Horohan stands at the entrance of his yurt, staring blankly at the vast horizon, painted in hues of twilight. The festivity around him seems distant, the loud cheers and joyful dances reduced to mere echoes in his ears.
Inside him, there is a storm brewing. A whirlwind of emotions, doubts, and fears that seem to threaten the very foundation on which he has built his identity. Horohan had always lived a life of duality. Born with the grace of a woman, yet bound by the expectations and roles of a man. The Alinkar tribe's customs and traditions had made it clear: he was born to lead and conquer. The weight of these expectations had been thrust upon him since childhood.
He rubs his palms together, reminding the battles he's fought, both against rival tribes and against the reflection staring back at him from still waters. He's wrestled with his identity for as long as he can remember. Each passing day was a testament to the dichotomy he felt—of being Horohan, the heir to Alinkar, and also being the soul that whispers a different truth in the silence of the night.
The union with Naci was to be another milestone, another layer added to the mask he wore. She was vibrant, fierce, a force to be reckoned with. The tribe had rejoiced at their union, seeing it as a bond that would bring unparalleled power and unity. But Horohan saw more. He saw the spark in Naci's eyes, her dreams, her ambitions. To tether her to a life with someone as fractured as him felt like an injustice.
He cannot let her be chained to his internal battle, his daily struggle for identity. She deserves more. More than a partner who can't offer her the whole of his heart, for half of it was still lost, searching for who he truly is.
The distant sounds of the steppe break his reverie. The sound of hooves, the rustling of grass, the distant laughter. It all seemed to ask him the same question, "Who are you, Horohan?"
As the night deepens, he takes a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. He knows that tomorrow would bring with it decisions, confrontations, and perhaps, revelations. But for now, he just lets himself be, standing amidst the vastness, a solitary figure grappling with the complexities of identity and love.
…
The world cracks open with Khatan's scream. Horohan jolts upright on his pallet, sweat gluing linen to his spine. Outside, the eagle's talons scrape furiously against the yurt's wooden frame, a sound like daggers dragged across bone. Dawn bleeds through the smoke hole—pale, tentative, reeking of last night's charred mutton and spilled politics.
"Peace, you feathered demon," Horohan rasps, stumbling into clothes still damp from yesterday's ceremonial sweat.
Khatan greets him with a murderous glare, wings mantled like a warlord's cloak. The bird's jesses strain against their perch, iron rings clinking a warning. Somewhere in the camp, a goat bleats. The eagle's head whips toward the sound, yellow eyes narrowing.
"No rabbit today," Horohan mutters, tossing a strip of dried venison. Khatan snatches it midair, gulping the morsel with a contemptuous flick of his beak.
Horohan kneels in the lee of the Ancestor Stones, their pockmarked faces streaked with centuries of blood and honey offerings. The wind carries the reek of last night's excess—sour milk, and the lingering musk of a hundred unwashed dancers. A pack of children races past, shrieking as they pelt a mangy dog with dumpling scraps.
"Sky Father, Earth Mother," he recites through gritted teeth, "bind our steps to—"
"—to the path of least suffering."
Horohan turns to find his mother, Lizem, looming behind him.
"Your devotions lack conviction." Lizem sighs, deftly sidestepping Khatan's warning snap. "Pray harder. The gods adore desperation."
The communal breakfast fire boils with chaos. Warriors pick barley from their teeth, trading boasts about beddings that definitely didn't happen. Elder Bataar holds court over the fermented mare's milk keg, his prodigious nose already florid. "—and then the wench," he slurs, sloshing kumis down his beard, "tried to stab her groom with a hairpin! I swear—"
Horohan's knuckles whiten around his bowl. Across the ashes, Naci's empty bridal seat gapes like a missing tooth.
"Eat," Lizem commands, thrusting a ladle of airag into his hands. The fermented milk's tang curdles on his tongue. "Starving yourself is a painful way to die."
He chokes. "I don't—"
Lizem flicks a gristle chunk at Khatan, who vaporizes it midair. "Relax. Half the camp's in love with you. The other half's in love with your father's herds."
The truth detonates softly in his gut.
Cleanup is a carnival of shame. Horohan wades through the wreckage—shattered cups, trampled garlands, a single embroidered slipper dangling from the Sacred Totem's left nostril. Nearby, three grandmothers wage war on a vomit-crusted carpet, their broom-handle jabs echoing ancestral spear techniques.
"Typical," snorts Erdene, an elder's daughter. She kicks a broken lute from her path, its strings snarled like a spider's last curse. "Jabliu drink like horses and vanish before dawn. Shame. I'd have shown their princess real hospitality."
"Good riddance!" someone yelps.
Horohan's retort dies as a shriek pierces the air.
The bridal yurt—his yurt—billows smoke. A gaggle of teens scatters as Old Tsogt storms forth, brandishing a smoldering boot. "Which milk-sop tried burning down the heir's quarters?!"
"Told you damp moss wouldn't catch," someone mutters.
By midday, the camp's wounds begin to scar over. Horohan works beneath the hammerblow sun. Women pause in their mending to admire his elegant beauty.
Khatan shrieks, launching into a spiraling ascent. The tribe watches the eagle climb, hands shading eyes against the sun's glare. A child's voice pipes up: "Will the scary princess come back?"
"Only if we're cursed," Batr guffaws, triggering a fresh wave of mirth.
Horohan turns away.
He finds the bridal dagger embedded in a post where Naci threw it, its edge still hungry. The hilt fits his palm like a returned secret. Nearby, the mangy dog from breakfast gnaws on a shredded veil—her veil, he realizes with a jolt. The beast growls as he approaches, guarding its prize with desperate valor.
"Keep it," Horohan murmurs. "Might fetch a bride of your own."
Dusk finds him at the Offering Pit, ancestral bones glinting dully beneath decades of ash. Khatan mantles on his arm, restless.
"She'll hate me," Horohan tells the dark.
The eagle twists, nipping his ear hard enough to draw blood.
Wrong, the pain sings. She'll eclipse you.
When the first stars pierce the velvet sky, Horohan slips into the horse pens. He presses his brow to the splintered wood, inhaling the ghost of Naci's rage.
...
The training grounds hum with the discordant music of clashing steel. Horohan strides past a cluster of young warriors battering straw dummies, their laughter sharp as they recount last night's feast disasters. "—burned the borts so badly even the dogs wouldn't touch it!" one crows, miming a speared hunk of charred meat. Their mirth dies when Horohan passes, replaced by hasty salutes.
He ignores them, fingers trailing over the hilt of his father's sabre—a relic from the Red Sand Campaign. The blade thrums against his thigh, restless. Ahead, the archery range lies littered with shattered clay targets, their shards glittering like spilled teeth. A trio of boys dart between posts, scavenging arrowheads while their grandmother heckles from a nearby yurt: "Steal one, and I'll tan your hides into waterskins!"
The rhythmic thunder begins as a tremor in his soles.
Horohan freezes mid-step, his shadow pooling black beneath the climbing sun. Across the steppe, dust spirals skyward in amber plumes. The sparring warriors pause, blades suspended mid-swing. Even the wind holds its breath.
"Horohan."
He slows down, straining his ears, trying to make sense of the sound's source. Emerging from the veil of dust in the distance, a silhouette grows clearer. A horse—not just any horse, but a magnificent white steed, its mane dancing like waves, reflecting the sun's golden rays.
Atop this majestic creature sits a rider, holding the reins with confidence and poise. As they come closer, Horohan's breath catches in his throat. It's Naci. Her dark hair flows behind her like a banner, her eyes focused and fierce, her posture the embodiment of grace and strength. The scene before him feels ethereal, as if he's been thrust into a living painting.
The morning sun bathes her in a gentle glow, accentuating her features, making her seem almost otherworldly. The juxtaposition of her tender beauty against the raw power of her mount leaves Horohan spellbound. Each stride of the horse, each gust of wind that flutters her attire, only adds to the enchantment.
As Naci gracefully brings her horse to a halt, dust swirling around them, the world seems to pause. For a few heartbeats, all that exists for Horohan is her—the woman who he's unintentionally hurt, the woman who now stands before him in all her glory, challenging the norms, defying expectations, and leaving him utterly mesmerized.
Naci's gaze meets Horohan's, her eyes revealing a tapestry of emotions—determination, anger, pain, but also a hint of vulnerability. She gracefully dismounts her horse, her feet barely making a sound as they touch the ground.
Up close, the scent of her cuts through the dust—sage and saddle leather, undercut by the acrid tang of sleepless fury.
He struggles to find words, his throat tight with the shock of her unexpected confrontation. "Naci," he finally manages, his voice betraying his surprise, "I thought you had left with your clan."
She tilts her head, a wry smile touching her lips. "Did you think I would run away so easily? I came here for answers, and I intend to get them."
Horohan's astonishment and vulnerability tangle within him, creating a storm of emotions. As he watches her, he finds it increasingly difficult to conceal the fluttering in his chest. "Naci," he says, voice tinged with exasperation, "I agreed to this marriage believing it was in the best interest of both our tribes."
Her gaze sharpens, a fierce determination evident. "You agreed to a decision for both of us, without knowing me. There's a difference."
He clenches his fists, the weight of his choices and the unfamiliar stirrings of his heart pressing down on him. "I thought I was doing our tribes a kindness. Freeing them from the threat of war through our union."
Naci steps forward, her poise unwavering. "Your kindness felt more like a strategy. And your assumptions feel like chains. I never asked for you to decide my fate."
Horohan narrows his eyes, attempting to shield the storm brewing inside him behind a wall of confusion and growing affection. "This isn't about what you want or don't want, Naci. It's about our tribes, their futures, and the legacy we leave behind."
She matches his intensity, her voice rising. "Legacy? Our tribes have survived for centuries without us being tethered in matrimony. Why use that as an excuse now?"
He grits his teeth, frustration evident. "Because times have changed! The external threats, the skirmishes at the borders… We needed this union, now more than ever."
Naci's laugh is bitter. "So, I'm just a pawn in your grand strategy? A mere token to be bartered away for peace?"
Horohan's face reddens, his voice cold and cutting, yet internally, he's wrestling with the realization of his growing feelings for her. "You're twisting my words, Naci. I entered this arrangement thinking it would spare both our tribes the chaos of war. I thought it would give us a chance at stability."
She takes a step towards him, her fury palpable. "You thought wrong. I'd rather stand on the front lines, fighting, than be handed over like property for the sake of an alliance."
He nearly shouts, "You're being naive! Sometimes we must make sacrifices for the greater good. This isn't just about you and me."
Naci's voice is sharp, "But it should be, at least in part. If we're to be wed, shouldn't my feelings matter? Or is this alliance more important to you?"
Horohan takes a deep breath, attempting to steady himself and conceal his conflicted emotions. "It's not about valuing one over the other. I just… I thought I was saving our tribes from the weight of this responsibility."
She stares at him, her voice laced with icy resolve. "Stop pretending to save everyone, Horohan. I can bear my own burdens, and make my own choices."
Feeling a flare of anger and an unexpected sting in his heart, Horohan responds, "So you want to challenge my decisions? Fine." He unsheathes his blade, the metal glinting menacingly under the sun. "Trade blades with me. If you win, I'll answer any question you have. If I win," his voice drops, the undertone revealing a hint of reluctance, "you will leave the cottage and never look back."
Naci raises an eyebrow, a mix of surprise and respect flashing in her eyes. She had thought Horohan was a thoughtful and measured leader, but this fiery passion was something new. Pulling out her own blade, she nods, "Very well. Let our blades speak for us."
They circle. The crowd's jeers fade beneath the creak of leather, the dry kiss of wind over steel. Horohan strikes first—a testing slash Naci parries with contemptuous ease. Their blades shriek, scattering sparks.
Horohan's blade trembles faintly in the still air, sunlight fracturing across its edge. Naci's sword answers with a low hum, its curved steel patterned like wind-rippled dunes. Between them, leaves roll lazily through the charged silence, snagging on the splintered shaft of an arrow left embedded in the training grounds from yesterday's failed shots.
"You dance well," Horohan murmurs, adjusting his grip. The lie tastes bitter—her footwork is all predator, no grace.
Naci's smile flashes. "You talk too much."
They strike as one.
Steel shrieks. The impact judders up Horohan's arm, rattling the silver torque at his throat. Naci pivots, braid whipping through the air like a lash, her blade tracing a lethal arc toward his ribs. He parries, boots skidding through spilled millet from the morning's ration sacks.
"Careful," she taunts, pressing her advantage.
A chorus of snickers erupts from the growing crowd. Three children mimic their stances nearby, waving stick swords until a passing herdsman cuffs their ears. "Respect the duel, maggots!"
Horohan feints left, sabre slicing empty air where Naci stood a heartbeat before. Her laughter rings out, bright and dangerous. She flows into the opening, sword kissing his pauldron with a shower of sparks. The smell of scorched leather joins the reek of upturned earth and nervous sweat.
"First blood to me," she purrs, dancing back.
He touches the smoking groove in his armor. Behind them, old Batr's voice cuts through the murmurs: "Twenty sheep says the girl breaks his nose before noon!"
The duel becomes a storm.
Horohan's attacks are methodical—the measured sword strikes taught by his father, each angle precise as constellation charts. Naci's defense is pure steppe wildfire. When she disarms him with a wrist lock, the crowd's gasp parts like curtain.
"Yield." Her blade rests against his throat.
Blood thrums in his ears. Horohan meets Naci's gaze—sees his fractured reflection in her eyes, the wild-haired stranger he's becoming.
He surges upward.
Their collision is all elbows and desperation. The sword flies wide, burying itself in a sack of fermented mare's milk. Curds explode across the dirt as they grapple, rolling through the muck like drunken wrestlers at the Moon Festival. Naci's knee finds his stomach; his teeth find her braid.
"Barbarian!" she snarls, yanking free.
"Hellcat!" he retorts, spitting out hair.
The tribe howls. "Kiss already or kill each other!"
When they break apart, both bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, the training ground looks like a stampede site. Horohan's sash hangs in tatters, revealing the linen bindings beneath—Naci's eyes catch there, widen infinitesimally. Her next strike falters.
With a growl, she twists away, her boot hooking the fallen sword as she rolls. Horohan staggers back, sabre raised.
He doesn't hesitate.
The world narrows to the arc of his blade, the hitch in her breath, the way her pupils dilate as steel whispers past her cheek. Her sword clatters to the dirt. His sabr e rests gently against her pulse.
Silence.
Then—
"Yield." His voice cracks.
Naci does not smile. Around them, the wind carries the metallic tang of split iron and something sweeter—crushed juniper berries underfoot, their fragrance rising like incense.
Horohan's pulse thunders in the sudden silence. His sabre trembles at her throat, its tip dimpling the sweat-slick hollow above her collarbone. Somewhere beyond the circle of onlookers, a goat bleats, demanding attention no one gives.
Naci's gaze travels from blade to face, lingering on the linen bindings peeking through his torn tunic. A slow smile blooms, all teeth and triumph. "You first."
Horohan's blade wavers. Khatan screams from the heavens, a sound like ripping silk.
She moves faster than honor allows.
Her boot hooks his ankle. His back hits dirt still warm from their struggle. The sabre flies wide, embedding in a sack of millet that erupts like a golden geyser. Naci straddles him, knees pinning his wrists, her braid trailing blood onto his chest.
"Now," she purrs, plucking a barley husk from his hair, "let's talk."
The tribe erupts.
"Ten sheep on the hellcat!"
"Foul! She fought dirty!"
"This duel had no rules!"
Naci's laughter startles a sparrow from its perch. The sound lodges in Horohan's ribs, sharp and sweet as a stolen honeycomb.
"Your move, husband."
He bucks, toppling them into the millet drift. Their grapple becomes a parody of passion—elbows and curses, her teeth at his ear, his knee in her gut. When they break apart, panting, the crowd's jeers have softened to murmurs.
"Why?" Naci wipes blood from her split lip. "Why the farce?"
Horohan stares at her hair. "You deserved better than..." His gesture encompasses the shattered training grounds.
"Than this?" Her boot prods his ribs. "Or you?"
The truth comes unbidden: "Both."
Naci rises, extending a hand. "Stand. A chief shouldn't grovel."
He hesitates. Her palm bears the same crescent scar as his own—the mark all Jabliu children earn gutting their first goat.
The crowd parts as she pulls him upright. A crone spits three times to ward off evil spirits. A grandmother begins chanting the Lay of the Three Widows, off-key and heavy on the bawdy verses.
"Answer me true," Naci demands, loud enough to silence the singers. "Did you think me some simpering bride to be packed away with the dowry chests?"
Horohan's laugh surprises them both. "Simpering? You've the subtlety of a landslide."
"Good." She snatches a passing child's felt doll, stabs it dramatically with her dagger. "Now tell them why you're dressed like a bathmaid."
Gasps ripple outward. The doll's owner bursts into tears.
Horohan's fingers brush the linen bindings. "Would you rather lace and silk?"
"I'd rather honesty."
The confession hangs between them. Khatan lands on Horohan's shoulder, talons drawing blood. The eagle eyes Naci with murderous intent.
"Careful," Horohan murmurs. "He's jealous."
Naci stares down the bird. "I've shot down larger."
Old Batr, red-faced from fermented milk, waves a mangled dumpling. "Warrior Queen!"
The title spreads like steppe fire. Women take up the cry, pounding tent poles in rhythm. Children chant, brandishing stick swords. Even the goats add their dissonant bleats.
Naci turns full circle, taking in the adulation. Her laughter when it comes is bright and terrible, the sound of ice breaking on spring rivers. Horohan watches, chest tight, as she's swept onto broad shoulders—a dozen Alinkar warriors now her devoted cadre.
"To the hills!" someone shouts. "Let the Queen inspect her new domain!"
As the procession moves off, trailing laughter and spilled kumis, Horohan remains amidst the wreckage. Lizem materializes, pressing a salve jar into his hands.
"For the scratches," she says, then softer: "And the pride."
...
He finds Naci at dusk, braiding Liara's mane with crimson ribbons from the bridal yurt.
"Warrior Queen," he greets.
She snorts. "Better than 'Depressed Prince.'"
The nicknames dance between them, sharp and tender. "You left before..."
"Before you could brood properly?" Her smile fades. "I'm not your enemy, Horohan."
A gust carries the scent of distant snow.
"Teach me," he says.
Naci's dagger flashes, severing a ribbon. "Lesson one: stop apologizing for existing." She ties the crimson strip around his wrist, fingers lingering. "Lesson two comes tomorrow."