alinkar groom, her horse's hooves kicking up clouds of dust that will linger in the air like ghosts. Tomorrow, the threads of her life will knot with a stranger's, binding two tribes into a fragile alliance. But tonight, she is still Naci of the Jabliu—wild, untamed, her heart a storm trapped in a ribcage.
The wind shifts, carrying the distant cry of an eagle. Naci lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing against the glare. High above, the bird circles, its wingspan vast enough to blot out the sun. For a heartbeat, she imagines herself in its place—unfettered, soaring on currents of air, the world reduced to insignificance beneath her.
...
Naci perches on the edge of a weathered wooden cart, her boots scuffing grooves into the dirt as she swings her legs like a child. She plucks a stalk of feathergrass, twirling it between her fingers, its silken threads catching the light like strands of stolen gold. The air thrums with the distant clang of blacksmiths honing blades and the murmur of elders debating tomorrow's wedding rites. But Naci hears none of it. Her mind is already galloping beyond the horizon.
A shadow falls across her.
"Brooding again, little devil?"
Dukar leans against the cart, arms crossed, his voice a low rumble that carries the weight of a thousand unsolicited lectures. He wears his role as eldest son like a second skin: leather armor polished to a gleam, hair braided tight to his scalp, a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders despite the day's lingering heat.
She flicks the feathergrass at him. "Brooding implies regret. I'm scheming."
He catches the stalk midair, his lips quirking. "Scheming to embarrass Father at the ceremony? Swap the ceremonial wine with fermented mare's milk again?"
"Too obvious." Naci hops down, dusting her hands on her trousers. The motion sends her beads clattering—a sound like bones rattling in a gourd. "I was thinking of releasing a dozen grass snakes into the Alinkar's bridal tent."
Dukar's laughter is a rare, rough sound, like boulders grinding in a riverbed. "You'd doom us to another decade of blood feuds."
"Feuds keep life interesting."
"Feuds keep graves dug." He straightens, the amusement fading from his eyes. "This isn't a game, Naci. The Alinkar aren't some border clan to taunt. They have memory longer than the steppes, and claws sharper."
She turns away, her gaze snagging on the distant figure of Liara, her mare, grazing beside the river. The horse's white coat gleams in the sun. Naci's fingers itch for the reins. "You think I don't know that?" she mutters. "You think I'd shackle myself to a stranger for fun?"
For a moment, they stand locked in silence, the wind threading through the space between them like a needle. Then Dukar sighs, his shoulders slumping—a rare concession. "Remember the goat skull?"
Naci blinks. "What?"
"When you were eight. You swapped Grandpa Tarun's ceremonial headdress with that rotting goat skull." A faint smile tugs at his lips. "The stench lingered for weeks."
She grins, despite herself. "He looked better with horns."
"Mother nearly killed you."
"But she didn't. Because I stopped her."
Naci's chest tightens. She turns away, her eyes stinging. The memory unfolds unbidden—
"Why did you take the blame?" she whispers now, the words torn from her throat.
Dukar's answer is a blade slipped between ribs: "Because you weren't ready to bear the weight."
As he walks away, Naci's gaze drops to the dirt. There, half-buried, lies the feathergrass stalk—crushed beneath his boot, its golden threads splayed like broken wings.
…
The sun dies in a blaze of crimson, its final light staining the mountains the color of fresh blood. Shadows stretch across the plateau like grasping fingers, and the wind, once a playful companion, now carries a metallic tang—a scent foreign to the steppes, sharp and cold as a blade's edge. The Jabliu tribe gathers in silence, their faces turned toward the horizon where three figures emerge, blackened silhouettes against the dying day. Even the horses grow still, their ears pinned flat, nostrils flaring at the stench of oiled steel and ambition.
The Moukopl messengers ride as if the earth itself recoils beneath their mounts' hooves. Their horses, towering beasts bred in lowland furnaces, gleam like polished onyx, muscles rippling beneath coats slick with sweat.
Naci stands apart, her back pressed against the rough hide of her yurt, the chill of the wall seeping into her bones. The lead messenger dismounts, his boots crunching the brittle grass. Every step sends tremors through the earth, or perhaps it is Naci's pulse, a frantic drumbeat in her throat. Behind him, his companions unfurl a banner, its fabric deep green.
The chieftain, Naci's father, steps forward. In the flickering firelight, he seems diminished, his wolf pelt hanging loose on shoulders that once bore the weight of blizzards. His hands, calloused from decades of gripping reins and spears, tremble faintly at his sides. The Moukopl messenger towers over him, a monolith of iron and contempt. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp, the sound of a saw grinding through bone.
The words are lost to Naci, drowned beneath the roar of her own blood. But she sees their effect. Her father's spine stiffens, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at his belt. The tribe presses closer, a murmur rising like steam from their ranks. An elder spits into the dirt; a mother clutches her child to her chest. The messenger does not flinch. He extends a gauntleted hand, palm upturned, and in it rests a scroll sealed with wax.
The chieftain takes it. His fingers leave smudges on the pristine parchment, marks of sweat and soil. As he breaks the seal, the crack echoes like a snapped spine. The scroll unfurls, its edges fluttering like moth wings. Naci does not need to read the jagged script to understand. She sees it in the way her father's breath hitches, in the vein throbbing at his temple. The Moukopl demand more than grain, more than horses. They demand a tithe of flesh—young warriors to swell their armies, daughters to serve in their granite palaces.
A low growl ripples through the tribe. The Moukopl messengers remain motionless. They do not fear these people of grass and wind. Why would they? The Jabliu are insects beneath the empire's boot, their defiance as inconsequential as a gnat's buzz.
Naci's gaze shifts to the mountains, their peaks swallowed by gathering storm clouds. The tribes whisper that the gods dwell there, that they carved the steppes from celestial stone and breathed life into the first horses. But the mountains offer no solace now. They loom, silent and impassive, as though already mourning what is to come.
The chieftain's voice, when it comes, is a shadow of itself. He speaks of compromise, of harvests shared and herds culled. The tribe's murmurs swell into a chorus of disbelief. A man hurls his drinking horn into the fire, the flames leaping hungrily as the vessel blackens and splits. Naci's mother, Gani, stands rigid beside her husband, her face a mask of carved stone. Only her eyes betray her—a flicker toward Naci, swift and searing.
The messenger turns, his helm rotating with a rusty whine, and for a heartbeat, his gaze locks with Naci's. Her breath catches. They are the eyes of a thing that has never known fear, never tasted doubt.
As the messengers remount, the lead rider pauses. From his saddle, he withdraws a small object wrapped in silk and flings it into the dirt at the chieftain's feet. The fabric falls away, revealing a desiccated hawk's skull, its beak pried open in a silent scream. A warning.
The tribe watches, motionless, as the Moukopl vanish into the gathering dark. The wind rises, howling through the yurts, snatching embers from the fires and hurling them skyward like dying stars. Naci's father sinks to his knees, the scroll crumpled in his fist.
…
The yurt smells of rosewater and dread.
Sunlight filters through the smoke hole in the ceiling, slicing the dim interior into ribbons of gold and shadow. Naci sits cross-legged on a pile of sheepskins, her spine rigid as a spear, surrounded by a fortress of fabric. Rolls of silk spill across the floor like a plundered rainbow. Her mother and aunts orbit her, their hands fluttering like sparrows, armed with needles and scissors.
Aunt Lura, whose braids are streaked with more silver than black these days, hums an off-key wedding hymn as she attacks Naci's hair with a comb carved from a stag's antler. Each tug is a minor act of war. "When I married your uncle," she chirps, yanking a knot loose, "I had seven suitors duel outside my yurt at dawn. By noon, two were dead, and the other five were vomiting from the mushroom wine I gave them. Simpler times!"
Naci's scalp throbs in time with her pulse. "And here I thought weddings were about love."
Aunt Tali snorts, nearly dropping the pot of kohl she's using to paint intricate swirls around Naci's eyes. "Love? Pah! Weddings are about alliances. And cake. Mostly cake." She leans in, her breath reeking of fermented mare's milk. "Did I tell you about the Alinkar groom's cousin? The one with the—"
"—pretty dark eyes and the scar?" Naci finishes dryly. "Only six times. He's not your age, you know, Auntie?"
Gani, Naci's mother, says nothing. She kneels by the hearth, her calloused fingers stitching feverishly at a bolt of ivory silk. The wedding robe—a Jabliu heirloom passed down through eight generations—is a masterpiece of embroidery, its sleeves heavy with scenes of ancestral hunts and mythical beasts. Or it would be, if Naci hadn't "accidentally" used the back of it to practice her knife throws. The fabric gapes with jagged holes, the threads frayed and singed at the edges.
"Stop squirming," Aunt Lura commands, driving another bead into Naci's braid. "You look like a child swatting at bees."
Naci forces her hands to her lap, where they twist the fabric of her trousers into crumpled peaks. Her gaze drifts to the pile of "bridal offerings" heaped in the corner—embroidered tapestries meant to prove her worth to the Alinkar. Or, in her case, to prove she once held a needle without impaling herself. The largest piece, a depiction of the Jabliu's sacred stallion, lists drunkenly to the left, its legs splayed as if mid-collapse. Another, intended to showcase the tribe's harvest bounty, features apples the size of boulders and a sheep with three eyes.
Gani's silence is a living thing. It crouches in the corner, sharpening its claws.
Aunt Tali misinterprets Naci's grimace. "Oh, don't fret about the Alinkar's expectations! Men are simple creatures. Feed them, flatter them, and occasionally let them win at dice. You'll have him wrapped around your finger by moonrise."
"Unless she stabs him first," Aunt Lura mutters, wrestling a braid into submission.
Naci's laugh is too sharp, a blade unsheathed. "I make no promises."
The women chatter on, weaving tales of their own weddings—of stolen kisses and drunken uncles, of dowries paid in sheep and grooms who forgot their own names. Their voices are warm, familiar, a balm Naci wants to bathe in and drown in all at once.
Gani rises abruptly, the wedding robe pooled in her arms like a slain swan. "Try this on."
The command is gentle, but Naci hears the edge beneath. She stands, shedding her tunic and trousers, and steps into the robe. The silk whispers against her skin, cool and foreign. Gani fastens the sash with hands that tremble—ever so slightly—before smoothing the fabric over Naci's shoulders.
"Well?" Naci spreads her arms, the sleeves swallowing her hands. "Do I look like a bride or a sacrificial lamb?"
Aunt Tali claps. "Radiant! Like a snow tiger in a silk trap."
Gani says nothing. Her fingers trace the largest tear in the fabric, a gash that runs from collar to hip, its edges blackened where a stray spark from the hearth caught it. Without a word, she reaches into her apron and withdraws a needle threaded with gold.
The women fall silent as Gani begins to sew.
Her stitches are a language Naci cannot speak. Tiny, precise, they climb the ruined silk like vines, weaving around the burns and gashes, transforming destruction into art. A jagged tear becomes a lightning bolt splitting a storm cloud. A charred patch blooms into a field of poppies, their petals edged in flame. The three-eyed sheep grows a fourth eye, then morphs into a constellation—the Wolf's Gaze, sacred to the Jabliu.
Naci watches, her throat tight. This is her mother's magic: the alchemy of turning scars into stories.
Aunt Lura sniffs. "Show-off."
"Hush," Aunt Tali whispers. "She's making it better."
Gani works until the last sliver of sunlight fades, until the yurt is lit only by the hearth's dying embers. When she steps back, the robe is no longer a relic. It is a rebellion.
"There," Gani says, her voice rough. "Now it's yours."
Naci turns to the bronze mirror. The figure staring back is a stranger—a woman draped in starlight and shadow, her eyes lined with kohl, her hair a constellation of beads and braids. The robe clings to her like a second skin, its scars gilded into beauty. For the first time, she does not see a prisoner. She sees a weapon.
Aunt Tali wipes her eyes. "You look… less likely to start a war."
"Give me time," Naci says, grinning.
Gani's hand brushes hers, fleeting as a moth's wing. "Remember," she murmurs, "threads can mend more than fabric."
Suddenly, the sky splits with a scream.
It begins as a tremor in the air—a vibration that hums through the marrow, that stills the breath of every living thing on the plateau. The horses prick their ears toward the horizon, their nostrils flaring.
Outside, anticipatory murmurs ripple through the tribe members as they direct their gazes towards the horizon, where three riders on horseback approach with steadfast determination. Majestically perched on the right arm of each rider, the eagles display an impressive wingspan, casting elongated shadows upon the earth.
Legends of the Alinkar's unparalleled bond with their eagles have long been whispered amongst the tribes, but to witness them in such proximity is a sight of profound awe. The riders are clad in intricately embroidered garments that glisten in the sunlight, their patterns emblematic of the Alinkar tribe's esteemed legacy and formidable reputation. Their very presence emanates an aura of might and majesty, solidifying their stature as one of the most revered tribes in the region.
From the entrance of her yurt, Naci discreetly observes the distinguished trio. Her heart flutters with anticipation as she meticulously studies their visages, contemplating which of them might be her betrothed. The man on the left possesses a rugged allure, his deep-set eyes and a prominent scar defining his jawline. The one on the right appears more youthful, perhaps on the cusp of his twenties, exuding an innocent charm.
However, it is the central figure that commands Naci's undivided attention. Towering and majestic, this rider radiates an undeniable authority and elegance. Her hair, an opulent flow of polished black strands intricately woven with braids embellished by minute silver bells, captures and refracts the sunlight in a celestial dance. Her discerning eyes, a profound shade of brown, survey their surroundings with unparalleled intensity. Her high cheekbones, accentuated by gracefully arched brows, and her defined jawline lend her visage an aristocratic beauty. Her sun-dappled skin, marked subtly with the vestiges of battles past, narrates tales of valiance and perseverance. She is garbed in sumptuous silks of deep purples and rich maroons, which contrast harmoniously with her rugged leather armor. Slender silver chains, which catch the sunlight with every nuanced movement, gracefully encircle her waist, while her robust leather boots disturb the dust beneath with every rhythmic hoofbeat. To Naci's astonishment, this formidable figure, the groom, is an unmistakable woman, whose presence significantly eclipses the two men accompanying her.
From her elevated vantage point atop the hill, she surveys the encampment with eyes that exude confidence. Her eagle releases a second, poignant cry, seemingly in homage to the all-encompassing sun.