Kuan stands again in the audience hall of the Behani palace, the warmth of the fire doing little to ease the tension coursing through his veins. The Tanlanzury, Nagyazolgo Altangyibu, sits on his throne, his face serene, his hands resting lightly on the armrests as if the gravity of Kuan's report barely touched him.
"The Shag'hal-Tyn are at your doorsteps, Your Majesty," Kuan says, his voice measured but carrying urgency. "The death of their shaman will no doubt be seen as a declaration of war. I will return to the empire and push for immediate mobilization. The Moukopl army can protect you, but we must act quickly."
Nagyazolgo listens in silence, his sharp eyes focused on Kuan, but when he finally speaks, his tone is calm, almost disarmingly so. "What must happen will happen, Envoy Kuan," he says softly. "There is no need to despair. The eightfold path lightens our fate. The Shag'hal-Tyn will come or they will not, but fear will not decide our path."
Kuan holds back a frown, watching the Tanlanzury with wary eyes. The Behani ruler's placid acceptance, his willingness to leave everything to the hands of fate, grates against Kuan's sense of strategy and practicality. ´He doesn't understand the gravity of the situation,´ Kuan thinks. ´Or worse, he understands too well.´
A darker thought worms its way into Kuan's mind as he considers the Tanlanzury's almost passive reaction. Perhaps this is what he wanted all along. The shaman's death, the coming Shag'hal-Tyn invasion—it would free the Behani from their tributary obligations to the empire. The empire was far, its armies distant, while the Shag'hal-Tyn were at the doorstep, and their numbers were growing. Perhaps Nagyazolgo planned it this way, welcoming the chaos to rid himself of imperial influence once and for all.
Kuan's lips press into a thin line. ´If that's the case, why should I care?´ he muses. If the Behani wish to destroy themselves, let them. The empire is weaker without them, and that works in his favor. The thought lingers, cold and calculating. He has no loyalty to a kingdom that won't help itself, nor to an emperor who has already shown his hand in betrayal.
His mind made up, Kuan straightens, preparing to excuse himself and leave the palace. But before he can speak, the head monk approaches the Tanlanzury, his voice low and measured.
"Your Majesty," the head monk says, bowing slightly. "How shall we deal with the four children? Their actions—killing the Shag'hal-Tyn shaman—have caused a great diplomatic outrage. Such behavior cannot go unpunished."
For the first time, a flicker of something passes across Nagyazolgo's serene expression. He waves a hand dismissively, his gaze drifting to the fire. "Those who cannot contain their emotions, even in service of faith, are not fit for the palace. They have disgraced themselves."
Kuan's eyebrows rise slightly, but he keeps his face impassive. The Tanlanzury's tone is cold, almost indifferent.
The head monk nods gravely, turning toward the entrance where the four young warrior monks stand, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. "By order of the Tanlanzury, you are no longer part of the palace guard. You are expelled from this place. Go into the world and learn humility. Learn control. Or perish. It is not our concern."
The children's faces pale. Their small bodies, once so full of confidence and discipline, now seem frail, lost.
The head monk's command is final. The children bow their heads, their once-proud warrior stance shattered. The eldest among them, barely a teenager, clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white, but says nothing. They are led out of the hall, their footsteps heavy with the weight of their fate.
Kuan stands silently as the hall falls into a tense, uncomfortable quiet. The Tanlanzury's decision, so cold and swift, echoes in the air. Kuan knows the children's fate is sealed. They will become beggars, wandering the harsh mountain roads, forgotten by the palace they once served.
But as Kuan watches them go, a thought stirs in the back of his mind—a thought he carefully tucks away for later. Perhaps this, too, will serve his purpose in the end.
He turns back to the Tanlanzury, bowing his head slightly, his face unreadable. "I will prepare for my return to the empire, Your Majesty. We shall see what fate has in store."
Nagyazolgo nods, his eyes closing briefly in acknowledgment.
…
The once vibrant streets of the capital city are suffocating under the weight of desperation. Dust clings to the air, stirred by the restless shuffle of starving feet, as hunger gnaws at the bones of the people. The Shag'hal-Tyn horde has crept closer with each passing day, and the Behani kingdom bleeds as its rice fields fall, one by one. Famine strikes the weak first—the poor, the forgotten—those who have no means to defend what little they have left.
In the market square, what was once a bustling scene of trade and life has devolved into a grim place of survival. The stalls, stripped bare of food, now offer little more than empty promises. A merchant stands behind one of the few remaining stalls, his eyes darting nervously around as he watches the hungry masses drift by. His wares—a few sacks of rice, dried fish, and brittle vegetables—are precious now, more valuable than gold. He clutches them protectively, every muscle tense, as if expecting someone to snatch them from his grasp.
He's right to be wary.
From the shadows of a narrow alley, four figures watch the merchant, their eyes gleaming with a mix of hunger and resolve. Four children, once proud warrior monks, now look like any other street urchins—ragged, their faces gaunt, their limbs thin from days without food. But there is still fire in their eyes, a spark of the discipline and training that once defined them. They have been cast out, forgotten by the palace that raised them, and now, they fight to survive in the unforgiving streets.
The eldest, signals with a slight nod, his face set in hard determination. His gaze flickers to the others—each of them ready, tense. They've done this before, stealing to survive, but today, the stakes are higher. The city grows more dangerous with each passing day, the people more desperate, more willing to tear each other apart for a handful of rice.
They slip through the crowd like shadows, their movements quick and precise, just as they were trained. The younger two, still small enough to seem harmless, dart forward first, weaving through the market-goers with ease. One of them, trips deliberately in front of the merchant's stall, sending a cascade of dusty coins spilling across the ground.
The merchant curses, his attention snapping to the kid sprawled at his feet. "Watch it, you little rat!" he growls, bending down to scoop up the scattered coins.
As his focus shifts to the ground, the second child slips behind him, her fingers quick as lightning. She grabs a sack of rice, small enough to carry but heavy enough to keep them fed for days, and disappears into the crowd before the merchant can even sense what's happened.
The merchant's eyes narrow as he stands, realizing too late that something is missing. His head jerks up, scanning the crowd, suspicion creeping into his eyes.
The eldest of the siblings steps forward, his voice loud and clear as he calls out. "Thief! Thief!" He points to a man at the edge of the square, a ragged figure hurrying away with a bag slung over his shoulder. The merchant's eyes lock onto the man, and with a shout, he abandons his stall, chasing after the supposed culprit.
In the chaos, the fourth child grabs another handful of vegetables, her eyes gleaming with triumph. She turns and slips back into the shadows, where the others wait, their loot safely in hand.
They regroup in the alley, their breath coming in quick bursts, their hearts racing. For a moment, they are silent, listening to the sounds of the market—the angry shouts of the merchant as he chases down a man who had nothing to do with the theft.
The alley is quiet, the children catching their breath in the narrow space between the crumbling stone walls, their stolen food clutched tightly in their hands. The elder looks around, his heart still racing from the heist, and gestures for the others to keep moving. They need to find a safer place to eat before anyone notices they're gone.
But as they begin to slip deeper into the shadows, a figure steps out from the gloom ahead, blocking their path. The children freeze, their bodies tensing as one. Their hearts skip a beat. They recognize the figure instantly—the tall, slim man with piercing fox eyes and an air of control. Kuan.
"You!" One gasps, her voice a harsh whisper. The others instinctively take a step back, their muscles coiled, ready to fight or flight.
"What… what are you doing here?" The elder asks, his voice sharp, trying to mask the fear that rises in his throat. They hadn't expected to see him again, not here, not like this.
Kuan's expression is calm, almost amused. He steps closer, his presence unnerving but strangely reassuring. "Just passing by," he says smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension in the alley.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, Kuan reaches into the sleeve of his cloak and pulls out four cold baos, the soft, white buns neatly tucked away. He holds them out, one in each hand, offering them to the children.
"Here," he says, his voice gentle. "Eat."
The children stare at him, confused, suspicious. None of them move. Their eyes narrow as they glance at the baos, wondering if this is some kind of trick. But the hunger gnawing at their stomachs is too powerful to resist. Slowly, reluctantly, each child steps forward and takes a bao from Kuan's hand.
They devour the cold buns in silence, their eyes never leaving Kuan, waiting for him to explain why he's here.
Kuan watches them calmly, his gaze thoughtful as they eat. He knows their suspicion, their wariness. It's expected. But he also knows they're desperate, and desperation makes people listen. He waits until the last crumb is gone before speaking again, his voice soft but filled with intent.
"I've been thinking about you four," Kuan says, his eyes drifting from one child to the next. "You were expelled from the palace, cast out into these streets like beggars. It's a shame, really. You're better than this."
The elder lifts his chin, defiance in his eyes. "We don't need pity."
Kuan smiles faintly. "I'm not offering pity. I'm offering you an opportunity."
The siblings exchange wary glances, unsure of what to make of his words. Kuan takes a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "I want to employ you. In the imperial city."
The children blink, taken aback by the sudden proposition. The boy furrows his brow, his instincts screaming at him to be cautious. "Employ us? Doing what?"
"Simple work," Kuan says, his tone light, almost casual. "Keeping my office tidy, handling small tasks. Being my bodyguards when necessary. You'd have a place to sleep, good food—better than those cold baos and this horrible rice—and a comfortable palace to live in, like the one you knew before."
The children fall silent, their minds racing. The thought of returning to the life they once knew—warm beds, hot meals, the safety of palace walls—tempts them. It's a stark contrast to the cold, hungry life they now endure on the streets.
Ulzha is the first to speak, her voice laced with suspicion. "Rich as you are, you could hire anyone. Are you trying to trick us?"
Kuan shakes his head as he answers. "I know your strength. You've been trained, disciplined. And more importantly, you have nowhere else to go." He lets the last words hang in the air, knowing they will hit the mark. "I'm giving you a way out."
The elder, still unsure, folds his arms across his chest. "And what's in it for you?"
Kuan's smile deepens, though there's a sharpness in his eyes. "Loyalty. Discretion. And some throat slicing you're so good at. I'll make sure you're taken care of, and in return, you'll do what I ask. It's a simple exchange."
The siblings fall into an uneasy silence, each of them weighing the offer. Kuan's words, though tempting, feel like they carry hidden strings. But as the elder glances at his younger siblings, their thin faces worn with hunger and exhaustion, he realizes they don't have many choices left.
"It's better than being beggars," the youngest murmurs quietly, clutching the sack of rice tightly to her chest.
The elder nods slowly, his mind turning. He doesn't trust Kuan—not fully—but the man's offer is the best they're going to get. They can't survive like this much longer.
Finally, he steps forward, his voice steady but cautious. "We'll do it. But don't think we'll forget why we were cast out in the first place. We'll work for you, but we won't be servants."
Kuan's smile widens, pleased with their acceptance. "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything less." He gestures for them to follow, his cloak sweeping behind him as he turns to lead them out of the alley. "What are your names, by the way?"
They respond some Behani gibberish that Kuan can't help but laugh at.
"Too complicated. For the imperial court, you will be… Meice, Meicao, Meibei…" He begins, pointing the children from the youngest to the eldest. "As for you… I hope you don't mind going with a girl's name too. It will be easier to let you through. It's decided, you will be Meicong."
"I always knew brother would look cuter in girls' clothes anyway." Meice laughs.
Turning around, Kuan cackles. "Oh, and don't forget to say hello to Sui Ling."
The merchant whom the children had just stole rice suddenly waves at them from the other end of the alley. "Nice to meet you!" He smiles.
…
The narrow, fog-choked streets of the imperial city are silent, the thick mist curling like ghostly tendrils around every corner. The lamps along the streets flicker weakly, barely cutting through the dense fog that makes the night feel oppressive, as if the city itself is holding its breath. From the shadows, Meicong watches, her sharp eyes trained on the building across the way—the offices of the Western Bureau. The secret police are finishing their work for the night, dragging a middle-aged man out of the building with rough hands, his head hanging low, his body limp from exhaustion.
Meicong stays hidden, her dark cloak blending seamlessly with the fog, her movements precise and deliberate. She waits, the vial of powder in her hand, her grip firm but steady. Her timing must be perfect.
The guards, speaking in low voices, barely glance at the man as they shove him forward, pushing him toward the city's outskirts. Meicong waits until they pass through the gates, just beyond the edge of the city, where the darkness deepens and the fog grows thicker.
With a quiet flick of her wrist, she throws the powder into the air. It swirls like mist, spreading quickly through the fog, making it seem even denser, an impenetrable wall of white. The guards, distracted by the sudden thickening of the mist, glance at each other uneasily but continue their march.
The man, disoriented and weakened from interrogation, stumbles forward, his feet dragging across the uneven ground. Meicong's eyes narrow, her body tense as she silently slips behind him, her steps light and precise. In a swift, practiced motion, she presses a cloth over his mouth, muffling his cries before he can make a sound. His body goes rigid, then slackens as Meicong's grip tightens, pulling him back into the mist, away from the guards' sight. The fog swallows them whole.
Moments later, the man regains consciousness, but his surroundings have drastically changed. He blinks, his eyes wide and frantic as he realizes he's no longer in the misty outskirts of the city, but inside another office of the imperial city. He's seated, his arms bound, the dim light from the lanterns casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. The room feels small, claustrophobic.
A figure steps forward, his face illuminated only partially by the flickering light—Kuan. The man flinches, terrified by his eyes.
Kuan's voice is quiet, almost casual, but there's a dangerous edge beneath it. "San Lian," he says smoothly, drawing the man's name out slowly. "You've been talking to the Western Bureau. Saying things you shouldn't."
San Lian swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He tries to keep his composure, but the air in the room feels thick with threat. His eyes dart around, searching for a way out, but there's none. Kuan stands between him and the door, his expression coldly amused.
"And I don't really care about that," Kuan continues, leaning forward slightly. "I'm more interested in what you said about General Tun Zol Guiel."
San Lian's face drains of color. His hands tremble in the ropes that bind him. "I… I didn't mean to—"
Kuan cuts him off with a sharp look, his voice hardening. "You're going to tell me everything you told them. And you're going to do it now. Or…" He pauses, letting the silence stretch painfully, "I'll make sure your family knows what happens when someone doesn't respond to me."
The threat is delivered without a hint of emotion, but the weight of it is unmistakable. San Lian's breath catches in his throat. He knows Kuan isn't bluffing—he's seen what happens to people who get on the wrong side of the Eastern Bureau. The secret police were bad enough, but Kuan… Kuan is something else entirely.
San Lian's voice comes out shaky, his words rushed. "Guiel… he's gone. He abandoned his identity—left for the steppes of Tepr."
Kuan's expression doesn't change, though his eyes sharpen. "Why?"
San Lian shakes his head quickly, his voice desperate. "He's not stirring rebellion! I swear! He left everything behind, cut all ties. He just… he wanted to disappear."
Kuan regards him in silence for a moment, his mind turning over the information. 'Guiel may not be interested in rebellion,' Kuan thinks, 'but if he's out there, hiding, he knows something. Something important. Something that could be used.'
"What else?" Kuan's voice is soft again, but the undercurrent of menace remains.
San Lian hesitates, his eyes flicking nervously to the door. "I—I don't know anything else. He's gone, vanished. He even left his kid and his wife behind. That's all I told them too."
Kuan leans back, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of the chair. The man is telling the truth, Kuan can see that in his eyes. But this General Tun Zol Guiel, out in the wilds of Tepr, is more than just a deserter. He may hold information that the empire would pay dearly to keep hidden—or to reclaim.
A slow smile spreads across Kuan's face, though it never reaches his eyes. "Very well, San Lian," he says quietly. "You've been helpful."
San Lian stiffens, nodding quickly, too afraid to speak.
Kuan's mind, however, is already elsewhere. He has no interest in chasing after Guiel for the same reasons as the Western Bureau. But if the former general knows things, there's room for something else. An alliance, perhaps. One that could be forged in the shadows, away from the prying eyes of the empire.
As Kuan leaves the room, the plan starts to take shape in his mind. Tun Zol Guiel may be hiding, but Kuan knows how to find those who don't want to be found. And when he does, the empire may have more than a mere rebellion on its hands.
…
Kuan sits in the dimly lit archives, the musty scent of ancient scrolls and forgotten books hanging heavy in the air. His fingers move slowly over the brittle pages, the flicker of the oil lamp casting long shadows across the worn parchment. The quiet of the room is broken only by the soft rustling of paper and the occasional creak of the wooden chair beneath him. Months have passed since that night with the shaman, but the memory of it clings to him like a stubborn shadow, refusing to fade.
Steppes. The word alone has a pull on him now, a gravity that draws him deeper into his obsession. What drove General Tun Zol Guiel to leave his life of power, to abandon his station and vanish into the wilds? Kuan's mind wrestles with the question, turning it over like a puzzle with missing pieces.
He's spent weeks in this room, pouring over old texts and records, trying to understand the allure of the steppes, the rituals of the shamans, and the strange power they seem to hold over the people. His mind is sharp, his focus unyielding, but with each answer he uncovers, more questions arise. There is something in the vast emptiness of the steppes that speaks to him, something ancient and untamed.
Kuan's eyes narrow as he comes across a passage describing the Tüguldun, a shamanic ritual practiced among the nomadic tribes. The words are written in an old script, hard to decipher, but he pieces them together slowly. The ritual is said to summon the spirits of ancestors, binding them to the living in moments of great need. It is a process of becoming one with the earth, the sky, and the wind—of letting go of the self to make room for something larger, something that transcends the physical body.
The trance. Kuan's mind drifts back to his own vision, the terrifying storm of images that Chalazai had sent crashing into his mind. There is power in this—raw, unrefined, but real. He can still feel it, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The words on the page seem to pulse under his gaze as he continues reading.
Kuan leans back in his chair, his fingers absently tapping the edge of the scroll. He can feel something stir inside him, a pull that he can't ignore. These rituals, these practices—they aren't just superstition. They tap into something real, something that has been lost in the civilized world. Chalazai knew it, and Tun Zol Guiel must have known it too.
But it's not just the power of the shamans that haunts him—it's the freedom of the steppes. The endless sky, the wild, untamed land. Guiel had seen something in that life, something Kuan was beginning to understand. The empire, with its rigid structures and suffocating politics, pales in comparison to the vast, uncharted wilderness. There is no emperor to bow to in the steppes, no secret police to fear, only the wind and the spirits.
Every day, he returns to the archives, searching for more—more about the way of life in the steppes, more about the shamans' rituals. He reads of the Anaanzhat and Azhunaan, the great gatherings of the tribes, where decisions are made not by men, but by the will of the spirits.
Weeks blur into months, and Kuan grows more withdrawn, more consumed by his search. Yile watches from the periphery, his sharp eyes following Kuan's every move, but he says nothing. There is a distance growing between them, a silent fracture in their bond. Kuan can feel it, but he doesn't care. His mind is elsewhere now, far beyond the walls of the palace, out in the cold, open plains of the steppes where the spirits wait.
…
The streets of Pezijil hum with the usual chaos—merchants haggling, carts creaking over cobblestones, the low murmur of city life. But in the shadow of a market stall, Kuan sits slumped, disguised in rags, his face dirtied with ash, his head bowed low. To anyone passing, he looks like a beggar—a forgotten figure amid the bustling crowd. But beneath the surface, Kuan is a hunter, waiting with a quiet patience for his prey.
Two days ago, he had asked Meicong to teach him the subtleties of blending into the streets. Now, his transformation is complete. The people barely glance at him as they pass, and those that do give nothing more than a dismissive shake of their heads. He is invisible.
The ones he's been waiting for finally appear—a shaman from the steppes of Tepr, clad in thick, layered furs, his sharp eyes sweeping the market with the air of someone accustomed to watching unseen forces. Beside him walk two apprentices, younger, their faces marked with symbols Kuan recognizes as sacred to the shamans of the steppes. They move deliberately, their presence foreign and almost mystical in this grand imperial city.
Kuan keeps his gaze low, watching them from the corner of his eye. His heart beats steadily in his chest, his mind focused. When the trio nears, he raises a hand, his voice weak, just like the beggars he had studied. "Spare some coin for the poor?" His tone is raspy, and he gives a pitiful cough for effect.
The eldest shaman glances down at Kuan, his weathered face hardening for a moment. His hand moves toward his pouch, ready to give charity out of habit, but something stops him. His gaze lingers on Kuan a moment longer than expected, suspicion or curiosity flashing in his eyes. The two apprentices slow beside him, their own attention caught by the beggar's voice.
Kuan tilts his head up, allowing his eyes to meet the shaman's—deep, unwavering. "Can you read my destiny?" he asks, his voice laced with subtle command, though still faint, as if asking for a favor.
The apprentices exchange glances, their brows furrowed. But the shaman… the shaman takes a small step back, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and he speaks a word that Kuan does not expect.
"Tramörygdel…" the shaman mutters, almost in reverence. His voice trembles.
His apprentices echo the word, their faces growing pale. "Tramörygdel… the Spirit of Winter…"
Kuan holds their gaze, his lips curling into a faint smile. "I am no spirit," he says quietly, his voice smooth, measured, "but a man of flesh and blood. And you…" Kuan's hand moves with a sudden, deliberate grace, reaching out to the elder shaman. His fingers rest against the man's forehead, his touch light but commanding. "…are about to see."
The shaman's eyes widen in shock as Kuan's palm connects with his skin. In an instant, Kuan draws deep from the well of his mind, his breath steady, and sends a surge of thought into the elder's consciousness. The world around them dims, the sounds of the market falling away into a low, distant hum. The shaman's eyes flutter, his body tensing as Kuan's vision crashes through his mind like a wave.
The apprentices gasp, taking a step back as their master's body stiffens under Kuan's hand. Their eyes widen with fear and awe, unsure of what they are witnessing.
The vision Kuan sends is not just an image—it's a storm of sensations. The endless, icy expanse of the steppes stretches out before the shaman's mind, but twisted, strange. The sky above is dark, roiling with heavy clouds that pulse with unnatural light. Snow falls, thick and unyielding, but the ground beneath is no longer stable—cracking, splitting, as if the very earth trembles beneath something powerful. Shadows writhe across the snow, and in the distance, figures move—spirits, ancient and terrible, their forms barely human, but their eyes gleam with the same cold light as Kuan's.
And then, he sees Kuan—standing at the center of it all. His figure, dark and commanding, cuts through the blizzard like a blade. The shaman feels the weight of Kuan's presence, like a force of nature, bending the world around him.
Kuan's voice, though soft, echoes in the shaman's mind like a thunderclap. You see me. You feel me. Now, submit.
The shaman trembles, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the vision intensifies. His mind spins, lost in the overwhelming power coursing through him. He is nothing—small, insignificant—before Kuan's might. The spirits that once guided him, the wild forces of the steppes that he had worshipped, now seem distant, overshadowed by Kuan's raw energy.
The apprentices, sensing the shift in the air, take a cautious step back, their faces pale with shock. They watch as the shaman, once so powerful in their eyes, falters beneath Kuan's touch, his body trembling, his knees buckling slightly.
Kuan's grip tightens, his voice a low whisper that drips with control. "You see what I am, shaman. Your spirits know. You will serve me."
The world spins as the shaman—Nargüd—pushes back against Kuan's mind, forcing him out with a violent shove of psychic energy. Kuan staggers, his breath catching, his control slipping away like water through his fingers. He feels Nargüd's presence, strong and defiant, swelling in the air between them.
"You are ignorant!" Nargüd shouts, his voice trembling with rage. His eyes blaze with the fury of a man who has tasted the edges of Kuan's power and refused to submit. Kuan blinks, momentarily stunned, but then a laugh escapes him—low, mocking, tinged with amusement. He hadn't expected the shaman to fight back, let alone succeed.
But Nargüd doesn't see the humor. His gaze sharpens, his breath coming fast as he steps closer, his voice seething with contempt. "You think this is a game, don't you? Arrogant demon. I was wrong to compare you to Tramörygdel, you are but a fragment of his wisdom. You have power, yes, but no focus. No discipline. You can only subdue a mind for a heartbeat. That is all."
Kuan's laughter dies in his throat as Nargüd lifts a small pouch from his belt, his fingers dipping into it with a practiced motion. "Now," Nargüd says, his voice dropping into something darker, something ancient. "I will show you what true control is."
Before Kuan can react, the shaman throws a handful of black powder into his face. It hits him with a force that feels impossible for something so small, so light. The world tilts violently, the air sucked from his lungs. His vision blurs, the alley dissolving into a whirlwind of shadows and light.
Kuan gasps, staggering, his hand reaching out for balance—but there's nothing solid to grab. The ground beneath him disappears, and suddenly, he's falling.
Then everything changes.
Kuan opens his eyes, and he's no longer in Pezijil. The grime and stench of the city are gone. He is not a beggar in a dirty street. He is... somewhere else.
He feels the solid warmth of a horse beneath him, its powerful muscles rippling as it moves beneath his legs. The wind whips across his face, sharp and exhilarating, filling his lungs with the purest air he's ever breathed. Kuan blinks, his heart pounding as he looks around, and his breath catches in his throat.
He is in the steppes.
Endless plains of golden grass stretch out in every direction, undulating softly in the wind like waves on a vast, untamed ocean. The sky above him is impossibly wide, an infinite expanse of deep, cloudless blue that seems to go on forever. There are no walls, no buildings, nothing to confine him—just the vast openness of the world, raw and untouched.
The feeling is intoxicating. The sheer freedom of it overwhelms him. He grips the reins of the horse instinctively, but the beast moves without hesitation, its hooves pounding rhythmically against the earth, carrying him forward with effortless grace.
Kuan breathes in deeply, his senses alive in a way they've never been before. The wind howls in his ears, tugging at his hair, and the scent of the wild—of grass, of earth, of life itself—fills his nostrils. The horizon seems endless, a distant, hazy line where the earth meets the heavens, and for the first time in his life, Kuan feels truly untethered. Unbound.
Above him, a crane soars through the sky, its wings spread wide, gliding effortlessly on the wind. Kuan watches it, mesmerized, his heart lifting with every beat of its wings. The bird moves with such fluidity, such grace—it is one with the sky, with the world, just as Kuan feels now. The rush of movement, the wildness, the sheer joy of being part of something vast and eternal.
The steppes. This was what Guiel had sought. The freedom, the unchained existence under an endless sky. It wasn't about power or control. It was about being. Being part of something greater, something that stretched far beyond the limits of a single man's ambition.
Kuan feels the exhilaration swell in his chest, a sensation so foreign and powerful it almost frightens him. He had never understood what it meant to be truly free—until now. There is no empire here. No duty, no intrigue, no endless plotting. Just the wind, the horse beneath him, and the vast, open world.
He laughs, loud and wild, a sound that bursts from him like it belongs to the sky itself. The crane calls out as if answering him, its cry echoing across the plains. For a moment, Kuan feels weightless, as if he too could lift off the ground and soar into the endless blue.
But then, as suddenly as it began, the vision starts to waver.
The wind shifts. The horizon blurs, the edges of the world trembling as reality claws its way back. Kuan feels the horse slipping away beneath him, the sky pulling further out of reach. His breath quickens, his heart pounding as the vast plains of the steppes dissolve into darkness, the freedom slipping through his fingers like sand.
He blinks, and he's back in the alley.
Kuan's body feels heavy, his legs weak beneath him. He stumbles, gasping for breath, his heart still racing from the aftershock of the vision. The world feels smaller now, the narrow streets of Pezijil pressing in on him, confining him in ways he had never realized until they were gone.
Nargüd stands before him, his face calm, his eyes filled with quiet power. "Now you understand," the shaman says softly. "True power does not lie in subjugation but in liberation. Do you wish to learn? What is your name?"
Kuan says nothing, still reeling from the experience. His mind spins, trying to reconcile the freedom he felt with the weight of the life he leads. The empire feels distant now, irrelevant. But even as that thought takes root, Kuan knows—he is not ready to let go. Not yet.
"Kuan." He lets go.
"That won't do." The shaman shakes his head. "There is no control in this name. The spirits murmured your name in the winter winds and Konir is what they told me."
Tears spill silently down Kuan's cheeks as he gazes into the vast emptiness within himself, and for the first time, he understands the unbearable weight of his own chains—and the intoxicating truth of the freedom he will never stop chasing.