In the early dawn light, the small encampment near Pezijil has the uneasy hush of a place caught halfway between preparation and panic. A brisk winter wind tugs at the canvas of the tents, and a faint aroma of last night's campfire lingers in the chilly air. Dukar stands rigid in the center of the clearing, struggling to keep a straight face as Puripal and Ta circle him like critical tailors inspecting an ill-fitting garment.
"Posture," Puripal commands, tapping Dukar's shoulder with a thin riding crop. "Shoulders back, chin up. Bazhin didn't look like he carried a sack of potatoes on his spine."
Dukar straightens, then tries to deepen his frown. Unfortunately, the attempt makes his expression look more like he's tasted something bitter rather than resembling the grim severity of a seasoned Moukopl general. Ta snorts, covering his mouth with both hands.
"Is that a war hero's scowl or did you just stub your toe?" Ta teases, stepping forward. He picks up a shield—polished to a mirror shine—and holds it before Dukar's face. "Look here, practice. We need a frown that says, 'I eat barbarians for breakfast and disapprove of brunch.'"
Dukar leans in, watching his reflection in the shield's metal surface. He contorts his features: brows knitted, mouth set, eyes narrowed. The result is more befuddled goat than fearsome general.
Ta doubles over with a dramatic gasp. "Oh, gods. Try again. Be more—" He flails his hands, struggling for words. "More mean, you know?!"
Puripal, arms folded, moves around to Dukar's back. "Don't forget the boots," he says, shoving a pair of Moukopl military boots into Dukar's line of vision. They are clearly two sizes too large. "Bazhin was known for his measured stride. Let's see you stomp about like a conqueror."
With a resigned sigh, Dukar slips his feet into the oversized boots. He attempts a military step forward, promptly tripping and smacking his knee on a tent peg. Puripal bites his lip to stifle laughter, but a small, embarrassing snort escapes. Ta isn't so subtle; he howls, slapping his thigh.
"I said conqueror, not court jester," Puripal chides, but there's a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Focus, Dukar. Think like Bazhin: no nonsense, no mercy."
Dukar grumbles, regaining his balance. He tries a second time, this time taking slow, deliberate steps. His footsteps create heavy thuds in the sand, surprisingly convincing. Puripal nods, satisfied. "Better," he concedes.
Now Ta steps in close, holding a small bowl of crushed berries. "Time for the scar," he announces, swirling the purple-red paste with a finger. "Just a subtle line across your cheek."
Dukar tilts his head, and Ta leans in, tongue sticking out in concentration. The first dab of berry juice smears onto Dukar's cheek, cool and sticky. Ta squints, leaning in closer. "Hmm, needs more juice," he mutters, dipping his entire hand into the bowl. He drags a line across Dukar's face, but the pulp and juice squelch outwards unexpectedly.
Dukar wipes at the sticky mess with the back of his hand, only managing to smear it further. "This… this is ridiculous!" His voice crackles with exasperation. He glances at the shield-mirror again and groans. "I look like some cheap festival performer who slipped on the pie stand."
Ta tries to salvage the situation, frantically blotting Dukar's cheek with a rag. The rag, unfortunately, is none too clean, leaving Dukar with streaks of something even murkier now blending with the berry juice.
"Great, now I'm a purple and gray splotched goat-man," Dukar mutters, rolling his eyes skyward as if pleading with whatever spirits might be watching this farce.
Puripal finally regains some composure, though his shoulders still shake with silent mirth. "Alright, let's call this a… a first attempt," he manages, clearing his throat. "We'll rinse your face and try again later. But we must hurry. Daylight isn't going to wait for us to perfect your rugged war wounds."
Ta, smirking, pats Dukar on the shoulder. "Cheer up, 'General.' At least your walk's improving—just try not to look like a grape-flavored pastry next time." He dodges Dukar's swat, snickering.
As they gather supplies to clean up the mess and try once more, the desert wind picks up, carrying away echoes of laughter and frustration. The small encampment stands witness to their absurd training, a comedy of errors that is somehow a crucial step in a grand and dangerous ruse.
As Ta and Puripal busy themselves cleaning the berry stains from Dukar's face, Dukar paces in a small circle, doing his best not to trip over the oversized boots again. He tries planting one foot firmly, then rolling onto the ball of the other foot as Ta suggested—an attempt at controlled swagger—but the boots have a mind of their own, flopping and slapping the sand like bored fish.
Puripal, finally regaining enough composure to speak, points at Dukar with the rag he's holding. "Imagine you're stepping on the throats of a thousand barbarians," he instructs, his eyes bright with mischief. "Each footfall should say: 'Kneel, worms!'"
Dukar quirks an eyebrow. "Worms?" he echoes, dryly. "What if I prefer that they were grapes?"
"Whatever?" Puripal shrugs, not knowing what to respond.
Dukar tries another approach: He lowers his shoulders, slightly bending his knees, attempting a confident, ground-hugging stride that doesn't lift the boots too high. He steps forward—once, twice—and finds it easier this time. The trick is to think of himself as rooted, heavy, as if he's the weightiest object for miles around. No bouncing, no hopping, just smooth, deliberate steps.
Puripal arches an approving eyebrow. "That's better. You're beginning to look like a man who's kicked down a fortress gate or two."
Ta crosses his arms, feigning a critical pout. "Still too polite, though. Maybe grunt a bit. Something from the throat, deep and angry, like a camel woken too early."
Dukar inhales, tries a low, gravelly "Hrrm," but it comes out more like he's got a tickle in his throat. Ta snorts, stifling a second round of laughter. Dukar tries again, this time more guttural. "HRRMM!" He stiffens his spine, turns his head as though surveying invisible troops. The resulting posture, combined with the heavy, slow steps, isn't perfect, but it's a far cry from his earlier goatlike confusion.
Puripal claps slowly, as if uncertain if he's witnessing a triumphant transformation or the birth of a strange desert beast. "Not terrible. Just remember: Bazhin wouldn't look uncertain, no matter what. When in doubt, look bored and mildly insulted by everything around you."
Dukar attempts a bored, insulted expression. He narrows his eyes slightly, lifts his chin, and lets his gaze drift over Ta and Puripal as if they're slightly disappointing lunch options. Ta's lips twitch upward, impressed. "Woah, I feel less important already."
"Good," Dukar mutters, trying to keep the mask of indifference in place. "It's working then."
Dukar stomps his oversized boots again, testing the gait. He finds a strange rhythm: Step forward, land heel first, don't lift toes too high. He adds the grunt—"Hrrm!"—and raises a dismissive eyebrow at Ta. Ta pretends to cower dramatically, covering his head as though expecting a blow. Puripal can hardly keep a straight face.
A nervous energy hums in the air as they realize time is passing. Puripal steps forward, rests a hand on Dukar's shoulder. "You know, with a bit more practice, you might just convince the Moukopl officers you're their beloved—and feared—general come back from the dead."
Ta salutes Dukar, nearly poking himself in the eye. "I'm honored to serve under General… Grapejuice Bazhin!"
Puripal chokes on a laugh. Dukar just glares with what he hopes is majestic contempt. "If I were Bazhin, I'd have you scrubbing latrines for a week for that comment."
The first gray-blue light of dawn sneaks through the slatted shutters, painting slender stripes across the floorboards of the guesthouse's main room. Naci sits perched on a low table, one boot half-laced, her hair slightly askew from too little sleep. Fol, crouched near the door, sharpens a dagger he doesn't really need, each scrape of metal against stone punctuating the silence. Lanau adjusts the collar of her tunic, lips pressed tight, while Temej paces, arms folded, staring at the wall as if it might offer him guidance. Lizi, somehow managing to look both bored and amused, lounges against the windowsill, fiddling with a stray tassel on the curtain.
"Stop that," Naci hisses at Temej's pacing, her own voice hushed but sharp. "You'll set the floor on fire with all this friction!"
Temej throws her a glare over his shoulder. "Better a trench in the floor than in my stomach," he mutters, but he stills, planting his feet firmly.
Naci finishes tying her boot with a decisive tug. "You're right to be nervous," she says quietly, straightening. "We're stepping into their playground now."
A knock at the door steals everyone's breath. Without waiting, Fol unlatches it, and Governor Shi Min steps inside. The lamplight plays over her armor's polished edges and the fine embroidery on her cloak. Her bearing is crisp as a drawn blade, and the smell of jasmine drifts in with her, as if she's carried a part of the imperial garden with her on the way.
Shi Min bows her head, a respectful dip but hardly submissive. "Good morning," she says. Her tone is even, measured—a calm counterpoint to the taut atmosphere. "I trust you're ready?"
Naci slides off the table, crossing to meet Shi Min's gaze, the faintest curve on her lips. "We've been up for hours," she says dryly. "Could hardly sleep knowing we'd meet your Emperor today. Or was it the bedbugs?" She tosses the remark with casual confidence, daring a reaction.
Lanau sucks in a breath, and Fol's eyes flick to Lizi, who struggles to suppress a grin.
Shi Min's jaw tightens a fraction—enough to show she caught the barb—but her expression remains composed. "The Emperor's court does not run late for anyone," she says quietly, ignoring the insult. "If we delay, we risk offending him. I assume that's not your intention."
Naci shrugs, rolling a shoulder in mock indifference. "Offending him would be unwise. I do like my head attached, after all."
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—passes through Shi Min's eyes. "I'm pleased you appreciate the gravity of the situation." Her gaze sweeps the room, acknowledging each companion in turn: Temej's simmering tension, Fol's ready stance, Lanau's grim calm, Lizi's languid half-smile. "You're all armed?"
Naci taps the hilt of a sword at her side. "We're envoys, not beggars," she points out, her voice light but firm. "No blades would make us look like lambs in a den of wolves."
A thin line forms on Shi Min's lips. "In the Imperial City, etiquette demands restraint. But I'll do my best to ensure your dignity is not questioned." She chooses her words carefully, as if building a fragile bridge between them. "We have a long walk ahead—come."
Naci exchanges a brief look with her companions. Temej nods once, steeling himself. Fol flips his dagger in a deft arc before sheathing it with a click. Lanau tugs at a sleeve, determined. Lizi steps away from the window, rolling her eyes slightly at all the solemnity, then falls in behind them.
As they step outside, the street is mostly deserted, the hush of dawn cloaking Pezijil in muted colors. Shi Min leads without hesitation. "The Imperial City stands separate, on the outskirts," she says over her shoulder, voice low. "Keep your heads high, but your words measured. Many there want something from you. The Emperor awaits your presence—don't give them cause to twist that meeting in their favor."
Naci raises an eyebrow at Shi Min's back, intrigued by the warning. "Sounds like your city thrives on hungry mouths and sharper tongues."
"Words can be sharper than any blade," Shi Min replies evenly. "Mind yours."
Lizi covers a small laugh with a cough. "This will be a fun day," she murmurs to Temej, who grimaces in response.
Naci, walking almost shoulder to shoulder with Shi Min now, gives a sly half-smile. "Don't worry, Governor," she says, voice laced with assurance. "I know how to sound irresistible."
Shi Min's posture relaxes a fraction, and she inclines her head, amused. "Where did you find such self-confidence?"
"I'm a natural!" Naci exclaims, laughing loudly.
…
The midday sun gleams on the caravan as Naci and her companions pass beneath the towering crimson gates. Shi Min's imperial token, an elegant jade seal, has just earned them entry without a murmur of protest. The guards, their polished armor reflecting the sunlight, step aside with stiff bows, and the group advances into the Forbidden City's inner sanctum.
Beyond the walls, the stark contrast is immediate. Where Pezijil's streets had a structured rhythm, here manicured gardens unfold like a painted scroll—pristine pathways lined with immaculate hedges, ornamental ponds reflecting ornate towers, and servants flitting silently along marble courtyards. Yet behind each courteous smile and artful arrangement, one senses a silent current of intrigue. The air smells not just of jasmine but of plotting.
Temej can't help but swallow hard. "It's beautiful," he mutters, keeping his voice low. "I can't even begin to imagine how much all that costs."
Fol nods, adjusting his grip on his sword hilt. His gaze shifts nervously over the groups of courtiers that appear as if from nowhere. Each step forward reveals more finely dressed individuals poised like dancers, waiting for the right cue.
Naci arches an eyebrow as a line of courtiers approaches, each clutching some token or trinket. "What in Tenekr's name—?" she begins, stopping short as the first courtier—a lanky figure with a long beard—bows extravagantly.
"Your Highness, Khan of Tepr," he proclaims, voice thin and reedy, "please accept this modest gift as a sign of our—"
"Modest?" Lizi whispers dryly, eyeing the enormous box the man's attendant struggles to hold steady. Inside, glimpses of gold filigree glint temptingly.
Naci lifts a hand, halting the man's spiel. "I'm afraid we travel light. I've no room to carry such… generosity." She keeps her tone polite but distant. "Perhaps another time."
The courtier's face falls, and he staggers back as if struck, muttering something about "barbarian tastes." Lizi hides a grin behind her sleeve, whispering to Lanau, "That's one peacock down."
Another courtier steps forward, this one shorter and beaming, holding out a carved ivory statue of a horse rearing. "A rare piece from the southwestern provinces," he says proudly. "I hoped it would remind you—"
"I have my own horse, thank you," Naci interrupts lightly, gently refusing. Her casual tone sets the man blinking in confusion. He bows stiffly and retreats, shoulders drooping.
Fol and Lanau share a look. Temej, still tense, mumbles, "They're trying to buy her favor. They must think we're simple."
"Shows what they know," Naci murmurs, chin lifting. "They'll have to try harder than knickknacks."
A rustle of silk draws their attention. Hovering at the edge of the crowd are several eunuchs in muted robes, eyes bright and calculating. Another one watches them from a distance, partially concealed by the shade of a pavilion's ornate awning. His posture is relaxed, but the flick of his fingertips signals a young page forward. He flips his fan open loudly.
Naci's eyes narrow slightly as she catches sight of that subtle exchange. "Eunuchs," she says under her breath, voice tinted with caution. "I've heard of them. We should keep an eye on them."
Shi Min, standing by Naci's side, inclines her head. "That is Yile of the Eastern Bureau," she whispers, meeting Naci's gaze. "He rarely reveals himself so openly. He must be interested."
Naci sets her jaw. "Interested, huh?"
Shi Min's lips form a thin line. "Many might try to get your favours, Khan, and you would be right to make alliances, but if there is someone you must avoid, it's him."
Just then, a flustered girl, younger than everybody and flushed in the face, scurries up with a carefully folded length of brocade. "Your Highness Khan," she pipes, voice trembling, "I present these robes—finest Moukopl silk—from my mistress, consort Jin, and… and…"
Naci tilts her head, a faint smile curving her lips. "And what?"
The poor youth looks moments away from fainting. "And—and I hope you'll think kindly of our city's artisans!" She blurts out, nearly tossing the brocade at her in his panic. Temej steps forward, catching it in mid-air before it drapes over Naci's boots.
Naci regards the silk impassively. "A fine fabric. But I am not cold," she says simply, handing the bundle back to Temej, who politely returns it to the girl's trembling hands. The youth's face falls as she stammers a bow and retreats, nearly tripping over her own feet.
Lizi snorts softly. "At least that one didn't try to sell you a camel or something more absurd."
Naci turns slightly, letting her gaze sweep over the gathered courtiers and eunuchs. None meet her eye directly now, save for the eunuchs, whose sideways glances and small smiles tell her enough. The messages are clear: Everyone wants her favor or her weakness. She is an exotic piece on their chessboard.
From the pavilion, Yile's page hurries off, presumably to guide some upcoming encounter to Yile's advantage. Yile himself remains half-hidden, but the corners of his mouth, hidden behind his fan, curve upward.
Shi Min coughs lightly, stepping closer to Naci so their words remain private. "We should move on before someone tries to gift you the entire palace kitchen."
"Agreed," Naci says, lips twitching at the absurd image. "I'm not hungry for flattery."
"Did you see that girl?" Temej's whisper grazes Naci's ear. He leans in, his voice barely above a breath. "Tell me she didn't look like that Meicao we met last night."
Naci tenses slightly, recalling the fierce street child and her scythe and chain. "She did have the same eyes," she admits softly.
Temej nods, inching closer, voice dropping another notch. "What if they're related? Remember who else we encountered with a name like that and similar features? Meicong—Konir's partner."
Naci's eyebrows arch, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. The memory of Meicong drifts up. She shakes her head, setting her jaw. "Coincidence," she replies, tone firm but quiet enough not to attract attention. "Children here... they can share similar features. We shouldn't jump to conclusions. This place is full of strangers."
Temej frowns, but doesn't argue. He merely steps back, letting Naci's words settle. Lanau and Fol, at their sides, cast brief glances—wondering what's being said in those hushed tones.
"Besides," Naci adds wryly, mustering a lightness she doesn't quite feel, "'Mei' just means little sister, it's a honorific or a nickname. Don't believe everything they say."
Temej concedes with a tight-lipped nod, and the group moves on. But the thought lingers in the space between them.
Fol and Lanau remain vigilant, scanning the edges of the courtyards, noting every wary glance and forced grin. Lizi trails behind, stifling another laugh as yet another courtier tries and fails to muster the courage to approach.
As they proceed, the manicured gardens and ornate towers glisten in the midday sun, casting reflections that shimmer across marble floors and tranquil ponds. Yet beneath the beauty, tension coils like a serpent. Naci can almost taste it in the perfumed air.
A place of guarded secrets indeed.
A hush falls over the courtyard as a young man steps into view, flanked by a half-dozen eunuchs in silken robes. His presence is a ripple in the calm surface of the Imperial City: where others move with guarded poise, he glides forward with a disarming warmth, his figure soft and slender, face framed by delicate features that defy easy classification. A fleeting thought crosses Naci's mind—here stands a soul as much poem as prince, more art than flesh.
He approaches Naci, ignoring the subtle attempts of attendants to position themselves between them. His smile is genuine, softening the sharp edges of ceremony. "Khan of Tepr," he begins, voice clear, melodic, "it's a privilege to meet you at last." The eunuchs incline their heads slightly, as if acknowledging the sincerity in his tone.
Naci dips her chin, mustering a polite nod. She had braced herself for arrogance or veiled threats, but not this open cordiality. Behind her, Temej tenses, while Fol and Lanau remain alert. Lizi stands slightly to the side, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise.
"I owe much to one of your men," the Crown Prince continues, "Dukar of Jabliu, if I recall correctly. He—" the Prince's voice catches, as though emotion tugs at the memory "—he saved my life. And I have not had the chance to thank him."
Naci's heart flutters uneasily at the mention of Dukar. She'd planned to probe discreetly, but the Prince's frankness stirs both relief and alarm. "You know my brother?" she manages, voice steady but curious.
The Prince nods, and though he is surrounded by eunuchs whose expressions remain inscrutable, his eyes hold only truth. "He was part of the expedition I led into Yohazatz territory." He raises a hand, as if forestalling questions. "Things did not go as planned. Many Tepr men, including Dukar, are now war prisoners in the Yohazatz capital. It's a complicated matter."
Naci's lips press together. She can sense Temej's spine stiffen behind her, feel Fol's grip tighten on his belt. Lanau's exhale is almost silent. She lifts her gaze to meet the Prince's, searching his face for signs of deceit. Instead, she finds earnestness—and a hint of regret. The imperial city's conspiratorial hush seems to fade in the warmth of his presence, as if he alone has peeled back a layer of pretense.
"You want something," Naci states, voice low. She will not be fooled by kindness alone. It's impossible not to notice the courting glances of onlooking courtiers, the eunuchs shifting, waiting.
The Prince's eyes brighten, unoffended. "I do," he admits openly, stepping closer. The eunuchs make no move to stop him. "I want cooperation between Tepr and Moukopl. The Yohazatz hold your men prisoner. We want to free them, to bring them safely back. And for that, we need Tepr's help. My father, the Emperor, will ask it of you."
Naci draws herself up, her posture a careful blend of dignity and caution. "The Moukopl seldom offer favors without cost. Why help free Tepr men now?"
The Prince's grin broadens, though sadness lingers behind his eyes. "Because freeing them strengthens all sides but the Yohazatz—you, Khan—which you now are—can restore trust among our peoples, and I can repay a life-debt to Dukar, who risked everything when no one else would." He pauses, letting the truth settle. His honesty contrasts sharply with the city's veneer. "I had told him when he saved me. I am grateful, and I never forget."
Naci's mind races. She had counted on asking discreet questions, on a delicate dance of inquiry. Instead, the Prince has laid cards on the table. Dukar's fate is known—he lives but is captive. The promise of rescue and alliance hangs in the air like a tender thread. Yet alliances with empires are not formed lightly. Trust cannot bloom overnight in a garden of shifting loyalties.
"I will consider your proposal," she says at length, controlling her voice to remain cool. "But know that Tepr is proud. We do not bend easily."
The Prince inclines his head, pleasure and understanding softening the moment. "I expect nothing less from the Khan of Tepr," he replies, each word a gentle reassurance. "I hope in time we can find common ground."
Behind Naci, Temej relaxes fractionally, Fol and Lanau exchange a glance, and Lizi bites back a witty remark. They can sense how extraordinary this moment is—a sliver of earnestness amid a court of masks.
Naci allows a small, cautious smile. She still stands in the lion's den, but the Prince's sincerity offers a path forward. "We shall see, Your Highness," she says evenly, and the courtyard's tension shifts, as if the palace stones themselves lean in to listen.