Stepping onto the ship, we made our way to the captain's chamber. Inside, I was greeted by a striking scene: a woman seated with an air of authority and a man standing beside her. The dynamic between them was clear; the woman held the higher status. Her presence exuded an aura of power and control.
She addressed Kara, her voice laced with a hint of condescension. "Is this another of your slave men, Kara?" she inquired. Kara's response was immediate and firm, "He is one of my cengaver," referring to me as one of his loyal soldiers. Her tone suggested a certain disdain, and I could sense the tension between her and Kara.
The woman was İlkay Khatun, a possessed shaman and the great-granddaughter of Temur the Second. Beside her was an Arabic man who had converted to Tengrism. Kara and İlkay began conversing in the Oghuz dialect, a language I had become reasonably fluent in over the months. Their conversation quickly turned to the subject of Timurtas, the legendary figure I had not seen in years.
"Any news from the ata?" Kara asked, referring to Timurtas with respect. İlkay shared recent news with a mixture of pride and awe. Timurtas, now an impressive 114 years old, had won a wrestling competition—an event with a prize substantial enough to make its contenders wealthy. Despite his victory, Timurtas had chosen to reward the competitors, a gesture that spoke volumes of his character and wisdom.
As I listened, I reflected on the changes that had transpired since I last saw Timurtas. At that time, I was a mere boy, not yet eighteen or nineteen. The years had transformed me into someone different, molded by experiences and the harsh realities of nomadic life. The sense of nostalgia mingled with the recognition of my own growth, marking a poignant moment in my journey.
As our ship sailed toward Alexandria, I found myself deep in conversation with the Arabic man who had accompanied us. His Shaz Turkic was nearly fluent, though his accent gave him away. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, "You don't quite sound like you're from around here. You look Mediterranean, sir."
He smiled, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Indeed, I am. I was once a Muslim merchant, but with the shifting tides of conquest and the growing influence of the Turks, it became more advantageous for merchants like myself to convert to Tengrism and learn Shaz Turkish. The trade routes from the Silk Road to the Mediterranean are now secure and flourishing, and that's what I appreciate most about the Turks. They ensure that the roads remain open and severely punish those who breach the customs of hospitality."
He seemed indifferent to Turkish culture but acknowledged its practical benefits. Our discussion soon turned to a story he recounted with a mix of awe and humor. "When I first encountered İlkay Khatun," he began, "she had just arrived in Antioch with Kılıç Khan. They were meeting with local scholars, and during the gathering, İlkay Khatun started scratching her legs, which were exposed at the time."
The Arabic man's eyes widened as he continued. "Some of the Arabic scholars, visibly disturbed, addressed the situation to Kılıç Khan, who was guarding İlkay Khatun. The scholars seemed to think the display was inappropriate. İlkay Khatun, upon hearing their comments, stood up, took a knife from the table, and said, 'Perhaps it is your eyes or your tongues that need to be addressed if you cannot refrain from such foolishness.'"
I could sense his apprehension as he described the scene. "I was frightened," he admitted. "I thought there might be a commotion, but to my surprise, Kılıç Khan began laughing at the absurdity of it all. He remarked, 'Our women, as well as our weapons, are sharp, as you see, Bedouin.'"
He chuckled at the memory. "Before we left the tent, we offered our apologies and departed. It was a stark reminder of how different their way of life is compared to ours. Their women ride horses, speak with men openly in the streets, and even have boyfriends—things that would be quite unconventional in our culture."
Listening to his stories was a revelation. They offered me a glimpse into the Turkic way of life, illustrating the stark contrasts between our cultures and deepening my understanding of the people I had come to know.
"As I observed İlkay Khatun's reaction in Antioch, I was reminded of the profound changes initiated by Ashina centuries ago. The revolution she led transformed the old ways, merging traditions in ways that many outsiders still struggle to understand. Under Ashina's rule, women gained unprecedented freedoms and rights, a stark contrast to the more rigid societal norms of other cultures.
In Ashina's time, the old Tengrist laws were revised, allowing women to participate more actively in public life and assert their presence in ways that were previously unimaginable. This change extended beyond mere visibility; it reshaped the power dynamics and cultural expectations of our society.
İlkay Khatun's unapologetic demeanor in Antioch reflects this deep-seated shift. Her boldness and refusal to conform to the foreign scholars' discomfort highlight the enduring legacy of Ashina's reforms. Women in our culture now challenge norms and expectations with confidence, and their roles are integral to both our social and political spheres.
The incident you witnessed was not merely an affront but a testament to the broader cultural evolution that began with Ashina's rule. It is a reminder that the transformations she set in motion continue to shape our interactions and perceptions, challenging other cultures to rethink their own norms and prejudices."
"Back in the day, bribing people and gaining influence was a lot simpler. Men understood each other's needs and desires quite well. They had similar values and motivations, so finding ways to leverage them was straightforward.
But now, with Ashina's reforms and the rise of female rulers, the game has changed entirely. Women in power are much harder to sway or bribe. Their thinking and motivations are often different from those of men, making them more complex to understand and approach.
These female leaders, especially those who have come into power through Ashina's revolution, are quick-tempered and fiercely protective of their authority. They're aware of the traditional biases against women in leadership roles and are cautious of any attempts to manipulate or influence them.
So, dealing with them requires a lot more finesse. They are not as easily swayed by conventional methods. Instead, you need to approach them with respect for their position and an understanding of their unique challenges. Their sharp responses are not just about personal temperament but also about maintaining their hard-won authority in a world that is still adjusting to their power."
...
The Arabic man, whose accent still hinted at his origins despite his fluency in Shaz Turkish, turned to me with a welcoming smile. "Wolfram," he said, gesturing toward a nearby tavern with an inviting sweep of his hand, "why don't you join me for a drink? After all, we're in Alexandria. There's no reason not to enjoy its hospitality."
I glanced over at Kara, who was a few steps away, surveying the surroundings with his usual detached demeanor. I sought his approval before accepting the invitation. Kara met my gaze and gave a nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice was firm but encouraging. "The city is ours for years. Enjoy it, Wolfram."
With Kara's blessing, I turned back to the Arabic man, feeling a sense of relief and anticipation. "Thank you," I said, my voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. "I look forward to experiencing all that Alexandria has to offer."
As we approached the entrance of the tavern, I found myself fumbling through my belongings, searching for my knife. The familiar weight of the blade had become a comforting presence during our travels, but now, as I patted down my gear, I realized it was missing.
Kara, noticing my anxious search, approached with a knowing look. "You won't need a weapon here, Wolfram," he said calmly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small coin covered in runic symbols. "Here," he said, handing it to me. "This is what you need. Don't lose it, or I'll have to send messages to the Saharan rabbit kings with you."
I took the coin, examining the intricate symbols etched into it. The runes seemed foreign and mysterious, yet there was a weight to them that suggested their importance. I looked up at Kara, my confusion evident.
"Why is this so important?" I asked, trying to understand the significance of the coin.
Kara's expression remained serious. "Those runes are a mark of trust and authority. They'll ensure you're respected and allowed to move freely here. Losing it could lead to complications I'd rather avoid."
I nodded, carefully tucking the coin into a safe pocket. "Understood," I said, feeling the gravity of the responsibility now in my hands. The prospect of facing Kara's wrath was motivation enough to keep the coin secure.
With that, we entered the tavern, the lively sounds of conversation and laughter greeting us. Despite the strange and somewhat intimidating nature of the coin, I was ready to enjoy the night in Alexandria, knowing that Kara's trust was on the line.
Faris and I settled into a corner of the tavern, the atmosphere a curious mix of bustling activity and muted conversations. I spoke to the waiter in Turkish, but I noticed the waiter's expression shift from neutral to visibly uncomfortable. His eyes darted around, and he seemed unsettled.
Faris, sensing the tension, smoothly switched to a local dialect. His tone was calm and soothing, clearly aimed at de-escalating the situation. The waiter's demeanor relaxed a bit, and he nodded, though still with a hint of reluctance.
I turned to Faris, raising an eyebrow. "I thought people would be more welcoming. It seems like they're not very receptive."
Faris shrugged, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Ah, yes. The people of these lands can be quite resistant to change. They're deeply traditional and prefer their own customs. Here in Alexandria, they refuse to speak Shaz Turkic, and even Arabic is often set aside in favor of Berber. It can be quite a challenge to navigate their way of life."
I absorbed this information, intrigued by the complexities of the region. "It's fascinating how different cultures and languages influence interactions. I'm learning so much about these parts of the world through our conversations."
Faris nodded, appreciating my interest. "Indeed. Every place has its own rhythm and rules. Understanding them is key to finding your way, whether in diplomacy or daily life."
As we waited for our drinks, I couldn't help but marvel at the layers of cultural nuance I was uncovering. Faris's insights were painting a vivid picture of the complexities that lay beyond the surface of this bustling Mediterranean city.
As Faris downed his beer with surprising ease, I couldn't help but be taken aback. I stared at him, trying to reconcile this casual display with the image I had of him. "You chugged that beer like it was nothing," I said, curiosity getting the better of me. "Did you drink like that when you were still a Muslim?"
Faris laughed heartily, the sound warm and infectious. "Ah, for us merchants, life is a tapestry woven with many colors. Not every color fits seamlessly with the rest. One must find the hues that best suit their own life and experience. In our world, we adapt to the shades that serve us best."
His answer was more philosophical than I had expected, and I nodded, appreciating the deeper meaning behind his words. Faris seemed to live by his own set of rules, navigating the complexities of life with a pragmatic approach. It was a refreshing perspective in a world often rigid with tradition and expectation.
Faris leaned back, a genuine curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Tell me, Wolfram, what adventures have you found in your travels? I've heard whispers of many tales in this vast world of ours."
I took a deep breath, savoring the moment as I recalled the myriad experiences I had gathered over the years. "Well, Faris," I began, "my journey has been anything but ordinary. I've spent months riding with Kara and his men, learning the intricacies of nomadic life and horse archery. We've traversed vast lands, from rugged terrains to bustling ports. One of my most intense experiences was hunting wild cattle in the open fields. It was not just about the hunt but the strategy and precision that went into it."
I paused, the memories vivid in my mind. "I remember a particular moment when Kara and his men showed me the art of hunting with bows while on horseback. It was an incredible sight—how seamlessly they moved, their horses darting gracefully across the terrain, and the way they managed to hit their targets with such accuracy. It was as if they were part of the landscape itself."
Faris listened intently, nodding along as I continued. "And then there were the encounters with different cultures. I recall a time when I had to navigate through a port town where the locals were far from welcoming. It took all I had learned from Kara and his men to blend in and handle the situation. But those experiences taught me a lot about resilience and adapting to new environments."
I chuckled softly, thinking of the many faces and places I had encountered. "One of the most surprising moments was when I faced a hostile guard at a harbor and managed to turn the situation around with just a quick response and a piece of paper Kara had given me. It seemed like such a small thing, but it made a world of difference in the moment."
Faris's eyes sparkled with interest. "And how did you find adapting to the different cultures and customs you've encountered?"
I smiled, reflecting on the journey. "It's been challenging but enriching. Every place I've been has its own way of life, its own set of rules and norms. Learning to navigate these differences has been as much a part of my adventure as the physical journey itself. Whether it's understanding the nuances of a local dialect or the traditions of a new people, each experience has broadened my perspective and deepened my appreciation for the diversity of our world."
Faris raised his glass in a gesture of admiration. "It sounds like you've had quite the journey, Wolfram. To new adventures and the wisdom they bring."
I clinked my glass with his, feeling a sense of camaraderie and shared understanding. "To new adventures," I agreed, looking forward to the stories yet to be written in the chapters of my life.
In the dimly lit tavern of Alexandria, the warm glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating an intimate atmosphere that drew out personal conversations. Faris, with his relaxed demeanor, sipped from his glass of beer, and a thoughtful look crossed his face as he considered the differences in religious and spiritual practices he'd encountered.
"You know, Wolfram," Faris began, his tone thoughtful and somewhat critical, "one thing I've observed in Tengrism is the lack of a deeper mystical or spiritual layer. It's pragmatic and grounded, but it seems to miss the more profound, esoteric elements that many other traditions possess."
Wolfram, who had been enjoying his own drink, looked up with interest. He had been raised in a world steeped in Catholic tradition, a world filled with rituals, mysticism, and a strong sense of the divine's omnipresence. His experiences with Tengrism, however, had exposed him to a different way of understanding the divine and the cosmos.
"You're right," Wolfram admitted, nodding slowly. "Growing up Catholic, I was accustomed to a faith that was rich in rituals, mysticism, and a sense of the divine mystery. The Catholic tradition is full of saints, miracles, and a vivid sense of the supernatural. It shapes how people experience the divine and interact with the sacred."
He took a sip of his drink and continued, "Tengrism, on the other hand, feels more direct and practical. It's deeply rooted in the natural world and the forces of the sky and earth, focusing on harmony with nature and the ancestors. It doesn't delve into mystical experiences in the same way, and it's more about living in accordance with natural and spiritual laws."
Faris listened intently, his expression thoughtful. "That's a fair point. I suppose one could argue that Tengrism's strength lies in its practicality and its connection to the natural order. It's a religion that emphasizes balance and respect for the world around us rather than seeking hidden truths or esoteric knowledge."
Wolfram nodded, appreciating Faris's insight. "Exactly. It's not that one approach is better or worse; they're just different. For me, living among the Tengrist people has been an eye-opener. I've come to value their way of seeing the world, even if it lacks the mystical depth I was used to. It's a different kind of spirituality—one that's more about living in harmony with the forces of nature and the cosmos rather than seeking hidden spiritual truths."
Faris smiled, raising his glass. "To the diversity of faith and the richness it brings to our lives."
Wolfram clinked his glass against Faris's. "To understanding and appreciating different perspectives."
As they enjoyed their drinks, the conversation continued, delving deeper into their respective beliefs and experiences, each learning from the other's worldview.
In the dimly lit tavern of Alexandria, the warm glow of lanterns cast flickering shadows on the walls, creating an intimate atmosphere that encouraged personal conversations. Faris, with his relaxed demeanor, sipped from his glass of beer, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he pondered the religious and spiritual practices he'd encountered.
"You know, Wolfram," Faris began, his tone thoughtful and somewhat critical, "one thing I've observed in Tengrism is the lack of a deeper mystical or spiritual layer. It's pragmatic and grounded, but it seems to miss the more profound, esoteric elements that many other traditions possess."
Wolfram, who had been enjoying his own drink, looked up with interest. Raised in a world steeped in Catholic tradition—one filled with rituals, mysticism, and a strong sense of the divine's omnipresence—he had found that Tengrism offered a stark contrast to the Catholic faith he knew so well. His experiences with Tengrism had opened up a new perspective on how one might understand the divine and the cosmos.
"You're right," Wolfram admitted, nodding slowly. "Growing up Catholic, I was accustomed to a faith rich in rituals, mysticism, and a deep sense of divine mystery. The Catholic tradition is full of saints, miracles, and a vivid sense of the supernatural. It shapes how people experience the divine and interact with the sacred."
He took another sip of his drink before continuing, "Tengrism, on the other hand, feels more direct and practical. It's deeply rooted in the natural world and the forces of the sky and earth, focusing on harmony with nature and the ancestors. It doesn't explore mystical experiences in the same way; instead, it emphasizes living in accordance with natural and spiritual laws."
Faris listened intently, his expression thoughtful as he considered Wolfram's point. "That's a fair assessment. I suppose one could argue that Tengrism's strength lies in its practicality and connection to the natural order. It's a religion that emphasizes balance and respect for the world around us, rather than seeking hidden truths or esoteric knowledge."
Wolfram nodded, appreciating Faris's insight. "Exactly. It's not that one approach is better or worse; they're just different. For me, living among the Tengrist people has been eye-opening. I've come to value their way of seeing the world, even if it lacks the mystical depth I was used to. It's a different kind of spirituality—one that's more about living in harmony with the forces of nature and the cosmos than about seeking hidden spiritual truths."
Faris smiled, raising his glass. "To the diversity of faith and the richness it brings to our lives."
Wolfram clinked his glass against Faris's. "To understanding and appreciating different perspectives."
As they enjoyed their drinks, the conversation deepened, delving further into their respective beliefs and experiences. Each shared stories and reflections, gaining new insights from the other's worldview, appreciating the vastness of spiritual and cultural diversity.
As Faris excused himself to take a break, I leaned back into the comfort of my chair, feeling the warmth and haziness that the ale brought. The tavern was filled with the soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses, creating an atmosphere of relaxation that was a welcome change from the rigorous routines of my recent life. I decided to stretch my legs and took a leisurely stroll around the room, enjoying the pleasant buzz of the alcohol.
As I wandered, my attention was drawn to a pair of men conversing in a corner, their accents distinctly different from the local dialects. They were speaking High German, and though I was not fluent, the words and phrases were familiar to me. I inched closer, pretending to peruse the room, but my curiosity got the better of me. The conversation revolved around recent news from the Holy Roman Emperor, and one of the men was speaking about his grandfather with a mix of pride and concern.
The more I listened, the more I realized just how disconnected I was from my origins. The realization hit me with surprising force. Here I was, miles away from my homeland, surrounded by a life so different from the one I might have had. For years, I had lived a nomadic life, consumed by the daily grind of riding horses, eating horse meat and dairy, and learning the intricacies of new languages. All of it had become second nature, but in this moment of drunken clarity, I couldn't help but question it all.
I dropped my cup, the sudden realization causing my hand to tremble. The cold, hard truth was that I had been living a life so far removed from what I once knew or could have known. I had traded the comforts of a life in Alamannia or Italy for the rugged, challenging existence of a nomad. I questioned the sacrifices I had made—the years of toil, the constant struggle, and the relentless adaptation. Was it worth it? Had I chosen this path by necessity, by chance, or by some deeper, more elusive purpose?
The room seemed to spin slightly, the ale amplifying my inner turmoil. My thoughts raced as I stared blankly at the floor, trying to reconcile the life I had led with the one I might have had. The vibrant, bustling cities of my homeland seemed like distant dreams, and I wondered if I had missed something essential along the way.
Faris returned to the tavern, his presence pulling me back from my reverie. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, perhaps sensing my distraction or simply curious about my sudden introspection. I forced a smile, trying to shake off the disconcerting thoughts.
"Everything alright, Wolfram?" he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of concern.
"Just… reflecting," I replied, my voice carrying a tinge of melancholy. "Sometimes it's hard not to wonder what might have been."
Faris nodded, as if understanding more than he could express. "That's a natural part of our journey. We all have moments when we question the path we've taken. What matters is how we move forward from here."
With that, we returned to our seats and resumed our conversation, but the shadow of my earlier realization lingered, a reminder of the complexities of life and the choices that shape our destinies.
The evening took an unexpected turn when, suddenly, the tavern's lively atmosphere shifted into a tense silence. The door creaked open, and two armed men strode in, their presence commanding immediate attention. The patrons, including the boisterous merchant I had been conversing with, hastily abandoned their seats. Even the previously proud waiter retreated behind the counter and disappeared into the kitchen.
I was too far gone from the effects of the ale to fully grasp the gravity of the situation. As the armed men approached, their stern expressions and authoritative demeanor left no room for ambiguity. They locked eyes with me, and though my vision was blurred, I recognized the unmistakable seriousness of their mission. Without a word, they gestured for me to follow them. I complied, stumbling slightly as they guided me out of the tavern and into the cool night air.
The streets were eerily quiet as we made our way to the castle. My senses were dulled by the drink, and the stark transition from the warm, dimly lit tavern to the imposing, cold grandeur of the castle only heightened my disorientation. The men led me through the castle gates and into a grand hall. The opulence of the surroundings was both awe-inspiring and unsettling.
Inside the castle, they provided me with a basin of water and a cloth to wash my face. As I splashed the cool liquid on my skin, I caught sight of my reflection for the first time in a large, ornate mirror. The image staring back at me was one of bewilderment. My features, though familiar, seemed foreign in the context of the lavish surroundings. I looked different from the people I had been traveling with—my rugged, nomadic appearance starkly contrasted with the refined elegance of the castle environment.
As I examined myself, a profound sense of detachment washed over me. The realization that I was an outsider in this opulent setting made me question my identity even more deeply. Who was I in this world? My life among the nomads, the hardships, and the adventures seemed distant and fragmented. The mirror revealed a man who was both a part of and apart from the world he had come to know.
My thoughts spiraled, filled with doubts and questions about who I truly was and where I fit in. The quiet of the castle hall, the reflections in the mirror, and the disorienting sense of displacement combined to create an atmosphere of intense introspection. Sleep eluded me, replaced by a restless examination of my own existence.
As I stood there, grappling with the dissonance between my nomadic life and the refined world of the castle, I realized that this was more than just a moment of drunken introspection—it was a profound turning point. My identity, shaped by years of travel and hardship, now faced the stark contrast of a world I had never fully understood. The weight of this realization settled heavily upon me, and I could only wonder how it would shape my path moving forward.
This sudden clash of worlds—the rugged, untamed life I had led versus the structured, refined elegance of the castle—forced me to confront what I had been running from. Not just my past, but my future.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" Kara asked, his voice slurred slightly, betraying the effects of whatever he'd been drinking or smoking. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and his usual sharpness seemed dulled.
"I could ask you the same," I replied, trying to mask the disorientation I still felt from earlier. The warmth of the fire made the room feel far more intimate than it should have, given the opulence of the surroundings. The grandness of the hall, the carved wooden beams, the heavy tapestries—it all felt too distant from the life I had been living with Kara and the nomads.
He shrugged, his movements uncoordinated. "Sleep can wait. Sometimes, thoughts are louder than the call of rest." He waved the piece of pide in his hand, offering it to me, but I shook my head. Kara, with his usual directness, tore off a bite and chewed absentmindedly.
I took a seat near the fire, the crackling warmth a welcome reprieve from the cold confusion that swirled in my mind. "I couldn't sleep either," I admitted after a moment. "Too much on my mind. This place... it's so different from everything I've known lately. It feels like I'm caught between two lives—one out there, on the road with you and the others, and one here, in a world I barely understand."
Kara chuckled, though it lacked his usual confidence. "That's the thing about life, Wolfram. It doesn't wait for you to figure out where you belong. It keeps throwing you into different worlds, whether you're ready or not." He paused, puffing at a cigar he had somehow managed to retrieve from his pocket. "But you've seen enough now. You know more than you think. You've lived through hardship and battles. Maybe you're just starting to realize that you're not the same man who set out on this journey."
His words hit me harder than I expected. Maybe it was the drink still muddling my senses, or maybe it was the truth in what he said. The reflection in the mirror earlier came back to me—the bewildered man who no longer seemed to belong anywhere.
"What if I don't like who I'm becoming?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Kara looked at me through the haze of smoke, his eyes more serious now. "Then change. Adapt. You've been doing that all along, haven't you? Look, none of us really knows who we are until we're pushed. The road shapes you, the people you meet shape you, the battles you fight—both outside and inside—they all leave marks. You decide how those marks define you."
I stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and twist. Kara's words made sense in the way only simple truths often do. The journey had been relentless, pulling me in directions I never anticipated. But he was right—I had adapted, I had survived. Maybe that was all anyone could really do.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and Kara's soft exhale of smoke. I wasn't sure if his words had lifted the weight I felt, but they had given me something else—a sense that maybe it was okay to not have everything figured out.
Kara shifted in his seat, his voice softer now. "You'll find your way, Wolfram. Don't worry so much about the destination. Just focus on getting through each moment, each step. You'll see where it leads you in time."
I nodded, taking in the quiet wisdom he had offered, even in his slightly drunken state. "Maybe you're right," I said. "Maybe that's all we can do—keep moving forward."
Kara raised his cigar, as if to toast the sentiment. "Exactly," he murmured, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "And if you ever get lost, just follow the smoke. You'll always find your way back to the fire."
We sat there in silence after that, both of us lost in our thoughts, watching the flames until the weight of the night finally settled in and sleep came to claim us.
"I've served in both Hunnic and Turkish armies," Kara said, his voice thick with the weight of memories. He leaned back in his chair, eyes distant, as if the smoke swirling around us carried him back to those battlefields of old. "To me, war is war. It doesn't matter if you fight for the Huns, the Turks, or anyone else. The rules are the same: survive, protect your men, and win at any cost. But the way we understand who we are—our place in the world—that's where things get complicated."
I took another drag from the cigar he had given me, letting the bitter taste linger on my tongue before speaking. "Complicated how?"
Kara chuckled softly, a deep rumble from his chest. "Well, you know how it is. The Huns—my father's people—were more nomadic than the Turks. Fierce, untamed, always moving. They valued strength, survival, and loyalty, but they never stayed in one place long enough to build something that lasted. The Turks—my mother's side—had roots, a sense of permanence. They understood balance. Honor in battle, yes, but also the importance of home, family, and law."
He paused, his gaze flicking to the flames. "For a while, I didn't know where I belonged. Half of me was always on the move, always restless like the Huns. The other half wanted to build something, to belong somewhere like the Turks did. It took me years to reconcile those parts of myself. But eventually, I realized I didn't have to choose. I could be both—a warrior who fought for survival, but also a man who believed in something greater."
I listened, feeling a strange kinship with his words. Kara's struggle mirrored my own in ways I hadn't expected. His sense of displacement, of being torn between two worlds, echoed the confusion I had felt since we arrived at the castle.
"So," I asked after a moment, "how did you figure it out? How did you find that balance?"
Kara smiled faintly, though his expression was still serious. "I stopped fighting it. Stopped trying to define myself by where I came from. Instead, I focused on what I could control—my actions, my choices. I realized that identity isn't something that's fixed. It's something that grows with you, shaped by the decisions you make along the way. You're always becoming someone new, Wolfram. You just have to be at peace with that."
I nodded, the crackling of the fire the only sound between us for a while. Kara's words made sense, though they didn't make the uncertainty I felt any easier to bear. But they gave me hope, a sense that maybe I didn't have to have all the answers right now. Maybe it was enough to keep moving forward, to let the journey shape me rather than fighting against it.
"Do you ever feel like you're still becoming someone?" I asked, my voice quieter now.
Kara grinned, his rugged face softening for a moment. "Every damn day, Wolfram. Every damn day."
We sat there in the haze of smoke and the warmth of the fire, sharing the quiet understanding of two men who were, in their own ways, still searching for where they truly belonged.
As Kara and I sat there in the smoky, dimly lit room, the quiet crackling of the fire and the heady mix of cigar smoke created an oddly soothing atmosphere. The weight of my thoughts, which had been pressing down on me since we arrived at the castle, felt slightly lighter. Kara's calm, grounded presence gave me the space to reflect without feeling overwhelmed.
I looked over at him, his rugged face illuminated by the flickering light. He seemed content, lost in his own musings as he puffed on his cigar. I wondered how many nights like this he'd spent contemplating his own path, wrestling with the same questions that now plagued me. It was comforting to know that even someone as battle-hardened as Kara had faced similar doubts.
The realization that identity was not a fixed point but a journey in itself started to settle in my mind. Kara had learned to live with the ambiguity, to accept that the person he was at any given moment was shaped by his experiences, his choices, and the people he had encountered along the way. Perhaps that was the key—to embrace the changes and not fear the uncertainty.
"Do you think..." I began, my voice barely louder than the crackling fire, "do you think it's possible to find a place where you truly belong? Or do we just keep drifting from one place to another, never really settling?"
Kara glanced at me, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Belonging," he said slowly, "isn't about finding a place. It's about finding people, connections. A place can change, but the people you trust, the ones you fight alongside, that's where you find your true sense of belonging. Out there on the battlefield, in the silence of a shared moment, that's where I've felt the most at home."
I nodded, his words stirring something deep within me. It wasn't the grand halls of the castle, the nomadic plains, or even the places I had called home in the past that gave me a sense of identity—it was the people I met, the bonds I forged.
"You belong with the people you stand beside," Kara continued. "Even if you don't know who you are all the time, they'll help remind you when you forget."
That was it—the connection. I had spent so much time worrying about where I fit in, trying to make sense of the ever-shifting worlds I was navigating. But it wasn't about fitting into a place. It was about finding those who shared in my journey, who would help me make sense of it, just as Kara was doing now.
"Thanks, Kara," I said, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "I think I needed to hear that."
Kara chuckled, giving me a knowing look. "You'll figure it out, Wolfram. We all do, in time. And if you don't, well, there's always more ale and cigars."
We shared a quiet laugh, the tension in the room finally breaking as we settled into a more comfortable silence. The fire burned low, casting long shadows across the walls, and I let myself be still, content in the moment.
As the night stretched on, I realized that this was one of those moments Kara had spoken of—a moment of quiet belonging. Not to a place, but to a connection. And for now, that was enough.